SomersaultA MAGAZINE OF ART, POLITICS AND POP CULTURE

The Music Issue

MAY 2013Volume 1 ♦ Issue 2

Featuringwork byDavidGrossman,QainatKhan andmany others.

And artwork byGregoryMuenzen.

Somersault MagazineVolume 1, Issue 2May 2013

www.somersaultmag.tumblr.com

This work is licensed under a Creative CommonsAttribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

Contents•Is "Where AreWe Now?" a Song about the Euro Crisis?Evan Fleischerpage 6

•Music and the Culture Wars in MaliCorinne Grinapolpage 9

•The Indomitable Hustle of Guitaro 5000: A Day in the Life of New York City's BestStreet MusicianDavid Grossmanpage 14

•Notes from Below: Classical Music in New York City's SubwaysQainat Khanpage 20

•"We're The Kominas. Hi."Torie Rose DeGhettpage 26

•Sea LionEvan Fleischerpage 30

•La CigaleAlexia Chandon-Piazzapage 33

•Artwork by Gregory Muenzen on pages 5, 8, 19, 29, 32.

Cover: "Clarinet Musician in the 42nd St. Subway" by Gregory Muenzen

Welcome to TheSpring Music IssueThis is Somersault's second issue -- in our first, published in December of 2012, we gaveyou articles of all shapes and approaches on arts and politics. Now, we're returning (anencore performance of a one-shot magazine) with a spring issue that's all about musicand music's relationship with politics.

The following essays are contemplations on pop culture, international politics, subwaymusicians and everything in between. Our mission is, as always, to turn things on theirheads, or end over end, like a somersault, and the pieces we have about David Bowie,subway violinists, Pakistani-American punk, choral music and --- flip perspectives andreinvent interpretations.

We can be found online at www.somersaultmag.tumblr.com and on Twitter@somersaultmag. You will be able to find all of these articles, as well as our previousissue, there.

Masthead

Torie Rose DeGhett writesfreelance about politics and music,and is a contributing arts writer atAslan Media.

Evan Fleischer lives in Boston,Massachusetts. When he isn'tediting Somersault Magazine, heis a writer-at-large.

A jazz sax musician in Broadway, NYC. By Gregory Muenzen.

Is "Where Are WeNow?" a Song Aboutthe Euro Crisis?by Evan Fleischer

To be in Berlin then meant -- per Tony Visconti, a long time producer of Señor David Bowie --"we could see the Wall [from the control room] and we could see over the wall and over thebarbed wire to the Red Guards in their gun turrets ... We asked the engineer one day whether hefelt uncomfortable with the guards staring at him all day. They could have easily shot us from theEast, it was that close. With a good telescopic sight, they could have put us out. He said you getused to it after a while and then he turned, took an overhead light and pointed it at the guards,sticking his tongue out and jumping up and down [and] generally hassling them. David and I justdived right under the recording desk. 'Don't do that,' we said, because we were scared to death!"

To be in Berlin today means something else altogether, but -- in the spirit of LeonardCohen saying in his Prince of Asturias speech that "No country is just a credit rating" -- I think it'sfair to say that Bowie's "Where Are We Now?" isn't necessarily about just about Berlin -- eventhough it’s riddled with lines like, “Sitting in the Dschungel / On Nürnberger Strasse” -- butEurope, too.

To be in Berlin then meant Hauptstraße 155 and Kreuzberg; it meant -- per DeutscheWelle -- that fans, “rather than hassle Bowie on the street, instead loitered outside record stores,waiting until the musician had departed and then going in to buy the same albums Bowie himselfhad bought”; it eventually meant the switch from vinyl to digital; it eventually meant songs like,‘We Didn’t Start the Fire,’ the albumWorld Clique, Achtung Baby (where they began recordingon the day of reunification), Wenders’s wandering angels, endless episodes of Das LiterarischeQuartett, and the ghostly memories of airplanes and the RIAS and oranges on trucks trailingthrough the clouds above Tempelhof.

I pose the question as to whether or not the song and the moment are suited for eachother, mindful of the involuntary response that comes upon us every time a moment strikes us inthe figurative knee. You can kind of see it in the compulsion to review books like Capital by JohnLanchester or when anyone gets a whiff of anything Michael Lewis happens to pen. (It’s onereason why writers like Simenon and Wodehouse are such good fun -- it’s the literary equivalentof Dylan’s ‘Never Ending Tour’ no matter what’s afoot.)

So there is no reason to assume that “Where Are We Now?” is about the Euro Crisis, or,rather, the eurobävning, as some Swedes call it. It nevertheless remains an interesting thing inthe air to fishbook and hang upon. It definitely isn’t about ‘being heroes,’ “if only for fiveminutes,” as Sasha Frere-Jones suggests in The New Yorker. It’s about finding groundingamongst a level of displacement that almost seems to echo. People are kicked out of their homesin Spain. 111,000 Greek companies went bankrupt in 2011. George Osborne cuts budgets andthen pretends to say it’s all working. Over four million Italians will be living in poverty by the end

Evan Fleischer lives in Boston, Massachusetts. When he isn't editing Somersault Magazine,he is a writer-at-large.

of 2013. This has tangible, in-the-air social consequences, and that’s something narrativesfrequently have trouble grasping. A mother of an unemployed son in Portugal told the BBC inOctober of last year that “This week he sent out 140 job applications and ... nothing."

So -- if “Nothing” is a scene and an answer repeated across Europe -- why not ask, “Whereare we now?” Why not seek grounding and a pathway through or out of it? If Germany let a“manageable run against Greece [...] become an existential threat against the Eurozone …” andthen let everyone sign off on an attempt to raid the everyday citizens of Cyprus (and then changeplans thirty times with the IMF and the ECB over the course of a week), why not say, ‘Where arewe now?’ so someone can start thinking about where they want all this to lead?

Bowie answers the question in the song by saying --

As long as there's sunAs long as there's sunAs long as there's rainAs long as there's rainAs long as there's fireAs long as there's fireAs long as there's meAs long as there's you

-- and that ends up not so bad insofar as all this goes. Nothing doesn’t come of nothing. As longas there’s a rainy day, as long as there’s a bit of sun, well, there’s still the two of us, and that’s notso bad, is it? Whether you’re talking with the owner of a pizza place in North London who givesyou a free glass of wine as you wait for the cooks in the back to make you your pizza so you cantalk about the Hammers, whether you’re hugging someone you’re meeting for the first time,whether you’re watching movies in the catacombs of Paris and leaving before anyone can findyou -- life doesn’t give up the ‘Yes’ without an incredible fight.

Oh, and -- Drum kick. Guitar. We can be heroes. Etcetera.

A jazz musician performs in Central Park. By Gregory Muenzen.

Music and the CultureWars in MalibyCorinne Grinapol

Around the turn of the 12th Century, a group of nomads belonging to the Imakcharen Tuaregtribe were roaming with their camels through the southern fringe of the Sahara desert in WestAfrica. When they reached the Niger River—in the semi-arid land at the intersection of theSahara and Savannah now called the Sahel— they stopped, setting up a camp so their animalscould graze. The Tuaregs would return to their home in the north, but not before leaving theplace in the care of an old woman named Buktu. The site would eventually become a permanentcity, and to this day, the city still bears the old woman’s name: the place of Buktu, or Timbuktu.This, at least, is one of Timbuktu’s creation myths.

The geographical reach of the Tuareg’s land extended well past Timbuktu, and today theTuareg are spread across Mali, Niger, Libya, Algeria and Burkina Faso. With many Tuaregmaintaining their nomadic lifestyle through to the modern era, certain sites in the Sahel serve asannual gathering points for the Tuareg to reconnect, share and exchange news, gossip and ideas.The soundtracks to these meetings are the live musical performances that are a part of Tuareglife. In 2001 the Tuareg opened this tradition to the rest of the world, hosting the first annualFestival au Désert in Tin Essako, a small village in Mali’s northeastern Kidal region.The festival’s name sounds romantic, but it’s quite literal. In Essakane, the small village west ofTimbuktu that has been the festival’s permanent home since 2003, the festival stage stands in aclearing of flat sand, surrounded by the soft rolls of the Sahara’s sand dunes. Westerners minglewith indigo-veiled Tuareg men and visitors from around the rest of the region—onstage and off.Both Bono and Manu Chao have performed in the lineup, which is mostly made up of more localacts from Mali, Senegal, Niger, and Mauritania. Some of Mali’s most legendary performers,including the late bluesman Ali Farka Touré and Khaira Arby, nicknamed the Queen of DesertBlues, have taken to this desert stage.

Around 2007, the festival began to attract visitors of an entirely different sort. Residentsbegan to notice Islamists from outside Mali’s borders on the fringes of the festival. At first theywere silent onlookers, then slowly began to voice their disapproval of the revelry and the Westernvisitors the festival attracted. These Islamists were more specifically Salafists, followers of asevere interpretation of Islam, who seek to return the entire Islamic world to their vision of apuritanical version of the religion, one they believe existed during the Prophet Mohammed’stime, supposedly before scholarship, diversification of the religion and the spread and interactionof Islam with other cultures.

During the 15th and 16th centuries Timbuktu itself became a magnet for such Islamicscholarship, and a place from which to spread knowledge of the religion throughout the region.Scholars came to study at its university and document the spiritual and cultural life of the city.Their work is now preserved in the manuscripts they left behind – at least 300,000 manuscriptsare in existence today.

Another physical vestige of that period remains, a monument to the influence of

Corinne Grinapol is a writer born, raised, and currently living in Brooklyn. She tweets at@corinneavital.

Timbuktu’s golden era: three pyramid-style mosques constructed of mud and reinforced bywood, along with a complex of holy sites and 16 mausoleums built in honor of some of the area’smost revered leaders. The mosques—Djingareyber, Sankore, and Sidi Yahia—have served as anenduring draw for tourists to the city, as well as being designated UNESCOWorld Heritage sites.Built by two different men in one century, restored by the same man in another, exteriors re-mudded each year, the history of the mosques is a microcosm of Timbuktu’s shifting empiresand cultural influences.

The area’s tombs and mausoleums stand in tribute to the scholars and holy men who haveshaped the cultural and spiritual life in this stretch of the Sahel. The structures don’t just exist asmere historic relics; people come weekly, usually on Fridays, to honor the dead. Under Mali’spredominant Islamic tradition, Sufism, praying at the graves of saints is standard practice, a wayto ask for spiritual guidance and connect to God on an individual level. The resting places ofTimbuktu’s saints were one the first things targeted for destruction by Islamists when they tookover control of the north of the country this past year.

Preserved culture like this holds power: the power to persuade, console, to unite, tocreate. It can reinforce our sense of belonging to a community and connect us to a sharedhistory. In Mali, such culture has produced, among other things, a musical tradition that is theaccompaniment and soundtrack to ritual, celebration, and life in the country.

Just as easily as it can unite and create, culture can be used to manipulate, isolate, anddivide. Autocrats often employ historic cultural traditions, and notions of cultural purity inorder to play on the fears of their people and consolidate their own rule. Culture in service ofpower—this was in evidence in Mali, as Islamists sought to replace northern Mali’s strongcultural traditions with their own.

In January 2012, Tuareg separatists in the north of Mali staged a revolt, their fifthattempted rebellion. This time, the Tuareg rebellion began with a precarious alliance betweenthe ethno-separatist Tuareg group, the National Movement for the Liberation of Azawad(MNLA) and a fundamentalist, nationalist (or so it seemed) Islamist group, Ansar al-Dine. Likethe rebellions that preceded it, it would leave the Tuaregs frustrated once again in their attemptto create a breakaway state, but this time, they would be thwarted by Ansar al-Dine and twoother Islamist groups—Al-Qaeda in the Maghreb (AQIM) and the Movement for Unity and Jihadin West Africa (MUJAO)—that would enter the region following the MNLA and Ansar al-Dine’stakeover of three major northern cities in early April 2012.It didn’t take long for these groups to exploit the instability in the region to overpower theTuareg separatists. To reinforce the strength and durability of their presence, the groups workedto exploit one of the most effective methods available to them: the imposition of Salafistprinciples, formed and deformed by the filter of violence and militancy these groups hadadopted. It was their great cultural export.

Rumors of the destruction of Timbuktu’s tombs began as early as May 2012. On May 42012 UNESCO reported that, according to sources, members of Ansar al-Dine had attacked themausoleum of Sidi Mahmoud, setting fire to the door of the monument. The groups targetedTimbuktu’s manuscripts for destruction as well, but managed to destroy only a tiny portion ofthe hundreds of thousands that exist; most were hidden or smuggled out of Timbuktu inanticipation of the groups’ intentions. In the next few months, reports of further destruction oftombs and holy sites crescendoed. Ansar al-Dine and MUJAO’s methods of attack varied, mudwalls succumbing to axes, shovels, guns, fire, and bulldozers. A photo still taken from a video ofIslamic militants smashing a tomb on July 1 shows a river of melon-sized pieces of rubblespilling down the walls as men with axes go to work on the deep black opening to the tomb. Atotal of 11 of Timbuktu’s 16 mausoleums were destroyed, along with at least four outside the cityor in nearby cities.

Worshipping saints is haram, sinful, against god. Or so say the Islamists in theirjustifications for the destruction of these tombs. It is an ironic justification, given that thesegroups are destroying the region’s native Islamic inheritance, the same inheritance that helpedcreate and spread Islam through Africa. Their attacks were an attempt to sever the ties betweenidentity and place and replaced it with a creation of the Islamists’ own making. Unlike Sufism,popular in part because of the way it allowed West African communities to incorporate animistpractices into Islam, the version of Salafism imposed by the Islamists allowed no room forinnovation or syncretism. Other cultures were always a threat to be fought.

Around the same time as the destruction of the tombs, an ocean and continent away, theMalian-Cuban musical hybrid band AfroCubism was on the Celebrate Brooklyn! Stage, on leg twoof its four-city tour of North America in June. On that breezy night, the band excited the crowdwith its synthesis of musical instruments and traditions and addictive, celebratory beats. By theend of the night, practically the entire audience, from the front rows all the way back to the fenceon the hill that delineates the borders of Celebrate Brooklyn!, was up and dancing, and had beenfor some time.

This collaboration between big name musicians from both countries—Cuba’s EliadesOchoa, Mali’s Toumani Diabaté and Bessekou Kouyate, among others—began in 2010 with thedebut of their eponymous album. From the early measures of any song on AfroCubism, itbecomes clear how the elements of one culture can merge seamlessly with those of another:balafon with trumpets, kora with guitar, percussion with more percussion, Spanish withBambara, creating something new while retaining the integrity and uniqueness of each tradition.While the Malian Empire traded gold, salt, and Islamic scholarship, music is perhaps modern dayMali’s greatest export. The rich, deep domestic tradition is paired with albums and artists thatsell internationally—creating new audiences for the nation’s music, traditional andcontemporary. In recent years, artists from Mali have represented well at the Grammys, pickingup five awards in world music categories since 1994. A look through the names of the winnersand nominees tells a story about the tendency of music to embrace, rather than merely bridge,cultural differences. From the legendary Ali Farka Touré, Toumani Diabaté, to traditional griotsinger Mamadou Diabaté, all have at some point, to varying extents, introduced elements intotheir work that have come from outside their culture, outside their country.

The name of the 2012 winners and Festival of the Desert headliners, Tinariwen, means“open spaces” in English, fitting for a group of Tuaregs from northern Mali whose songs reflectthe sounds of the desert, and the struggles—political and environmental—of the people who livethere. They started as fighters, attending the same Libyan training camp deposed Libyan dictatorMuammar Gaddafi hosted for Tuareg insurgents, and participating in the Tuareg rebellion of the‘90s. Their music is rooted in a tradition known as ichumar, a form of protest music intended toenergize Tuareg resistance to cultural and political encroachment by outside forces. LikeTinariwen, whose members eventually put down their weapons in favor of their guitars, the genreitself has evolved, moving from music that encourages resistance to music that calls for peace andreconciliation. It’s not a seamless transition, and many groups performing in the genre are stillconflicted about the role of their music and the place of the Tuareg people within Mali’snationalist framework, but there remains a capacity for adaptation and progress.

Even for a band like Tinariwen, whose music is so central to their Tuareg heritage, thesound they produce is not insular. Traditional styles are inflected with blues and reggae, andunusual partnerships result, like the band’s work with the American indie band TV On TheRadio.

In the early years of the band’s existence, during the Tuareg rebellion of the 90s,Tinariwen’s music was banned by the government. Their music was once again banned duringthe Islamist takeover, for entirely different reasons. When the fundamentalist groups declared

Sharia law in northern Mali, it was as strict and violent a version as their interpretation ofSalafist principles, centered around medieval-style retribution for offenses, like whippings fordrunkenness, public stoning for adultery, and hand and leg amputations following accusations oftheft and highway robbery.

Gender segregations, forced veiling and prohibitions on alcohol, cigarettes and secularmusic accompanied the harsh regime of punishment. The ban on music was enforced withparticular weight, with some musicians receiving personalized warnings. Islamists reportedlymarched into the Timbuktu home of Khaira Arby and destroyed all her musical instruments.They did not find her home, but they made sure to pass on a message for her to her neighbors: ifthey found her, they would cut out her tongue. Many musicians in the north had similarexperiences, leading to a large migration of musicians southward. A community of musicians-in-exile became centered in Bamako, Mali’s capital.

The story of the Islamists taking over the Sahara is often considered under the framework

of terrorism, of groups versed in Salafist ideology looking for new places to set up shop, expandtheir network of gun, drug, and cigarette smuggling, kidnapping and human trafficking—thebusinesses in service to their main business, the spread of their ideology throughout the globeand their fight against the west. The implications of their actions are examined similarly, withnews, congressional, organizational reports asking the same kinds of questions: will AQIMattack the West? When? How? Phrases like “breeding ground for terrorists” pop up, creating animage of gun-wielding, bomb-strapping fighters spreading secretly around the globe, waiting fora nod to spring them into action.

The cultural element of the spread of this extremism in the Sahara is often forgotten andunmentioned. If music can be a cultural salve, the politics of culture is a powerful weapon. Innorthern Mali, AQIM, Ansar al-Dine, and MUJAO wielded it as effectively as their guns. It wasculture they were trying to create, but to implement their own, they had to first destroy whatcame before. This is what the Islamists had gone after: the shrines and temples where peoplepray to saints whose deeds and stories have contributed to northern Mali’s sense of identity; thewriting that documents the region’s historical and religious development; the music thataccompanies festivals and important ceremonies, that is used as a form of storytelling thatallows legends and founding myths to survive. The Islamists sought to impose a radicalinterpretation of Islam that clashed and superimposed itself over the religious and culturaltraditions of syncretic Sufism. The Islamists sought to break down the norms, practices andcultural output those in northern Mali used to maintain identity, overriding it with a regional

Tinariwen. Credit: PR. Photo via The Guardian

pan-Islamic cultural construction that upended a millennium of tradition and history. This ishow social control is achieved through the manipulation of culture. Once the bonds of identityare broken, it becomes easier to buy into the culture of fundamentalist Islam. Even now that theFrench military campaign has forced Islamists out of the north’s major cities, traces of influencelinger.

Before the blanket imposition of fundamentalist ideals, members of fundamentalistgroups had peddled their ideology in cities like Timbuktu for years. They spent time patientlygaining followers, letting the ideals and morals of an outside culture settle in against a backdropof powerlessness, instability, poverty, and political isolation. Against this kind of reality, thisversion of religion appeals to some as an alternative path to agency.

If we allow ourselves to be more optimistic for a moment, though, perhaps a gathering ofmusicians in January is indicative of the shape of things to be. Malian singer Fatoumata Diawarebrought together musicians from all parts of the country to record “Mali-Ko,” a call for peace.The performance is a remarkable projection of that wish, evinced by its synthesis of languages,styles and genres. Its lyrics underscore this desire: “In harmony, our country can develop.Nobody can destabilize us, our children will have a future.”

The IndomitableHustle of Guitaro5000A Day in the Life of New York City's Best Street MusicianbyDavid Grossman

As my bus pulls up on the corner of Prospect and Dodd in East Orange, New Jersey, I see Guitaro5000 through the window, walking out of his house. I bolt out of my seat, ready to jump on him.It’s a few minutes past 11 AM on a Sunday, and I’m late to our meeting. I’m a nervous wreck as Irun out of the bus, and yell “GUITARO,” which gets him to turn around. He’s about six foot witha beefy body that comes from weightlifting, and is perfect size for, say, a running back. He’s thebest street musician in New York, which puts him in the running for the best street musician inthe world. I was convinced I’d ruined his day by being late, and he’s kind enough to let me knownothing could be further from the truth—he had trouble finding his jacket, he couldn’t give mebetter directions because he hates texting with a touchscreen, and so on.

I first encountered Guitaro (née Reginald Guillame) on the L train at least half a year ago,and I haven’t been able to get him out of my mind since. He was playing my car -- my car! -- andperformed an amazing version of “Billie Jean.” He wears a mini-Fender amp on his hip, and hishands fly between the strings and the top of the guitar, turning the electronics on and off. Hesings adequately, but more than makes up the ground by his earnestness. On the L, he seemed sointo Michael Jackson’s message of equality—“if you wanna be my baby, it don’t matter if you’reblack or white!”—that it was impossible not to catch his enthusiasm. And if that doesn’t get you,the bag he takes in donations in will — it details in a friendly yet meticulous manner how thismoney will go towards his nursing school education -- heck, it even encourages you to ask for histranscript.

His biggest problem for a while now has been figuring how to parlay busking into gigs —playing restaurants, weddings, sessions, concerts, whatever will pay. He has a rotation of three orfour songs that he knows get him money from passersby, but that doesn’t show his versatility.He’s compiled a list of 100 songs, over two-pages, that he has memorized. He knows “400, 500songs really well” but needs his HP tablet for most of them -- to remind himself of tabs and lyrics.These are a mix of old and new, fast and slow, everything from Sam Cooke to The Lumineers.

After we hit up Staples, it’s off to the bus to Newark to catch the a train out to the LongIsland Railroad stop at Penn Station, which we’ll go out to Far Rockaway in Queens, where -- waitfor it, you’re almost there -- he’s got a recording session. Guitaro is twenty-five, and like everyoneelse who is twenty-five or thereabouts these days, there’s one question that preoccupies histhoughts — how can anyone make money doing anything? He’s been talking to me almost non-stop since we me about the business side of his music—wondering if he should sign officially with

David Grossman is a writer living in Brooklyn. His Twitter is @davidgross_man, his Tumblris onemanbandstand.tumblr.com. He thinks the best albums of 2013 so far are KaseyMusgraves' Same Trailer, Different Park and Chance the Rapper's Acid Rap.

his manager, singing the praises of his assistant, and why passion is bullshit. “I don’t know if youwant to print this, but certain musicians describe themselves as passionate. I could never do that,because I do this as my living. It’s, like, you don’t tell your wife you love her everyday. But youdo!” On the bus, he asks again and again about journalism, what my goals are and how I think Ican make it work for myself, and how I could use technology to improve my career.

Guitaro 5000 is one of those people who become obsessed with an idea and followed itthrough. He listened to a lot of radio rock when he was in his mid-teens, bands like Hoobastankand Creed, and wanted to do what they did. And so he did. He wanted to learn guitar. He did.His first venture into subway performance – sometime in his late teens – scared him off, butsince age 21 he’s been doing this consistently ever since.

Music is his job, he reminds me several times. Making money is ingrained into the Guitaro5000 experience — the ‘5000’ comes from the $5,000 he owed his nursing school at the time.He’s clearly dedicated to nursing school — during travel breaks, when we’re not talking he’s oftenstudying for a final on his phone — but there’s no future in it. Not his future, at least. Music isgoing to pay for school, yes, but if Guitaro has his way it’ll also pay for everything else. And ongood nights, it can — Guitaro estimates that on good nights, he’ll make thirty dollars an hourplaying in the subway, and – on great nights – fifty. Playing on a subway platform is protected bythe First Amendment, but entertaining in a subway car falls under direct violation of the MTARules of Conduct, Section 1050.6, Subsection 3(A), and Guitaro’s run afoul of it enough to knowit’s fully enforced — he’s been arrested twice for playing subway cars, and that’s more troublethan its worth. Thinking about this makes him shake his head.

Rockaway and Queens beckon, and while we're standing around checking train timesGuitaro notices a singer nearby. It doesn't take long for him to start critiquing her style. Hersound is kind of tinny, he says, but what really antagonizes him is her spot -- the busking game isall about spot-finding and mobility, and the spot she’s in is gold. Guitaro points out that her keyspot — main corridor near the entrance to the 1, 2, and 3 lines, next to McDonald's — has beenbequeathed to her by Music Under New York, or MUNY, the MTA’s official musician-handlers.Not that all their spots are money-makers, but they can give you security — the MTA is Goddown here, and if they reserve you a spot it’s yours, no questions asked. Guitaro’s getting hispermit next month, and can already envision what he’ll do with the spot — a big amp, maybeeven a drummer and a backup singer. He doesn’t need them — he’s gone through around“twenty, thirty” subway partners through the years, and none have made a substantial differencein what he’s earned. But it could work.

Today he’ll be doing a studio session an aspiring singer named Debra Church. She’ll alsobe coming out to subway with us — she’s new to the subway, but Guitaro tells me she gotaddicted to it. He’s already taught her a few tricks, like how to only sing directly ahead to reachthe greatest possible number of people. And she’s got perfect pitch, which never hurts.

We get to the studio, which is in the basement of a sad-looking house whose upstairsseems to be mostly devoid of furniture and life. Downstairs there’s a bed, a vocal booth,computers, keyboards, guitars, a few gold records, Debra and the guy who owns all this stuff,Darrin “Piano Man” Whittington (no one call him Piano Man while I’m there, but it’s on hisbusiness card), who welcomes us with a self-mocking, “Welcome to ‘The Hit Factory.’”

The song everyone’s working is called “Love Off.” Everyone is giving it their all —Darrin’senthusiastically playing with rhythm on the computer, Debra really does have perfect pitch, as itturns out, an enthusiastically powerful voice that can wring emotion out of the simplest thing,Guitaro’s being Guitaro. If only the song were any good. A few hours pass. Tinkering is done.Nothing comes of “Love Off,” which sounds something that 90’s R&B left on the cutting roomfloor, and for good reason.

We head back. We finally get to 42nd-Port Authority Bus Terminal, a magic stop. Magic

stops come in and out of vogue for Guitaro—once word gets around, the spots get flooded withcompetitors. This is why Guitaro’s not keen on the idea of a busking community. He’s friendlywith some people, but ultimately they just eat into his profits.

As Guitaro pulls out his guitar, its clear to see how live music is this magical thing that weall share with each other. With the instrument out, people sneak glances at Guitaro wherever hewalks in the station. It’s a look of curiosity, many people smile. As he’s setting up, a little girl, noolder then five, yells out “Nice guitar!” He smiles back and offers a hearty thank you.

Guitaro’s mood shifts when he’s interacting with anyone on the street, just like anyone inthe service industry: smiles for everyone, appreciative nods at whatever people want to tell him.Not that he’s a bitter person in his real life, but Reginald Guillame, like anyone else, gets annoyedat people, wonders if he should sign a legal contract with his manager, is curious about whereGoogle is taking Android next, and doesn’t mind not having any personal time but wishes he gotpaid more. Guitaro 5000 just wants to play your favorite song.

Earlier Guitaro actually used the words “living the dream” to describe his life, even thoughnone of the elements usually seen in musical success are present—original songs, for instance(Guitaro calls songwriting “what I’m worst at”), or albums, merch, touring, a modicum ofrecognition, Twitter followers in five digits (although he’s big on Facebook.) The money speaksfor itself – kinda. “Everything is good right now, except for the money. I want to be making fourtimes what I’m making right now … People tell me, ‘I wish I made $300 a night, and I’m like, Iwish I did too!” he tells me walking through the station. He plays, re-invests (his assistant, food,travel, the occasional partner, new guitar strings all add up), saves, and then plays some more.But questions about the feasibility of the music industry are purely theoretical to Guitaro. Nomatter how many iPods there are in the world, people will always want to hear a popular songperformed live and well while they are waiting for their train, and will pay for it. Guitaro offers asimple lesson for creative types living in the endless recession: never take your fingers off the

Guitaro and Debra perform. Photo by David Grossman.

strings.A good spot is found, on a platform for the A, C, and E lines. The Port Authority stop is

especially choice as it connects to 42nd St-Times Square, one of the key transfer junctions in thecity. There’s plenty of foot traffic around here. “This spot may dry up in an hour or two,” hewarns Debra. He strums a little, finding a rhythm, and then, at around 7:30, he and Debralaunch into their first song of the night, Rihanna’s “Umbrella.” It’s a strong, attention-grabbingcover, and a few minutes in a big black guy with glasses drops some change in Guitaro’s bag.More change follows from a girl he’s with who’s wearing a pink tunic, then a buck from a whiteguy in a salmon-colored shirt. They’ve already made more than Rihanna would when someonebuys the “Umbrella” video on iTunes for $1.99.

Next up is Alicia Keys’s “Fallin.’” Debra and Guitaro have a nice, friendly chemistry,helped by Debra’s fantastic voice and constant movement. Guitaro and Debra are the side eventfor this crowd — there are around thirty people waiting for the subway, around half are evenpaying attention. And none of them are watching that closely. A few are into it, sure—“that wasbetter than the original!” yells one woman as she gets onto the train. But she doesn’t even pay.The ratio of people who listen to people who pay is infinitesimally small, but that’s not important-- what’s important is consistency: fifty cents here, twenty cents there, two bucks, a buck, thirtymore cents, and then you start again.

This is how it goes for the next three hours. Going through my notes, I count five moreplays of “Umbrella,” four more of “Diamonds,” a few “Fallins’” and “Black and Whites” here andthere. Debra hands a card with a link to a MP3 download to everyone who gives money until sheruns out. They each announce their websites after a few songs. It’d be easy to phone these in, butthey’re not. As far as I can tell at least—Debra is able to find some new part of “Umbrella” tofocus on each time, and Guitaro never lets up. They break a few times, never for longer than fiveminutes. The money keeps coming.

10:30 rolls around, and it’s time to for Debra to count up her money and leave. She’s gotwork tomorrow, but Guitaro makes it clear after she leaves that she wanted to stay longer, but heknew from the beginning that’d he would be sending her away. He’s frustrated that he had tosplit the money with her when she didn’t know the words to the songs on his list. We’re headingto Union Square to transfer to the L to get to Bedford Ave on the off chance that no othermusician has claimed the hipster capital of Williamsburg, Brooklyn at midnight on a Saturdaynight. Guitaro is able to predict with a shocking accuracy what Union Square will look like — aformer magic spot now infested with far too many acts: we see act after act get shut down bytrolling drunks who fake stealing money out of guitar cases, Russian violinists with no respect forother musicians playing space, and just a general sense of anarchy. Guitaro eats sardines andchills.

We finally get to Bedford at around 11:45 and everyone’s drunk there, too, but it’s calmer.People nod appreciatively at Guitaro as they walk past. A drunk bro in his thirties requests“anything by Lady Gaga” and “Bad Romance” starts up. Bro and fellow bros start dancing, and acrowd gathers. A train comes. The bros depart. There’s no continuous foot traffic here, but wavesof people rushing in and out. Guitaro spots a Red Sox hat, and just days after the BostonMarathon bombing, says to no one in particular, “How about a sing-a-along?” and launches into“Sweet Caroline.” The crowd loves it -- hands wrap around shoulders that sway, Good timesnever felt so good, so good, so good. Money’s dropped. They leave. No one’s there to replacethem.

A few black skater teens are left, and Guitaro tries to win them over with rap beats —“Niggas in Paris,” DMX’s “Ruff Ryders’ Anthem.” They dig it for a second, rap over it, but getquickly distracted. After watching him play for around five hours now, this is the closest I’ve seenGuitaro get to being frustrated — no one passing by would notice, but the lack of attention is

driving him a bit crazy. So I decide to help out a little, walk over to the list of songs at his feet,and loudly pick Miguel’s “Adorn.”

Guitaro nails it. He’s able to capture the beat perfectly, and I fill in on the parts he’s shedfrom the song. It’s a lot of fun—the strength of his music is that you’re able to feel as connected toit on the 50th time you’ve heard it as it is the first. He plays a few more songs to a few morewaves, and then it’s 1:30 and he’s got to head back to East Orange. He wishes he could stay outfor longer, 3 or 4, but he’s not feeling his best and he’s got that final tomorrow, after all. Herushes into the L train back towards Penn Station for the journey back home. He made $87 atPort Authority, $50 at Bedford, which comes to $137 for hours of work, which comes to $34.25per hour. He’ll be back tomorrow night.

Subway musician in watercolor. By Gregory Muenzen.

Notes from Below:Classical Music in New York City's SubwaysbyQainat Khan

The underground system of tunnels and platforms at New York City’s Times Square station isvast, stretching for city blocks. More than 58 million people passed through this particular stopin 2011, making it the busiest transit point in the entire Metropolitan Transit Authority system.It is not a pleasant place to linger: moldering and drippy, and overrun with rats. But it is herethat Nick Moyer, a mechanical engineering student at Columbia University, willingly spends histime.* He doesn’t descend into the subway for his studies. Moyer is a one-man band ofaccordion, trumpet, and improvised percussion — a busker.

The tall and wiry 22-year-old balances the accordion on his lap and pushes its buttonswith his left hand to make chords. With his right hand, he plays the melody on his trumpet, usinghis feet to beat out a rhythm on his suitcase. “I have to put in another dollar!” calls out a guy in adeerstalker hat one December afternoon as Moyer launches into the Gershwin classic“Summertime.” “That’s amazing!” adds the newly converted fan before boarding his train.

There are 468 subway stations in New York City, and 1.6 billion people rode the trains.Nearly all of them, at one point or another, encountered a musician along the way. So while thesubway system may be noisy and smelly—even, sometimes, frightening—it is also home tomoments of unlikely spontaneity and beauty. Who would expect to find classical music—whatmany consider the highest of art forms—in the lowliest of places?

Just across town from Times Square Station, Grand Central Terminal blesses its boredand frustrated commuters with a ceiling dotted with glittery constellations, marble halls lit bychandeliers, and, occasionally, tunnels echoing with classical music. On this particularafternoon, the strains of James Graseck’s violin mingle with the hurried footsteps and randomchatter. Those with any knowledge of classical music will recognize the precise counterpoint ofBach. Dressed formally in black concert attire, Graseck is deep in conversation with a smallblonde boy whose backpack is enormous on his tiny frame. The boy is telling the older manabout the Paganini capriccio he’s in the process of learning with his private teacher. The two tryto figure out just which of the master’s 24 caprices it might be, Graseck eventually playing thelast note of the fugue with a flourish, then handing his instrument over to the boy.

In a time where music has come to be mostly a solitary experience, recorded music heardvia headphones, subway musicians remind us of the vital, spontaneous and participatory aspectsof music making. For the art form isn’t just an aesthetic experience, it is a social one as well. Andthe social is where we learn how to be well-adjusted human beings—to engage with each otherand our environment.

According to anthropologist Susie Tanenbaum in Underground Harmonies, her 1995ethnography of the city’s subway musicians, when New York opened its first subway in 1904,performers weren’t legally allowed to play inside (though many did it anyway). It wasn’t until the1930s, under Mayor Fiorello La Guardia, that the rules against underground performance beganactually to be enforced. Much of the increased prosecution had to do with the conflation of street

Qainat Khan works as a radio producer in Boston.

*The research for this piece was done between 2011 and 2012. Nick has since graduated.

musicians and panhandlers. (Panhandling is illegal.) People continued to play despite the rulesagainst it, and over the decades, enforcement was haphazard at best. A series of cases in the1980s finally codified and decriminalized the act of making music in the subways; artisticperformance in public spaces, the court decided, was protected as speech under the FirstAmendment. To its credit, the subway has been a launching point for some commercially famousacts, including the indie band the Freelance Whales.

In New York City, it’s legal for subway musicians to perform on any platform at any stop.There are certain caveats—musicians need to stop during announcements and they can’t sell CDsor play inside the subway cars. Lydia Bradshaw, who conducts the MTA’s MUNY program, saysthat musicians are expected, along with everyone else who rides the subway, to adhere to theMTA’s Rules of Conduct. The MTA, in fact, sponsors a program called Music Under New York(MUNY), in which artists audition to get access to some of the most-trafficked spots in thesystem—like specific platforms in Times Square and Grand Central. Those accepted into theprogram go through a scheduler to reserve times for the desirable locations. Otherwise,musicians are free to set up anywhere they like, though those without the banner that comesalong with MUNY membership tend to get harassed from time to time by police officers whodon’t always know the rules regarding freelancers, and may make arbitrary decisions about whocan play where and when.

“I love playing Bach in the subway,” says James Graseck as he bows a few measures of agigue. It’s early in January 2012, a couple of months after the encounter with the boy in GrandCentral, and the Long Island native is standing at the edge of the platform in the Herald Squarestation. At his feet are his violin case, in which he displays his CDs for sale, a small boom box,and a little bag holding two thermoses, one with water, the other coffee. Now sixty, Graseckplayed for the first time in the subway in 1968. He has loved the violin for much longer. “I’vebeen a dedicated violinist since Juilliard Preparatory in eighth grade,” he says. “I realized it waswhat I wanted to do. I practiced, and I was in love with it.” He went on to graduate in 1972 fromthe Juilliard Conservatory, where he served as the concertmaster of its orchestra. Five yearslater, while a violin instructor at the Manhattan School of Music’s preparatory school, he gave adebut recital at Lincoln Center’s Alice Tully Hall. The New York Times noted the “attractive,silvery quality” of his tone.

These days, when Graseck finds a quiet moment amid the trains rushing past, he tends toselect one of the more emotional pieces in his repertoire. “This is a classic,” he says to thescattered audience of commuters. “‘Meditation,’ by Massenet.” His version of the intermezzo,written for solo violin and orchestra, from the opera Thais, is undeniably moving. Graseck’sarrangement is for piano and violin; the piano accompaniment issues from his boom box, pre-recorded with an accompanist. An older woman dressed in black fur and sitting on a nearbybench, closes her eyes, a smile playing across her face. She eventually gets up and, while Graseckis in mid-performance, places a dollar in his violin case. A tear follows the lines in her face. “It’stouching,” she says when asked whether the piece means a lot to her. “Music does that to you.”She’s still smiling as she boards her train.

“[Commuters] are engaging with music in a very different way,” says Trevor Harvey, anethnomusicologist based at the University of Iowa, “as a virtual, social experience that is counterto the otherwise rather static experience they have with recorded music they’re listening to ontheir iPod.”

“There is a sense of immediacy, realness, authenticity when you encounter someonemaking music live,” agrees Mark Katz, a musicologist at the University of North Carolina, ChapelHill and the author of Capturing Sound, which looks at the way our relationship to music haschanged in response to technology. “I think the reason [live music is] more special is the

unexpectedness of it,” continues Katz. “You’re not planning to hear any music, [but] …you turnthe corner and it’s right there.”

Such immediacy and unexpectedness may partly be responsible for bringing people likeGraseck’s listener to tears, and it’s just that closeness that keeps Graseck playing in the streets.An interactive performer, he often talks to his audience and on occasion singles out a member ofthe crowd. The one-on-one contact, he says, is a major part of his decision to eschew thetraditional path of a conservatory-trained musician and opt for the subway platforms instead.“It’s such direct communication,” he says. “I can see that a person is listening by the way they arelooking. I can see the way they are focused. There are other moments when people will come upclose and look intense, and that makes me want to play my best.”

Nick Moyer isn’t quite so sentimental about what he does underground. It doesn’t occur tothe blue-eyed Washingtonian that he might be doing a public service. “The shared experience issomething important,” he concedes, though he says he tries “not to glorify it too much. It feelsgood every now and then,” he says, seeing strangers talking to each other about his music. Atleast, “I assume they’re talking about me,” he adds with a laugh. Unlike Graseck, Moyer neversingles out people in his audience. He remains politely aloof—he doesn’t want anyone to feelpressured into tipping, he says, though he does acknowledge it when people do tip, meeting theireyes and smiling when his mouth isn’t occupied by the trumpet.

During Moyer’s set on the Times Square platform, a young man with a mohawk takes outone of his earbuds—the music so loud you can hear it standing next to him—and drops a dollarinto the performer’s basket. He leans against one of the rusty metal columns—one earbud in, oneout, still blaring music—and stares intensely at Moyer. “That was my first time,” he says in regardto the tip. “I often don’t have small bills or change, but I felt I should give him some.” He notesthe novelty of seeing someone play multiple instruments simultaneously, before replacing bothearbuds and boarding his train.

For every mohawked person who takes out an earphone to listen to a live musician,though, there are legions of others who never unplug long enough to experience the noises ofurban living. And that solitary listening, Katz believes, may come at a cost. People might“cocoon” themselves because it makes them feel safe or comfortable, he explains, “but you’re alsoclosing yourself off to interesting possibilities. One is interesting sounds or conversation, orinteresting accents or voices … you might also hear some interesting music.”

As a young person, Moyer doesn’t understand the appeal of listening to music all thetime. “It turns life into this weird music video,” he says. And, he adds, “You never know whensomething spontaneous might happen.” The American philosopher Charles Peirce coined theterm “firstness” to describe this idea of possibility back in 1867. “The first,” he wrote, as“predominant in the ideas of measureless variety and multiplicity.” Firstness, in other words, hasto do with the introduction of novelty into the universe—with that original, inchoate feeling thatcomes with the first glimpse or sound of something and with the idea of it, the possibility of it.And that “firstness,” the ability to encounter something novel, is infinite.

“Certainly one of the values of live music,” echoes Harvey, the ethnomusicologist, is “theperception it allows for that music is indeed not an object but an activity… It becomes actualizedonly as we engage with it and hear it. It’s not this thing that sits on a shelf.”

At the same time, Moyer is puzzled that so many of his tippers never bother to take theirearbuds out at all. He imagines maybe they’re hearing his sound above their own music, or thatthey’ve perhaps pushed the pause button but neglected to remove their headphones. He probablyhadn’t noticed, lost in his musical world as he was, but for the crowd gathered around him on theTimes Square platform, Moyer was the center of attention, at least for a few seconds. Their eyesfocused on him, their hands fumbled with iPods; some snapped visibly out of stupors, little kidsdemanded money from their parents to put in the musician’s basket. “It’s good, no?” offered a

tourist from Italy after dropping in a few bills.

The musicians have their own reasons for descending underground day after day. ThoughMoyer doesn’t come off as your typical hardened New Yorker—from his blonde hair andporcelain skin to his quiet voice, everything about him seems soft and wispy, as if he might floataway — yet he is unapologetic about the fact that he plays for money. His student loans gotoward the over $51,000 tuition and housing for the school year, and the music money—hegenerally makes about $35 an hour—is for everything else: food, nights on the town, subway fare,more equipment. It’s simply pragmatism, Moyer says, though he admits that he probablywouldn’t play it if people gave him money but were angry. “People have been nice,” he says. “I’mgenerally happier when I leave than when I go in.”

Moyer takes the quality of his sound seriously, and holds himself to a high standard ofperformance—these days he’s working on improving his tone and tempo. He originally learned toplay the trumpet in elementary school but gave it up for a short period when he started college.He taught himself the accordion at 19, when his sister brought one home from college. Moyer hasadapted various musical genres to his instruments: the Brooklyn-based electronic band Ratatatis a particular favorite. Because of his instrumentation — the brassy trumpet combined with themelancholic accordion—passersby often imagine Moyer is playing Eastern European folk music.His sound recalls that of bands like Beirut and DeVotchka. He is actually from a rural hamlet inthe Pacific Northwest called Conway, with a population of 91.

Moyer likes the variability of live performance in the subway. He has set songs, but needsto find ways to make them interesting and new, both for his audience and for himself. It’s one ofthe reasons he doesn’t write music down or record himself. “I’ll find something new threemonths later and it will be better,” he says of improvising. He adds if he did record, he wouldrecord separate tracks for each of his instruments, and then edit them together on an editingprogram, which would result in, “this physical thing that is more perfect than I could ever play.”

For Graseck, the money is secondary. He mostly cares about bringing music to people.Right after Juilliard, he says, he tried soloing and freelancing with various orchestras, but he kept

Nick Moyer performs at the 110th stop on the 1 train downtown platform. March 22nd, 2013.Photo by Qainat Khan.

returning to public spaces. The subways and streets let him be his own boss, he says, play whathe wants to play, and connect the way he wants to connect with his audience, without themediation of the concert hall or the conductor’s baton. He still performs in a quartet and keeps ahandful of students to supplement the tips. He tells the story of playing in front of Saks 5thAvenue early in his career, and making $15 in less than an hour; it was the first time he realizedthat performing in public might actually be a way to make a living.

Graseck has had his moments in the spotlight—including steady coverage in the New YorkTimes and the Daily News over the years, a 1984 spot on Johnny Carson’s show, and a 2005WNYC radio documentary—but being a celebrity has never sat well with him. “It was a strangefeeling that the same people who ignored me suddenly come up to me,” he says. “It took TV andnewspaper notoriety [for them] to come out of the woodwork …. I love the people who’ve knownme for years because they like what I do,” he continues. “These are the people who’ve given methe right reason for enjoying [performance].” He likes the street precisely because of itsanonymity and democracy. He doesn’t have to be famous to touch someone with his music. Hejust has to be in the right place at the right time. “I can play for 10 minutes and it’s too noisy, nomoment to perceive anything,” Graseck says of those times when there’s no spark of recognitionat all. “I’m not upset by that. I don’t expect humanity to come flowing over me. I’m just waitingfor the moment that something can happen.”

Back at Herald Square, Graseck is several songs into his set when he begins pickingCamille Saint-Saens’ “The Swan,” originally written for cello and piano as part of the multi-movement suite “Carnival of the Animals.” An MTA janitor hums along as he sweeps andempties trashcans. He’s obviously heard the song before. “We go back a long time,” says thejanitor, who declines to give his name. “He’s a master. For this kinda music, you gotta go toLincoln Center.”

It’s just that ability to democratize that Graseck prizes. So invested is he in the idea that hewent so far as to rent out Carnegie Hall. Over his many years of playing on the streets andsubway platforms, the violinist has acquired a broad following; some of his fans have evenapproached him for private performances at weddings and office parties. He recognizes many ofhis admirers by sight and considers them an extended network of friends. Back in 1993, one ofthose fans, a woman then in her 80s, helped engineer his Carnegie Hall debut. At her urging andwith some financial support, he rented out the famous concert venue and filled it with peoplehe’d met underground. He paid for the space with the money he’d collected over the years fromtips, and charged between $10 and $25 for seats, depending on the section. All told, it cost himaround $25,000 to put the concert on—$8,500 for the hall and the rest for ushers, stage crew,accompanists, and promotional expenses. Some 2,500 people came out on that snowy Marchnight in 1993 to hear him play. He broke even, and was able to pay back his fan. “He was doingthe same thing he does in the subway,” says Susie Tanenbaum, who wrote about theperformance. “He had just democratized Carnegie Hall.” In the cultural imagination, the hall,and classical music in general, epitomize the idea of the ivory tower, associated with talent andconsumers of that talent—mainly rich people. “What takes place in the concert hall is a narrowrange of impersonal encounters among people of more or less the same social class,” writes themusicologist Christopher Small in his 1998 bookMusicking, “where each goes his or her ownprivate way without being impinged on to any significant extent by others.” Concert hall protocoltends to be fairly “anti-community,” agrees Harvey, the ethnomusicologist. “When you think ofthe rules—don’t clap between movements, don’t open up a cough lozenge wrapper—especially ina classical setting, where audience members want to have a solitary experience … it’s just themand the music.” But the platforms are the precise opposite, and Graseck loves the idea thatanyone who passes by can encounter classical music, without any of the regulations—or

intimidations—so often associated with it.

The life of a busker isn’t easy. Moyer’s set under Times Square ends abruptly when twoofficers approach him and write up a summons for obstructing the platform. (He’d set up againstthe benches parallel to the tracks.) He boards the next uptown train and stares despondently atthe pink slip for a couple of stops. Laden with his equipment—his accordion case alone weighssome 40 pounds—and distracted by the day’s events, he nearly backs right into a baby stroller.Earlier in the day, he’d had a run-in with another officer at the 103rd Street stop. He often playsat stops along the Number 1 train, as it enables him to easily jump on and head quickly back tohis dorm. He had been on the 103rd Street platform for all of 10 minutes when a cop approachedhim and demanded he move “south of 96th Street.” The soft-spoken Westerner isn’t one to arguewith police officers, even if he does believe them completely in the wrong. So he packed up hismotley assemblage of instruments and rode sixty blocks south to Times Square, stowing hisaccordion under his seat and pulling out a battered copy of Studs Terkels’ Hard Times. Sincethen, Moyer has begun holding his own against the cops, producing a printed copy of theMetropolitan Transit Authority’s Rules of Conduct regarding artistic performances, whenever aconfrontation ensues. After the summons (which a judge subsequently threw out), he’s beenkicked out of stations four times, despite his new resolve. Still, though he graduated this May,Moyer has no plans to pursue engineering just yet; he’s back in the tunnels, jamming.

Graseck has not had it easy, either. “I used to be handsome,” he says, inhaling deeply onhis Pall Mall cigarette. He’s standing in the cold near Greeley Park, at the intersection ofBroadway and 32nd, as cabs rush past. He isn’t bad-looking, though age and smoking have takentheir toll. He stands on the shorter side of average, and he still has a thick head of hair, althoughit’s begun to gray. A gregarious man, he talks and talks, pointing out the Chelsea building wherehe lives with his wife and daughter, and offering a stream of anecdotes that reveal his ongoinglove affair with this city and its people. After graduating from Juilliard, he says, he went alongthe prescribed path of freelancing in orchestras and playing recitals, but also began to sneak in afew street music performances. He kept them a secret from the girl he was dating. “She abhorredit,” he says. One day she came across an article about him and his street playing and smacked itdown in front of him on the breakfast table. That was the end of the relationship.

His first wife hated New York, and soon after they wed, he took a job teaching at auniversity in Georgia and toured the region on the side. “I missed New York,” he says. The twodivorced, and Graseck returned the city. He met his current wife while playing in thesubway—they’ve been together 35 years—and she’s never had any problem with his routine.Though Graseck has no plans to retire, he does think the free time would let him spend moretime with his family. He appears to run on coffee and cigarettes. It seems he is always on themove, with an engagement to perform somewhere. When he finishes here at Herald Square, forexample, he needs to go uptown to give a lesson. He still plays recitals in the city and neighboringstates, and he practices diligently. “It’s a mix of a vagabond life and a disciplined life,” he saysbetween drags on his cigarette.

Graseck descends back into the subway—he has time for one quick set before headinguptown—and ends the day just as he started it: with “Meditation.” There are no tears this time,but the smiles on the passersby suggest that something profound is happening here. Music isn’tan object, their smiles say, but a vital social activity. And sometimes, sharing music withstrangers is the closest to transcendence you can get when in the course of daily life.

"We're The Kominas.Hi."by Torie Rose DeGhett"Sharia laaaawwww..." The opening track on The Kominas' debut albumWild Nights inGuantánamo Bay hits hard at anti-Muslim sentiment in the United States, a surreal flash ofsatire that pounds through your ears. The Kominas pull off being both alienating and alluring atthe same time. They have incredible musical talent and lyrics that are harsh and gleeful, but well-chosen. "Sharia Law in the U.S.A" mocks and ridicules profiling and institutional Islamophobia,jabbing at the radicalizing nature of security measures:

Cops chased me out of my mother's wombMy crib was in state pen before age twoThe cops had bugged my red toy phoneSo I devised a plan for heads to roll...

Being Muslim in the US in the twenty-first century has meant an unrelenting scrutiny, apatchwork of stereotype and profiling including the ignorance of public assumption and thedirect attack of authorities.

Challenging Islamophobia is a core tenet of the band's musical purpose. They aim tooverturn assumptions about Muslims, and impugn the legitimacy of institutional anti-Muslimsentiment in the US. Guitarist Sunny Ali says "We used the media's Islamophobia to getattention the same way they used us and continue to use Islam for their headlines. We are alsotapping into people's stereotypes and turning it around on them for our own benefit. Turning aminus into a plus."

Torie Rose DeGhett writes freelance about politics and music, and is a contributing artswriter at Aslan Media.

Addressing the world's myriad minuseswith a punchy, invasive musical style has beena theme of theirs since the band's beginning.(It should be noted that the currentmembership of the band has undergone lots ofshifts since The Kominas started playing.)Among the songs onWild Nights, their firstfull-length album, is "Rumi Was a Homo (ButWahhaj is a Fag)," written in response tohomophobic comments by Imam Siraj Wahhaj.The logic of using such a slur to hit back atsomeone for being homophobic is an obviousquestion, but The Kominas (whose nameroughly translates as "the bastards" or "thescumbags") often make their way on insultsand contrarian juxtapositions. This is the sameband that sings "I want a handjob" in virtuallythe same breath as "Subhanallah (Glorious is

Allah)." The lyrics from "Rumi Was a Homo," "Conventional opinion is the ruin of souls/Bhai-jaan it's my prose I can't control," feels like one of the best descriptions of the band itself and its

kind of punk honesty. They're also honest in their lyrics about what it feels like to be Desi in theUS, singing "No time for 99 names amidst the noise and clamor/How did I get here from theland of long monsoons?" on the track "Par Desi," and "How can I swim 9000 miles/I'm 9000miles away from home" on "9000 Miles." The Kominas are anger expressed outwards, thatbrutality of experience turned into resilience and witty rebellion. "They tried to stomp me out,but they only fueled the flames," they sing in "Par Desi," evoking the classic image of imperialistoppression: the giant boot. "Boots crushing my shoulders, where angels chose not to remain."Sunny Ali and The Kid, a separate musical project with a more country feel undertaken by two ofthe band members (Sunny Ali and, well, The Kid), puts similar angers to music. Their song"MUSLIM RAGE," puts a punk-meets-country spin on an anti-drone argument:

Sunny Ali. Photo Credit: Chris Sembrot.Via Stereogum.

members, using their witty, sarcastic lyrics to escape the ruination of conventionality.The punk-meets-bhangra mix of sound that The Kominas produce is a jumble, each song

shifting up the pace and the tone. Soundwise, they have a great deal of unpredictability. Thechanges from album to album might come from the membership changes the band has gonethrough since they first got in people's faces by calling Rumi a homo, but from song to song theyshift up, varying sounds and styles from jarring to smooth. When reached by email, Sunny Alisays that their musical influences are many and ever-changing, starting with a foundational mixof punk, hip-hop and Bollywood and moving on to the "endless crate" that is YouTube, whichoffers up everything from reggae to psychedelic African rock. It's the lyrics that make a song oneby The Kominas. Sunny Ali notes that in the process of writing, "the lyrics are usually what turnsit into an actual song."

The punk rock, flag-burning irreverence of The Kominas is combined with flashes ofsolemnity and deep undertones of emotion. A quick run through some of their song titles isevidence enough of their willingness to wave at you as they blithely charge across boundaries butthe lyrics get at the serious undertones of what The Kominas address. From "No One's GonnaHonor Kill My Baby (But Me)" to "Wal-Qaeda Superstore" and "Suicide Bomb The GAP," TheKominas embrace transgression. This isn't to mistake them for cheerfully ignoring culturalboundaries simply for the sake of getting in someone's face. It would be hard to call The Kominassubtle, but they undoubtedly have depth that takes more than one listen to discern.

Sunny Ali says that punk is about brutal honesty, and lyrics that link the Patriot Act tosharia law in a way that former band member Shahjehan Khan told NPR was only half in jest, is a

They're runnin but there'sdrones up ahead,drones in your bed,drones in your home,drone give me head,drone give me dome.Preacher, preacher,leave them kids alone.

The Kominas aren't a single narrative band. On their latest full-length album, Kominas,tracks like "Disco Uncle," "No One's Going to Honor Kill My Baby (But Me)," and "Doomsday"have an almost-sweetness to the vocals that sets them far apart from earlier tracks like "ShariaLaw in the USA." They aren't always obviously punk, nor are they always obviously Muslim, butthey are always a fascinating experience.

They are particularly fascinating to a Western audience that revels in the perceivedparadox of Muslim punk (known as taqwacore ever since the publication of the novel TheTaqwacores by Michael Muhammad Knight), and they remain a talented musical act with anunending amount of substance and slice to their lyrics. Much of their public identity has been apush-and-pull act with media coverage. Bands want publicity, but The Kominas would ratherhave their music and their lyrics be the focus, rather than a Western incredulity at the irreverent,system-challenging musical identity of a punk band formed by Muslims.

Taqwacore, the novel, the movie, the documentary and the fascination, have allaccompanied the band closely and I asked Sunny Ali, the band's guitarist, whether or nottaqwacore was the right way to think about the band, if there was a better word for what they are."We've pretty much embraced it at this point," he told me, but ended by saying "Kominas isprobably the best term to describe us. We're the Kominas. Hi." Some people may have troubleseparating the band from the story, the fiction from reality (or failing to realize the bandmembers featured in the documentary have by and large all been replaced). "People are watchinga fiction movie and assuming they know everything there is to know about a real life band andtheir personal beliefs. They think they've seen the beginning middle and end . We were"Taqwacore" before the term existed and still are after they said it was dead." Sunny Ali notespointedly that were people to listen to lots of their music without knowing the band members'ethnic and religious backgrounds, that they wouldn't be so easily labeled as "Muslim punk."

As Sunny Ali says, "The real life story of The Kominas is still being written."

A jazz sax musician performs in NYC. By Gregory Muenzen.

Sea Lionby Evan Fleischer

Bodies.Can’t you see what everybody wants from you?

Forgive the kidsfor they don’t know how to live.

-- St. Vincent, “Cruel.”

There are days when I wonder if the collective strength of St. Vincent, Feist, Cat Power,Fiona Apple, and Esperanza Spalding have been overlooked -- not in terms of being an attemptto proactively ‘fix’ things the way Auden held up an affirming flame at the end of “September 1,1939,” but just in terms of the bared teeth of it all -- that this is the levy of well-deserved andwell-earned pride that holds some of the tide of indignity back, where the figurative waves crashup against the walls again and again in the form of Foster Fries making a crude penicillin joke,Dylan Byers needlessly flirting with a woman at The New Republic in the thoroughly elegant andcompelling manner of a yuk-yuk 70’s cop show, and that -- even though it’s a world where --

They could take you or leave you,so they took you -- and they left you.

-- and even though there’s a cop who “roughed someone up” and the singer thinks it’s “the end oftime” in “Northern Lights” and tries to find a way to help someone sleep in “Strange Mercy,” it’snevertheless about defiantly saying, slowly and deliberately -- even though the narrator doesn’tknow “what good it serves / pouring my purse in the dirt” -- but -- you know -- just in case youcan’t hear it --

I, I, I --I don’t want to be your cheerleader no more.

Our focus here is St. Vincent and the album known as Strange Mercy. After a power-draining experience -- or possibly something worse -- it’s no wonder the narrator seeks refuge inS&M in “Chloe in the Afternoon” by setting the terms that say there will be “no kisses and no realnames.”

It’s odd that we overlook this.It’s odd that some reviewers continued to focus on the “naivety of the fairytale strings” --

as The Guardian did. It’s odd that Pitchfork wondered if the album was about “an almost-30indie musician's lament” and claimed that the album “exists in its own universe” -- as if peopledon’t treat other people the way they do in the lyrics. It’s nowhere near as bad as the obsessionthe press seemed to have when they learned that Annie Clark listened to some Disney musicwhile working on Actor -- though WyndhamWallace returned to that form by complementingthe “Disney-esque strings” in “Cruel” and ignoring its lyrical content (which -- let’s be clear -- is a

Evan Fleischer lives in Boston, Massachusetts. When he isn't editing Somersault Magazine,he is a writer-at-large.

song about taking a woman’s body by metaphor or literal force) over at the BBC -- but it’s prettyclose.

“This collection of Disney-inspired songs,” Vanity Fair once said. “It’s some Disney-qualityvocal work,” says one outlet. “This explains the Disney sound of 'The Strangers,'” says another.“Annie Clark may look like an animated Disney heroine sprung to life,” says yet another. “Thefollow-up to her acclaimed debut is like a Disney soundtrack for the GarageBand age,” saysanother.

And even though Annie said herself that some works by Disney went into the inspirationgrinder in the lead-up to Actor, it’s an odd thing for some to fixate upon, isn’t it?

It’s odd that no one noticed Feist subtly change the title of that Nina Simone song from“See Line” to “Sea Lion” and asked what that meant. It’s odd that we can glide past the selectivevision called out by Cat Power when she sings, “abusive a stranger in bed / elusive forgeteverything you said.” (Though the narrator in the song says that -- despite the “monkey on theback” -- everything is “just fine.”)

Which isn’t to say this should be the be-all-and-end-all for the audience. Just because wegently remind someone of a particular empathetic-to-cathartic waterwheel processing whatcomes its way in the figurative river doesn’t mean we should turn around and be just as narrow-minded after the fact as we were before. (Sea Lion!) There is a lot to see and a lot to hear in thisworld. (Sea Lion!) Anyone who puts on an Esperanza Spalding album will become overjoyed atthe push-and-pause funk of this bass line, the near “Peter-and-the-Wolf” styled-march she pullsoff when she and her band do “Wild is the Wind,” the walk she lays down when they cover thebeautiful Brazilian “Ponta de Areia” and so much more.

The next time I read about someone trying to legislate away a woman’s rights, though, ortreating them any less than they deserve to be treated, I’ll imagine them walking to their car,hearing a slowly building chant of --

Sea Lion!Sea Lion!Sea Lion!

-- and maybe the world will start to change for the better, and people like Nusreta Sivac won’thave to work for as long as they’ve worked to tilt the scales to a just balance.

Feist performs at Royal Albert Hall, London. March 2012. Credit: Simone Joyner/Redferns, viaGetty Images and The Guardian.

A jazz bass player performs on the 42nd Street subway platform. ByGregory Muenzen.

La CigalebyAlexia Chandon-Piazza

Alexia Chandon-Piazza used to sing with La Cigale de Lyon under the direction of Anne-Marie Cabut. Now she sings the way she does most things, that is, without direction and withgreat eagerness. She has a website (http://cargocollective.com/alexiachandonpiazza).

It was a late afternoon on the 5th floor of a primary school in the city centre. I was seated in thetier reading a comic book. My mum had always wanted me to learn music. I didn’t want to playthe violin or the piano, so she suggested I sing. I was 6, and said okay. After one year she was toldI should audition for a bigger, high-level choir that was in my city. So here I am, on a sunny dayof summer, a few days away from the grandes vacances, reading my book, waiting for my turn tosing. Everybody else has sung, my mother is pressing me to get up. I close my book and walkdown to the piano. The choirmaster asks me my name. "Alexia Chandon-Piazza," I say, in thefaintest voice. "WHAT?" she roars, putting her hand behind her ear.

Choral music has existed since Antiquity, transforming itself into Gregorian, Renaissance,Romantic music and the like, and it has often been associated with Christianity. Yet -- this choirwas laic. Of course we sang many songs from different sacred repertoires, but there was noreligious education around those pieces -- we sang it for the beauty of the music, not necessarilyfor the message it conveyed. At least that’s how I viewed things, not being a Christian myself. Idiscovered through music the gems, though, old and new, as well as secular pieces. I discoveredBenjamin Britten, William Byrd, but also Fosco Corti, Arne Mellnas and many other composers.

The first rehearsal. I’m on the left side of the tiers with the soprani, sitting between oldersingers -- they’re 14, 15. I am handed a score. I don’t know how to read it but I don’t want to tellanyone, so I pretend to follow along. I get lost. It is the Litanies à la Vierge Noire by Poulenc. Notexactly the kind of music I’m used to. The lyrics go "Dieu le Saint Esprit sanctificateur, ayez pitiéde nous." I don’t understand anything. I leave the score on my lap and start listening. I am takenby surprise by the beauty, and while I cannot comprehend everything that is going on, I listen,open-mouthed. The choirmaster stops, adjusts the intention, the colour of a group of voice, thenuances. She sculpts the voice of the choir as if it were matter, hears the strand of voice thatdoesn’t go with the flow, adjusts, makes the choir repeat, again and again.

Entering the choir allowed me to travel the world more than many adults ever will. I wenton tours in France, Italy, Austria, Switzerland, Germany, Slovakia, Czech Republic, Belgium,Ireland, and China. I stayed at people’s place and ate the food they made for me. We talked evenif we didn’t share the same language. I got to sing in Arabic, Japanese, French, English, Chinese,German, Spanish, Gaelic — even in invented languages with Joiku by Jukka Linkola — all of thiswith more or less accurate accents. My mother and I welcomed foreign choir singers in our homeand shared a few days with them. I overcame my shyness, both with the contact of all theamazing persons I met, as well as through the audience. I got to sing in front of many, manypeople, both small audiences and large ones. I sang in tiny churches in the middle of the Frenchcountryside, as well as in the Forbidden City, where three thousands spectators sat in front of usand behind us.

The chance to travel and to meet people from around the world is most definitely a great

lesson in humanity and respect. Once, during a tour in Czech Republic, we sang Teče, voda, Tečea Moravian folk song, apparently a favourite of the former President Masaryk. The family whowas welcoming me in their home was of course in the audience. When the concert finished, Isimply remember being lifted off the ground by the father of the family, and pressed against hisheart while he tried to express how much the song had moved him. How could we, how could I,as small as I was, move a tall and strong adult man to tears, I wondered. I believe now that it wasnot simply the song or our probably clumsy interpretation that moved him. I think it’s theconnection. To hear this song so dear to his heart, that reminded him of past struggle, of loss andjoy, sang by children who had no idea of the struggle, the loss or the joy, who simply carried onthe emotion contained in this song. I know it will sound way too sentimental, but in French,chœur (choir) and cœur (heart) are perfect homophones.

I grew up with this choir, both literally and figuratively. Some of the friends I made duringthese years will stay with me for life for all the moments and firsts we experienced together. Ittaught me the importance of transmission, responsibility and fraternity. When I was a child, Ididn’t get the French national motto “Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.” The first two were simple andnatural, but the latter I didn’t understand – fraternity was too complex a concept. Yet, with thechoir I learned a lot about sorority. Young girls, young women taking care of each other,confiding in each other, creating and playing together. I remember the annual workshop in thecountryside. We would meet in one of our dormitories, or sit on the bathroom’s floor, sharingsweets and stories. We would gather outside in the evenings, improvising music, sometimesexperimental, sometimes rap, sometimes lyrical. On the last night we would chat all night long,whispering and lighting ourselves with the screens of our mobile phone, so as not to draw theadults attention to us. We would grow up, together.

There is a political virtue taught by singing in a choir. The concept might seem the samehas being part of a sport team -- that is, that unity makes strength. But in singing there is notmuch competition. Of course, there are international contests and we went to a few, becausethat’s how it should be, to keep a reputation, to listen to other choirs, but it never was the core ofour practice. The lesson one draws from singing together is that not only unity makes strength,but that unity makes harmony, too. Unity makes beauty. The group is a force to express thereality, the most complex emotions. At the end of La lune est morte, written by Les FrèresJacques, there is a pianississississimo. At least that’s how the choirmaster wanted it. Fortychildren, from 9 to 18, singing in the thinnest, clearest voices:"Pleurez Pierrots, poètes et chatsnoirs, la lune est morte ce soir." In this moment, in Nevers, in 1999, we felt something goingthrough the air. We felt the emotion going around the audience. And it wasn’t any of us that hadproduced this fleeting moment, it was all of us, the members of the choir, the master, theaudience, all of us united in this place and moment. Singing together tangibly teaches Deleuze’svision : "Être de gauche c'est d'abord penser le monde, son pays, puis ses proches puis soi."Which translates as "Being a leftist is to first think of the world, then of your country, then ofyour relatives, then of yourself." When you sing in a group, what is important is not your singularvoice. It is the voice that is created through the addition of your voice plus the voice of someoneelse etc., and this common voice being brought to other people. You don’t sing for yourself to beheard, you put yourself to the service of the collective -- you sing for others. It is a lesson inhumility, and in generosity.

Another moment of sharing happens every three years in the antique theatre of Vaison-la-Romaine. During summer a festival of choral singing regularly takes place, and every nightbefore the concert begins, there is a moment called "les chants communs," or "the commonsongs." Each festival-goer is handed out a small book of scores, often these are folk songs, andthey will learn and sing those in the antique theatre, under the direction of a choirmaster. Picture

2000 to 3000 persons singing together in polyphony. Whether you are in the audience or onstage, the emotion is powerful. The harmony isn’t only found in the singing, but also betweeneach individual. I can’t think of a more radical praxis. To appreciate and experience the harmonythat can exist between human beings, through the expression of each.

When you sing together in harmony -- or disharmony, for that matter (because some workmakes great use of discordant chords) -- you learn that you can produce greater beauty withother people than on your own. If I sing a single note alone it might be beautiful, but if someoneelse adds their own voice to it, the note will get more depth. If the other voice sings to the third,it’s a whole new world that opens in the vibration between the two voices. An interesting exercisewas to watch our choirmaster choose the singer for the solo parts. When a solo part required asoprano, a mezzo and an alto, she would try and make groups of three. She knew our voices sowell, she could hear in advance what the combination of the three voices would produce. She’dtake one out and replace him with someone else, with a voice more acid, or more crystalline,depending on the effect she wanted and we’d listen to several mix and matches. But the truth is,when the trio was found, everybody knew it because anyone could hear it. There was an evidencefound in the alchemy of the voices, this specific vibration that gets to the core of your body andshakes you. In Operating Manual for Spaceship Earth, R. Buckminster Fuller wrote,

"[W]e have learned that from here on it is success for all or none, for it is experimentallyproven by physics that “unity is plural and at minimum two” - the complementary but notmirror-imaged proton and neutron. You and I are inherently different andcomplementary. Together we average as zero - that is, as eternity."

Singing together teaches you that while you may produce beautiful things alone, the unitedefforts of a group (of voices or instruments or both) can create this awe-inspiring feeling, thislittle spark that scientists might greet with a eurêka, that resembles the epiphany of the mystics,the emotion the artists and audience are after.

Singing is a simple activity, it doesn’t cost anything and doesn’t require great mastery. Itdoesn’t even require to be part of a choir, although I’d recommend this experience to everyone.To this day, my friends from the choir and I can’t help but sing together when we meet. We singbroken bits of half forgotten songs. We invent and improvise. It’s not always pretty but it’s alwaysfilled with happiness. Last week I was staying at my best friend’s place. One of us startedhumming La Pêche à la baleine by Prévert and Kosma. We went through the song with somedifficulties, but the joy of singing together was intact. When I sing to myself, the songs I learnedin the choir have a different quality than those I learned on my own. I can’t help but try to singevery voice at the same time, I switch from one to the other for I have the memory of the group,of being together. Singing again those songs, even more than a decade later evokes the entirety ofthe choir, every single voice that formed into one, this bizarre and moving living organism.

I’m on holiday in the countryside, I’m 8, a few weeks ago I went to an audition but I havecompletely forgotten about it. It is a very hot day, and I went fishing on the riverfront earlier. I’mabout to get in the shower of the small house — the bathroom is at the top of the crooked woodenstairs leading to the two bedrooms — but my mum yells for me from the outside, she says she hasa surprise for me. I’m accepted into the choir.

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