Megan Stielstra's Blog

To get downtown, I took the Blue Line to Jackson and then switched to the Red Line. Coming up the stairs into the station, there was a street performer, dancing. Sort of. And singing. Sort of. He was wearing super-baggy pants pegged at the ankle with tap shoes, and nylon head scarf under a black fedora hat. A boom box nearby played Casio beats which he sang on top of, and, seriously, he couldn’t cut it. He was very quiet, I could barely hear him over the music, and his voice just wasn’t good. I wondered if maybe he’d gotten a permit not to sing, but to dance. He slid around on his tap shoes, looking like a cross between Fosse (think the Steam Heat song where they dance with their hats, both hands on the brim lifting it up and down) and Michael Jackson (crotch grabbing, robot, et all) which, I’m telling you, is a very strange mix. He certainly used the space: you had to jump out of the way or he’d dance into you. Here’s the thing: I hurt for him. Like how, when you see bad art, you’re embarrassed for the artist. Like the whole premise for American Idol or whatever, the bad kids sing and you die a little for them. There were two badass guys leaning against a pole, talking shit about him within his earshot. That part was the worst: not only did he suck, but everyone knew it, thought it and said it. Except him. He had no idea.

To get home, I came back the same way: Red Line to Jackson and switch to Blue, except coming up the stairs into that station was wonderful. Two older guys—forties maybe—were singing. One played guitar, and they did this beautiful harmonized version of Stand By Me. They were totally themselves. Denim jackets, baseball hats, no front, all talent. As the Southbound el roars into the station, they stopped playing (couldn’t compete with the noise) and walked around talking to people. “Hey, what’s up, how are you, how’s your day?” They weren’t trying to pull anything. They weren’t begging. They were really nice guys making good music.

I let two Northbound trains pass, so I could listen.