When I first moved to New York about fourteen years ago I lived up near Columbia University, on 119th Street, to be precise, which meant that my "regular" subway line was the 1/9. At the time, and maybe still, for all I know, there was a group of acapella subway singers who used to do fifties songs on the 1/9 trains at all hours of the day and night, and I think I remember the first time I heard them. I thought they were pretty good. I have a soft spot for the doo wop stuff thanks to my dad, and the guys had decent voices, and the songs they sung had actually been arranged with decent harmonies.
And then, I lived on 119th Street for two more years and heard the same version of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" about 487 times, and when I so much as sensed the presence of one of these men on the platform I would sit down and wait for the next train instead of getting on with them. I came to feel this way about virtually all subway performers: best to be avoided if humanly possible.
Until the last few years when I started noticing Lily's reaction to music of any kind in the subway station or on the train: absolute rapture. If there is a way for her to get close to the performance, she will. Even the most tentative flautist is stared at wide-eyed, with awe and admiration. "Can I have some money, Mama?" she will whisper, before putting a folded dollar in the hat, or guitar case, or paper bag, with nothing less than reverence. Sometimes, she will beg me to stay and listen longer, even as our train is pulling in, and I have to say no, we must get on or we'll be late to wherever it is we are going.
Today, we were coming back from Brooklyn when a Peruvian trio came into our car, armed with an accordion, a tambourine and some kind of smallish string instrument. Their music was loud and lively, and an older couple, tourists with fanny packs and guide books, at the other end of the car began dancing a little, and I had an impulse to say something funny about them to Lily, as though she were my peer and not a four-year-old kid. But when I looked at her face, that impulse fled, and in fact, when I looked back at the couple I saw them for what they actually were: a really happy sixty-something pair on vacation, appreciating the spontaneity of the city, the fact that there is live music everywhere here if you choose to hear it, that anytime is the right time to dance a little if the spirit moves you.
And Lily. She didn't even ask, just held out her hand. I gave her a dollar, and when the train stopped at the next station she got up and walked the few steps to the man holding the outstretched hat and dropped it in as I watched. "Thank you," she whispered, a loud whisper, loud enough so that I heard it, and the people sitting across from me heard it, and we all smiled as the man bowed deeply to her, and she returned to my side.
The men started to play again as they walked by us, and pushed through to the next car, and beside me, Lily sighed, rapturously.
"Mama? That was beautiful music." Although I can't say I've ever had much of a taste for the accordion, I think she was right.
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