Most days, buskers are in evidence at a metro station I frequently use. They are usually present during morning or evening rush hours, and sometimes more than one vies for commuters’ attention and patronage. Not surprisingly, the level of artistry is uneven—sometimes astonishingly professional, sometimes earnest but unimpressive.
One performer, however, earned a spot in my heart for honest exposition of his modest talent and avoidance of much effort. One day, as I approached the metro entrance, I heard a simple and repetitive tune coming from…a recorder. Assuming that the music emanated from a second grader waiting for a parent or fooling around with friends, I scanned the area for the musician. I eventually identified the artist as a middle-aged man. Transfixed by this anomaly, I stayed for a few songs, expecting at some point to uncover a dare, hoax, bet, or some deeper artistic concept. Nope. Just a middle aged man playing the recorder badly. And hoping for tips. I didn’t give him one, and regret it. His performance was far from fabulous, but close to courageous.