In the Delancey-Essex station, commuters waiting for the uptown F train are lucky to be entertained by a diverse gaggle of entertainers.
Some mornings, there's the Native American man who sings and plays traditional folk music, his silvery shoulder-length hair and spry ankles chiming along to his wise-sounding wind instruments. His guitar case lays open collecting a few coins and displaying his album. Actually, now I can't remember now if it's a guitar he's playing; I just know it feels like a mountain stream. (Or was that just a picture on the cover of his CD? Wow, he was speaking to my subconscious.) On the odd weekday afternoon, we find the Alicia Keys-looking girl sitting cross-legged by the wall, belting out whiny renditions of girl power ballads, trying to make substance out of daisy motifs and wailing. “What doesn’t kill you makes you strong-errrrrr…” It doesn’t matter. You’re killing me already. On Saturdays, the platform is filled with tourists and matching couples all revved up for brunch. They’re treated to the band that does Motown covers– three men and a woman snapping and singing songs they probably grew up snapping and singing to. Their joy is contagious, eliciting smiles and the occasional small change. When I'm lucky I see the Japanese country/metal singer banging on his guitar deep in his aura of prophetic hay. And then every now and then, I almost walk into a troupe of breakdancing teenage boys spread across the platform, skipping around and hyping up the crowd. For some reason I always catch the warmup, and never the actual routine. “Ready y’all. Y’all in for a treat…” WHooOooooosssshhhhh. Oh, the train is here. (Were you expecting a “choo choo”? Come on now. Do you think this is the Industrial Revolution?)
This is a sampling of the characters that provide our everyday soundtrack– as we walk into our weekend, wreck our nerves before a a date, or curse at the F train. Whether it matches the situation or not, sound is a constant.
Most of the time, the crowd is apathetic and pays no mind– that’s when it’s just New Yorkers in the audience. The tourists get easily tickled, clapping and taking pictures. Unfortunately, smiles don’t translate to money. One out of every twenty people put down a dollar. Critical, jaded, or stingy, who knows. The entertainers know not to expect much. The boys keep dancing, even though their hat is empty save a few bills they had put in themselves. The singers keep singing, even when people are chatting and oblivious. Or sometimes, it seems the crowd is finally hooked, but then the train approaches, drowning out all remnants of connection. People abruptly turn around without another glance, their minds back on track, continuing on their personal journeys.
The fact that the performers continue shows real grit.
That passion is what gets my money. More often than thought, that’s my rationale for taking out my wallet. I want to support passion because it is what keeps this city alive, for everybody.
What do other people support? I didn’t really think about it till I encountered the one passionless performer– a little Chinese boy around the age of 10, playing classical pieces on the piano in a three-piece suit. His father naps on a bench nearby; you can feel his watchful gaze even through his closed eyelids. The boy zips through song after song like one swats away flies. His fingers scramble up and down the keys without him even looking at them. He is looking instead at his iPhone screen, his eyes trained on a video game he manages to play alongside Mozart. Every now and then, he swipes the screen. Song and game progress at the same tempo. His little avatar bops up and down little bricks, jumping through Major and Minor chords in the air. People normally stand in front of him; so to them, he’s reading sheet music. I actually caught the moment his dad woke up to this and snatched the phone away.
The boy is clearly a natural master, and people love him for it. Huge circles of people crowd around him, forming a little amphitheater. A little case in front of the piano overflows with five and ten dollar bills.
What is it about this little boy that compels commuters to break their own norms? Why are other performers able to evoke the same or higher level of pleasure, yet unable to draw that kind of money?
We give our money to things we want more of; it’s our way of curating what’s offered, and what’s valued in society. In the case of street performers, it could be a thank you– a token of appreciation for a pleasant few moments; or a please– a stamp of approval asking for more of the same art, the same dedication, or whatever it is we appreciated. I know the reason this boy is making bank isn’t because people are delighting in his Symphony no. 41. They’re too busy chattering about him and taking videos to be in it for the music. The actual show is the boy's innate musical dexterity. It’s a freak show, not a music performance.
It’s peculiar to me that a tired little boy banging out tired tunes perfectly is the most successful spectacle on the F train platform. It affirms society’s love for the the effortlessly extraordinary. Looking at this from a macro view, their dollars represent a thank you, not a please since you can’t socially generate more genetic geniuses. The only behaviour these gratuities could possibly engineer is for natural-born masters to continue cultivating their talent, or sadly, for parents of natural-born masters to continue cultivating their talent.