I found this in an old e-mail--a
wonderful little piece from Metropolitan Diary. Then my parallel experience.
Rosemary
Dear Metropolitan Diary:
After I watched my friend and his
band play at the Bitter End in the West Village, he and some of my friends and
I hopped on the A train to head back home to Brooklyn. The train was packed,
and my friend barely found room for his drums on the floor in front of us.
After a few stops, he began to
softly play a random beat. In a short time, people in the car began tapping
their feet and bobbing their heads.
Then, out of nowhere, a man from farther down the car began singing
“Lean on Me” to the beat of the bongo. It wasn’t long before the entire car
broke into song, clapping on the off-beat and wiggling in their seats.
All strangers...one beat, joined by
the music.
Calling forth this memory 1968.
Living in Brooklyn, we named buildings
near us: the Haitian Building, the Irish Building, the Puerto Rican Building,
Johnnie She’s Building, and Our Building, 339 Lincoln Place. Me on our front
steps, warm summer night. Someone from the Puerto Rican building next door
played a guitar. Another guitarist came outside. A bongo player from Johnnie’s
Building. Another drummer from the Haitian Building. Someone with a horn who
could play only one note but came in appropriately and at the right beat. Many
happy spectators.
Until the racist old white lady on
the fourth floor in Our Building, yelled out her window, “Stop that noise or
I’ll call the police.” They didn’t and she did. They came and ended the music.
But not before the Lincoln Place
block between Underhill and Washington Avenue had a wonderful 35 minutes I’ve
remembered.
