Keeping Traditions Alive Underneath New York City

“Why do you want to interview me? I have nothing interesting to say!” protested Mr. Ng, a loud-voiced man in his 60s sitting on a crate on the Grand Central 4 train platform. He was clutching on to his Er-Hu, a 2-stringed Chinese violin, and behind him was an old, battered stereo serving as his backup band. “I am not doing this for any noble cause. I just need to eat!” He promptly turned his face the other way and started playing a melancholic traditional Chinese melody. Halfway into the song, he finally sighed and pressed the stop button on the stereo. “What do you want to know?”

Mr. Ng is one of many Chinese old men playing traditional instruments in the subway stations of New York. In addition to the Er-Hu, instruments used include the Gu-Zheng, an upward facing zither, and the Sheng, a mouth organ. Most of them speak little or no English, yet they throw in popular American tunes in between their traditional Chinese repertoire to connect with local culture. Back in China, traditional music has been on a long decline since to the Cultural Revolution, which banned everything traditional from 1966 to 1976. After the ban was lifted, mass globalization prevented a substantial revival of traditions. How did these men, skilled performers of a dying art, end up playing underground in a foreign land? Was this what they envisioned when they left behind everything familiar to start a new life in the land of opportunity?

Mr. Ng arrived in New York in 2003, when relatives told him he could make a lot of money here. However, he ended up losing his job at a Chinese restaurant and began playing Er-Hu in the subway. He claims that he only makes $10 to $20 from a strenuous eight-hour day of playing, which barely covers his rent and food costs. “My children all got married and moved out, and they refuse to give me any money. What can I do? I’ll never be able to get another job at this age.” When the topic shifts to music, however, his face brightens up. “I was a farmer in China. Whenever I wasn’t farming, I was playing music. Whenever our village or nearby villages had festivals, I’d be there performing!” Suddenly, he snaps back to reality, and his tone falls solemn. “But right now, I have to do it just so I don’t starve.” He refused to take any pictures. “Please don’t do that. I don't want anyone to see me playing music in the subway. It’s really shameful!”

Mr. Tam, who also plays the Er-Hu, tells a more fortunate story, and emphasizes that he plays for both interest and money. Now retired, he immigrated with his family to New York about a decade ago, and spent most of his spare time playing Er-Hu with other Chinese musicians in Columbus Park in Chinatown. “You see, it’s fun to play with other people, but sometimes I wanted to play alone. That’s when I started going into the subway, also to make some extra money.” Music, to him, is simply a support for his spirit, something to occupy his time in his old age. “It’s mostly for the feeling of satisfaction when someone appreciates my music, especially Americans.” However, when asked about the CDs he had out for sale in front of him, he quickly covered them up with a black cloth and refused to talk further.

Whether their outlook was close to that of Mr. Tam or Mr. Ng, most of the musicians were very wary of strangers and hesitant to disclose much information. “How do I know if you’re not out to do me harm? What if you report me to the police?” cried one. Indeed, arrests are quite common. Mr. Ng even had his Er-Hu confiscated by the NYPD and finally managed to retrieve it a week later. It also doesn't help that in Chinese culture, playing music on the street for money is considered shameful and equivalent to begging. Mr. Li, however, playing on the F train platform at 14th street, seemed to have a different mindset. He was open, proud of his talent, and more than happy to talk and take photos. When asked why he was playing in a less busy station, he replied with a big grin, “It’s quieter and warmer in this station. Plus, if you play from your heart, you will always make money wherever you play.”

Arriving in New York in 1999, he went through what most immigrants endure – making about $100 a week working long hours in a garment factory. The factory would often close, and he would go through stretches of no income. In 2001, he took his instrument underground. Now that he has steady work in a Chinese restaurant, he still frequents the subway on his days off. “I usually play a set of two to three hours, take a break, and play another set. On good days, I can make up to $60 a day.” A few years ago, people often handed him $20 bills. Now with the sagging economy, and due to the increasing number of Chinese musicians in the subway, he doesn't make as much.

Mr. Li stresses that he truly treats his music as an art. “Mental state is very important. Only in a good mental state can you convey the meaning and essence of the song to listeners. When I am not in a good mental state, I just sit and practice,” he explains. “Music has a life. You can’t compromise, or else your music won’t move people.” He hopes to save money, move back to China and invest in a musical theater production. “I’m 57 years old, but my heart is still young. I still have dreams.” His family thinks he’s crazy, but he says, “even if the venture fails, we won’t be flat-out broke. I want to do this before I become too old to do anything.”

There isn’t a definite answer to the lives of these musicians. Although most of them have similar origins as immigrants searching for a better life, different experiences and living conditions gave them different mentalities and expectations. Whatever their motivations are, as the popularity of traditional music in China declines to Western-style pop, these New York musicians are keeping alive a sound of a distant past.