Steve started the conversation by telling us about the old black guy who has taken to singing Otis Redding songs in the 125th Street subway stop on Saturday mornings, with karaoke-type accompaniment.  He's very, very good, Steve said - if he had not been on his way to meet me, he would have hung around to listen for an hour or two.

A friend said she had had a bad day, let down by several friends, when she went into the subway and heard a voice say, "Nice hat!" She flashed a smile at the musician, who was wearing the same kind of hat she was (an Irish cap), and he started to play a song about friendship.  The song hit the nail on the head for her, she said, in terms of the day she had had.

That reminded me of the evening I had worked late, was exhausted, and dragged myself into the subway to get home, fuming inside about my boss and the frustrations of the job.  It was a couple of weeks before Christmas, and the subway car was full of equally exhausted shoppers, laden with packages, when a young man came in.  He sang "Ave Maria" in an astonishing countertenor (falsetto) voice - true and beautiful, like a boy singer. It's something rare - I had never heard one before.  I applauded wildly, as did one or two others, and contributed when he passed the hat.  Surprisingly, many people in the car didn't seem to appreciate the performance as much as we did.

A week or so later, I was on the subway at the same time, for the same reason (working late again), and there he was again.  I brightened, waiting for a repeat performance, and got it - this time in a beautiful tenor voice.  And suddenly it felt like Christmas!
 

The next Christmas, I was working at a different job (not surprisingly), which had a great location opposite Bryant Park (behind the New York Public Library - the one with the lions). I came out of the building at the end of the day, turned to walk across town to Grand Central in the twilight, and it started to snow. Then I heard him - a lone saxophonist playing "The First Nowell." I looked around, and there he was, at the side entrance of the library, in the lamplight, with the softly falling snow, playing this beautiful Christmas carol.

There are "official" subway musicians - they have a banner that says "Music under New York," set up in certain specific locations on the platforms and underpasses.  They are the only ones really supposed to be on the subways - the others are considered panhandlers and subject to arrest, or "move along."  Some of them are superb - there was a young boy who used to play keyboard in Grand Central years ago, who by now is presumably a professional musician.  And the didjeridu player. (If you're saying "A what?" - a didjeridu is an Australian Aboriginal instrument that requires circular breathing to play.)

Too bad I heard most of these people before I took to carrying a camera everywhere with me.  No photos!

The others are often delightful surprises.  A classical violinist named James Graseck who plays in the subways and at street fairs, has said he loves to play in the subways because of the acoustics.  That's him in the photo at right - playing last year at a street fair on Arthur Avenue, an Italian section of the Bronx.

We first heard an old Mississippi bluesman named Ted Williams (not the baseball player), now apparently known as Floyd Lee, at a West Side street fair. (The best music seems to be at the West Side fairs.)  He was sitting on a chair by the curb, playing music we couldn't believe.  In later years, he was joined by Clara E., and they now perform all over the world.  His site has downloadable MP3's if you like Mississippi blues!  And one day I went into my pizza shop downstairs, and there he was.  Turns out he lives near me. 

Some seem sadder than others.  A pretty girl once got on the shuttle from Grand Central to Times Square (a 5-minute ride), touched up her rather shabby dress and makeup, switched on her karaoke machine, and tap-danced until the train stopped.  She was very good - enchanting, in fact - but there was something sad about the shabbiness and touch of desperation.

Central Park, of course, is full of musicians.  My favorites are the bagpiper I once heard playing under the trees, and the string trio who played classical music nearby.

Every now and then, you find something wonderful, right when you need it the most.