Profile: The Steel Drum Man.

There is a man who stands tall even as he bends slightly to press his mallet to the bruised steel drums he plays with a continual smile. He always faces towards the local track, and he always has a bounce, an inner rhythm. “What kind of music do you like?” He asks a passenger.

“Oh, just about anything,” comes the response.

“Rock? Jazz? Reggae?” He probes.

“I like Reggae. How about that?”

And then arrive the sweet tinglings of the steel drum, the first notes of Bob Marley. The passenger is pleased and dives for his wallet before the musician even opens his mouth to sing the first words. “No woman, no cry,” and with that two bills are dropped in to the clean black bag placed precisely two feet in front of the instrument’s stand. The subway quiets to hear the sounds of the artist’s song, and as people file down the stairs to get wherever they’re going they can’t help but stand closer to those drums. No less than seven dollars were dropped in that bag during the first request; “he really is quite good.”

Even when the trains come he smiles. His perfect white teeth remind us music is to be enjoyed, not tolerated, in the subway. His longer hair is pulled back to a high and tight bun and secured with a candy apple red colored fabric covered hair elastic. He wears a white shirt that is bleached to glow, and it and his teeth contrast with the dirtiness around him. The shirt is a crew turtleneck, and the material wrapping around his throat gives him an air of dignity. His jeans are clean and pencil cut, his tennis shoes are chosen for comfort; after all, he is on his feet all day.
His back left pocket is stuffed with a wallet; on his hip hangs a cell phone. He is happy playing his instrument, and his pocket approves.

A small girl shyly approaches the man with a dollar filling her small hand. Without taking her eyes and smile away from him, she bends all the way to the floor and gently places the bill at the bottom of the bag.

“Thank you darlin’,” he says, his hands never pausing.

“You’re welcome,” rings the tiny blushing voice.

“Kiss the Girl” from The Little Mermaid is now playing, and the audience hums along. Instead of ignoring the music, or casting irritated glances towards the musician, the bystanders smile to themselves and those around them; they feel together there in the moments the music surrounds them. It is often hard to convince New Yorkers to take out their wallets and purses and consider donating. But this isn’t donating. This is supporting the arts.

The city holds thousands of musicians in its hands, but he is different. He isn’t after the money, he isn’t looking to practice for his Saturday night gig, or rehearse for his music exam, no. He is playing for joy, because he likes the sounds he makes, and he likes watching that man’s face light up when he belts out the first notes to a song and he likes to see that woman’s shoulders sigh when he strikes a clear note. His work is elsewhere but his heart is here, underground, smiling his measures and half notes at his fans. His audience is generous; the city is his Lorenzo de Medici.
A woman wearing a knee-length brushed wool black coat, and tall leather boots with sharp heals, and sharp features approaches him. He’s in the middle of a song, so she stands to the side and unzips her Fendi wallet and flips through green to find a single. She pulls it out and scrunches it in her right hand as she smiles at him when he notices she’s there. He ends the song with a trill of his wands and leans to hug her. “Hello my friend!” he exclaims.

“Hey love, how are you this evening?” She coos in a soft voice.

“I can’t complain, you know,” he grins as he takes her in.

She comments on the previous song and continues chatting as she bends to drop her support in that black bag. He smiles and thanks her even as she talks. The sounds of the six approaching stop her. She leans in and kisses him on the cheek, and he seems to glow a bit after the contact. He watches her as she waves and scampers onto the subway car; she blows him a kiss through the window as she is whisked away. The metallic ring penetrates the air again, and the depths come back alive.

People come and go, each person slightly reluctant to board their way home and lose the simplicity of those steel drums.

An eight-year-old boy shyly approaches, his blue eyes widely watching as the drummer performs his feat. “”Can I try?” He bursts after the jingling of the final note has ended.

“Well of course! Come over here,” he directs the boy to his stage in front of the musical kettles, “and take these mallets,” he says as he closes the boy’s fists around the wooden handles. “Now I’ll point, and you strike that place where I point, just like this “ he moves the boys hand to make a ‘ping’ against one of the metal panels. “Are you ready?” he asks with as much excitement in his voice as shows in the boy’s face.

The boy shakes his head emphatically, “Yes!”

“Ok. Do!” He points to the first place on the drum to the left. The boy strikes it; ping! “Re!” He points again, the boy skips with excitement at the next sound he made. “Fa! So! La! Ti! Do!” The boy’s family laughs as they watch the pair, and the boy shakes the man’s hand as he gleams with satisfaction. The boy’s family mouths ‘thank you’ to the man standing at his ready once again, and he nods “of course” as they board the uptown express.

A few more songs melt the stares of strangers, but as the rush hour crowd dims he finally hears his stomach growl. It’s time to go home. He begins packing up his instrument and the remnant of his crowd is clearly disappointed. He smiles at passers-by commenting, “you’re wonderful,” “thank you,” “that was lovely,” and then he’s off. Back up those stairs, he shakes the hand of the subway, and he's above ground again.