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The 40-year-old Harlem singer has been a street musician for about 15 years,
full time for only the past two or three, after leaving a job as a teacher's
aide.
Now she and her two kids get by on what she makes singing along to karaoke tapes in the subway, other singing engagements (such as one she had last week at a UN function),"and a little help from somewhere else." What does it take to be a good subway performer? "It takes a lot of courage to open up and try and entertain somebody in that situation... When I'm performing, not only am I performing for the people out there, I'm performing for myself also. For me it's an outlet as well as a job." Sometimes people ask her,"`Why are you singing in the subway system?" Ridley answers:"If I was in a club, would you have heard me? Just be thankful I'm not in a club." |
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Simon Seven started out playing guitar in the subway 10 years ago, but on a
visit
back home to Sydney, Australia, seven years ago, he picked up the didjeridoo, a
traditional aboriginal instrument made out of a termite-hollowed branch.
It was hard to get attention in the subway as a guitarist. The way to succeed he says, is through niche-marketing. "You've got to have something a little different, I think, to do well," he says. The East Villager says he is able to make his living selling his CDs. It's not strictly legal, but Seven defends the practice. "We're keeping the people entertained for no expense to them," he says. "If we sell a few CDs and make a living, it shouldn't be a big deal." Subway performances have also proven to be a good way to get other work. His latest coup: the soundtrack for the upcoming Jonathan Demme film, Subway Stories, played with another band he belongs to, Mecca Bodega. |
"We
are Colombian, but as you can see we are not part of the cartel," says Guillermo
Ariza.
The 32-year-old twins are newcomers to subway performing, and not members of Music Under New York. "The only thing I don't like is the noise on the platform," Guillermo says. "It gives you a headache, this noise, all day long." The Ariza brothers have been playing private parties in Queens for years, but when Guillermo lost his job as a waiter two months ago, they decided to try their luck as full-time musicians. "We've done every kind of job here in New York City, and we're tired of working for people. I'm not very humble when it comes to taking shit from bosses and that gets me into trouble sometimes," says Guillermo. |
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Don Witter, Jr., spent 20 years as a computer network systems analyst, pursuing
his music after work. But increasing pressures in the office led him to quit in
1994. Now
he's taking care of business every day, as the song goes.
The 47-year-old Brooklynite says he doesn't make much in tips by playing in the subway, but the gigs he gets as a result—mostly weddings and other functions—make playing underground worth his while. It's hard to become an official Music Under New York musician, Witter says. Once a year, the Music in Public Spaces organization holds auditions. Artists send in tapes and resumes. Some of them are called to perform for five minutes before five musicians and five MTA officials at Grand Central. If the judges like what they hear, the artist is added to the roster. Right now, about 100 artists are on the list, calling in every two weeks to get four to six bookings in various subway stations. |
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It's tempting to call a childhood spent playing with crocodiles in
the Brazilian jungle good preparation for life as a subway musician, but Camila
Benson would disagree.
Playing on the subway gives her money through tips, and also gets her leads for above-ground gigs. Another fringe benefit: Benson says she is often recognized on the street by people who have seen her play. Benson has been in New York for four years, and played on the subway for two. She lived in London for 20 years, but says that as a musician, she prefers the subway to the tube. For one thing, there's no organization for musicians who want to play on the Underground. Also, if she is performing illegally, cops here are more tolerant than London's bobbies, who are"not really very kind. They are not sweet like New York police."
Between trains, Benson talks about a life that sounds straight out of a Latin
American novel: a childhood in the small jungle town of Mato-Grosso, an
adolescence in a convent where she studied to become a nun, until she was
expelled
for falling in love with an older man; a few years as a trapeze artist with a
circus, and then a life abroad, first as a singer based in
London who played engagements in middle eastern hotels, now as a singer in New
York, struggling to make the big time. Does she ever get discouraged? "A
survivor
like me, there's nothing that can discourage me. Nothing. Maybe a rainy day, if
it's raining, windy and cold -- but then I stay home."
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