The Sights, Sounds and Music Seen and Heard on Brooklyn's "L" Train

The "L" train, marked with a simple gray circle with an "L" in the center, can be found winding its way through Brooklyn, under the East River and finally cutting a swath across the lower abdomen of Manhattan. She is a typically inconspicuous ride, never fraught with the drama the mid town trains are caught up in, the hustle and bright lights of Times Square and the glut of pedestrian traffic. The soft, melodic bumping and clattering as she rides the rails lulls many a traveler into a gentle doze. The emergence from the long dark tunnel that joins Brooklyn and Manhattan summons those light sleepers to waken, softly alerting all that they are almost at the end of her line. The "L" is rather placid and gray, a mundane form of transportation that never aspires to grandeur, but always fulfills the promise of a ride home. But every once in a great while, a moment catches the light and glitters like a diamond in the sun, stamping the "L" with a brilliant richness that is never forgotten. One late September night, that moment shone.

I had spent the day moving quickly all over Manhattan, making use of the sidewalks instead of the subways to insure my friends, who were in the city for the first time, saw every skyscraper, dirty water dog vendor, corner drunk and pigeon that New York had on display that morning. They lagged behind frequently, eyes caught up in the squall of sights and sounds that make up a day in the life of New York City. After 6 hours of walking a frantic pace, slowing only for a fast beer or 3 at a small Irish pub downtown and stopping briefly to eat in a run down, but utterly delicious, Chinese restaurant, where dog and cat jokes may have originated, we reached Union Square, home of the "L" stop. Bounding down the stairs, with only the thoughts over getting under the East River and home to Williamsburg in my head, I didn't quite hear the chest pounding thumps issuing up from the stairs ahead. My friends waited patiently as I swiped my Metrocard and caught up with them and started down the steps. Finally, the thumps and fiery beats would be ignored no longer.

The bottom of the stairs to the "L" train were jammed with a tight throng of people watching mesmerized as a group of 7 young men, each squatting or seated on milk crates, pounded and violently beat on cracked pickle buckets, boxes and battered old drums. Hands flailed wildly in a savage synchronicity, feet kicked in a frantic tempo, all woven into a brilliant aural tapestry that hooked into even the most subway hardened New Yorkers, causing heads to bob and toes to tap. The drummers seemed hypnotized by an atavistic ferocity, gutting themselves of every last drop of passion, sweat beading on deeply furrowed brows.

Their trance went unbroken as several trains came and went in both directions, pounding even harder as if to silence the "L" and be the only dealers in sound that evening. We stood engrossed, time screeching by, marked only by the fading of the dim red lights on each trains last car as it pulled away. Finally, the throbbing pulse of music slowed and came to an end. The trance unwound slowly. The drummers eyes looked as though they had just woken, squinting up at the crowd as though they had never known them to be watching. Grins and smiles came quickly to their faces, and a furious applause erupted from the crowd. Our trance was soon broken too, though by a squeal of brakes, a familiar chime and the hiss of doors opening. Tossing a $10 into the bucket being passed around, I brushed by one of the drummers as I led my group into the train. "Thank you" was all I could say. He looked up and smiled. He understood. That was the night that the "L" found her rhythm and her gray became a brighter color in the rainbow of the subway.