Walking home from work today, I made my usual trek--off the R line at Broadway and 8th, down 8th as it transforms into St. Marks, right on First Avenue and then a jaunty left and into my apartment. But today I had musical accompaniment as I strode.
At Astor Place, a single guy on a saxaphone warbled his way through Gershwin's "Summertime," a fitting song when it's hot and humid out, though not so sweet when placed in the hands of an amateur. The saxophonist, a young black guy of around 20, wasn't deterred. This was practice.
A little over a block later, at 2nd Avenue, was a five-piece band set up just outside the pizza place on the corner. I've lived in this neighborhood for five years, I've passed by that corner a couple thousand times, yet I don't think I've ever looked at the name. Today, though, they had a sign: Under New Management. I got that, but no name. The band, I'm sure, was brought in to trumpet (no pun intended, well, maybe it was) the change in merchant.
I listened a bit. The drums were a bit too loud. The unknown tune kind of, sort of, bordered on tuneless. The singer had a bit of a screech to his voice. No stopping here.
As I walked down 1st Avenue, the most peculiar thing happened. As the music started to fade behind me, I sensed it picking up again in front of me. It felt like someone was turning a balance knob in my head. Soon it became clear why.
Another band was set up on the corner of 1st and St. Marks, a foursome playing jazz beneath some scaffolding next to the Tribe bar. The band -- two kinda hippish black guys, two pretty nerdy white guys -- smoked. It wasn't music I knew. That didn't matter. It was lively, fun, and artistically sound.
I watched the other people who had stopped to listen. Toes tapping, some mild attempts at street dance, smiles. Other people never stopped, too wrapped up in their own journies. Some had headphones to drown out the natural soundtrack. Too bad for them.
