I encountered the most interesting array of musicians in and on the metro today.
It’s 7 AM and I’m on my way to the police station to get my ID card. Although I tried to make an appointment ahead of time to get the card, I was told you need an ID card issued by the state in order to get an ID card, even if you’ve never had an ID card before. How this makes sense is a mystery. I don’t think anyone actually sees the logic in this. Instead, I think it’s the Spaniards’ way of forcing an inordinate amount of people to go to the police station and help keep the people at the station employed by giving them a constant flow of too much work to do. Anyway, back to the metro…
The metro ride started off as all my metro rides start, with my metro card being rejected. Turns out that everything with a magnetic strip in this country is demagnetized when exposed to a magnet. So, my Spanish ATM card, my health insurance card and my metro card can no longer be placed in my wallet because they immediately become defunct thanks to the magnets on the flap. So, after reciting my normal seemingly scripted lines to the attendant, I finally am granted a new metro card. Without further delay, I am back en route through the maze that is the metro station by my flat. As I go down the first set of escalators, the first few notes of a song I think I recognize start to trickle into my ears. Very melodic and with quite the orchestral back up, I initially think this performer is about to break out into the Avatar song by Leona Lewis. But then, it takes a sudden turn and I realize that, no no, wrong James Cameron movie. It’s actually the Celine Dion song from Titanic sung by a raspy and more pastel voice that sounds almost like it belongs in a hotel lounge at 3 AM. As the escalator approaches the ground, I look up from my book (yes, I walk and read…what?) only to see that it’s a 5’5, north African dude with dreads, in jeans and a tee shirt whose heart is about to go on as he loses all his fear because we’re here. Hmm, fascinating. And he has 2 speakers, a cd player and is belting his smoker’s whispers into a microphone. But, I keep walking because there are still 2 more escalator rides to go and a few more hallways to plow through.
The next downward journey is a bit different. This time, it’s The Streets of Philadelphia by Bruce Springstein. Ugh, what a tear jerker. And this guys sounds just like Boss. Every time I hear the song, I think of Tom Hanks and that amazing loft in which he lived with Antonio Banderas and I want to cry. Not because of the loft. Obviously. It’s possible they didn’t even live in a loft but I do remember a scene in the film that involves a party at a loft/apartment. Anyway, reading, at this point, is not happening. I put away my book and look forward to reaching the bottom so I can see this brilliant vocalist who should be doing Springstein covers all the time. First I see two greyed sneakers, followed by light blue jeans bunched at the ankles. His legs are bent. Clearly this dude is sitting…and he’s sitting in what now appears to be a beach chair. And, we’re getting close to his face and…oh. What? Hold on. Yes. This is happening. It’s just a white dude sitting in a chair playing a Bruce Springstein cd with a guitar case in front of him and no visible guitar around. He is making absolutely no effort to pretend to be performing. Apart from highlighting his talent in plugging in his cd player to speakers and being capable of picking a good cd, this guy has brilliantly marketed himself as the most amazing sitter in the subway station with an exceptional ability to resist performing at all costs and still making a few coins here and there. Why are people giving him money? I really, truly, have no idea. I mean, he’s funnier than a lot of stand up comedians I’ve seen and he’s doing nothing so even I would give him money if only for a good inside laugh he provided as I marched deeper into the dungeons of the metro station.
The rest of my journey to the train itself was uninterrupted. It was a short wait until my train arrived and, at this hour, there are plenty of seats. I pull out my book, get through another page when suddenly more music pours out of a speaker just like Mr. Dion’s. Seriously? It’s 7:13. Is this the magic music hour I had never heard of? This speaker, unlike the last few, is strapped to a luggage pulley thing and is being pulled by a real gem of a woman who is a cross between Olive (Popeye’s girl) and Kristen Schaal (Flight of the Conchords). She is wearing flowery tapered khakis, red sailor shoes and a flower embroidered top with poufy sleeves. Unlike our first two “musicians,” she is truly belting into her microphone. And, she is belting Edith Piaf, with no regrets whatsoever. And, she doesn’t appear to be asking for any money. Because she didn’t stop once and she didn’t have a change cup anywhere. So, either she actually fancied herself as the reincarnation of Edith Piaf or she was on the search for a record deal in the country with the 2nd largest pirating problem in the world at 7:15 in the morning.
And you might be asking how this happened all in one day. That’s a very very good question to which I don’t have an answer. I just hope I haven’t exhausted the number of interesting encounters allotted to me in my genesis.
Also, I got rejected from the police station so now I have to go back tomorrow. Super.
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