without you here, there is less to say

(The title of this post is from some Colin Hay lyrics).

I love the occasional metro performer.  The wise ones station themselves at busy stops, at crucial hours.  They often reserve their energies for when the most potential spectators are present, playing only pieces of works and stopping abruptly. Passengers, when stepping off one train to switch lines, are serenaded with amazing guitar work, latin-american pipe flutes or even singers in harmony.  But once the majority of spectators are gone, the musicians take a break.

Not so with the De L’Eglise violinist.  He plays persistently.  I noticed this yesterday as I walked a long way toward the exit and concurrently, the melody.  I was the last passenger to take the escalator up to the platform where he was, and was shocked as he played on and on even with such a trickle of spectators.  He was engrossed in his performance—he donned fuchsia earplugs to drown out the hum, swish and squeaky slowing of the trains, and had his eyes closed, moving in harmony with the violin concerto he played.  Just as he was traversing the most exciting portion of the piece, tones in crescendo and reaching toward the highest note, out of the corner of my right eye, I noticed the blue flash of the next metro train arriving at the platform below.  I felt the warm wind of the train and faintly heard the screech of its brakes, and pondered the coincidence of the highest note and the train’s arrival.  Then I stepped on the next escalator, and left, thankful for the bit of Mozart I’d heard and the passion of the persistent, unchecked performance.