BY DAVID SOBEL | Last month I wrote about my experience busking in Washington Square for The Villager so as to provide an insider’s perspective on the park’s current “noisy music” debate. I was surprised by how pleasant the experience was. I played my tenor saxophone with a folk guitarist, Park Enforcement Patrol officers left us alone, and Tic and Tac were powerful, yet controlled. Woody Allen couldn’t have imagined a more idyllic scene.
That’s why I was in such a good mood when I returned to the park with my saxophone on a hot weekday at the end of July. I walked toward the fountain with my horn in its case over my shoulder. Still unemployed, my daytime interactions were confined to therapist visits and e-mail correspondences with clueless recruiters. This seemed like the perfect break.
Then the pounding started.
It was an onslaught of snare shots and cymbal crashes that echoed throughout the park. Brash, metallic honks punctuated the hits. I saw the culprits, a drummer and saxophonist, both with dreadlocks, near the park’s northern entrance. Microphones were attached to their instruments and the volume was loud enough to fill an auditorium. Few people were sitting on the benches or lying on the lawn near them.
I’d expected the harmonious bluegrass, jazz and folk bands from my previous visit. Instead I got two schmendricks blasting heavy-metal hard bop.
“The kids who play here are too loud,” a man had told me the first time I came to busk. “You play music without driving away people.”
The duo stopped.
“Thanks for listening,” the sax player announced. He picked up a bucket. Passersby dropped in some bills. He and his partner seemed completely unfazed by the lack of applause. I watched, hoping they’d call it a day.
They resumed their assault.
I was mad and jealous. All I wanted was to blow bossas, recapture my deluded youth from my music school days, and make a little cash. It was too loud for any of that. What was a broke, 44-year-old unemployed marketing coordinator to do?
I walked over to the arch so I could set up someplace else, but a jazz quartet was there. Besides, they were being drowned out by the other guys.
I decided to make a final effort and headed to the east side of the park. The cacophony still echoed off the buildings, but it was time stop kvetching. I sat on a bench and popped open the hinges on my saxophone case.
That’s when I heard the strumming.
I let out a groan and turned around. On a bench in the next row was a gangly guy hunched over an electric bass guitar. Fuzzy, distorted bass lines thudded from a large speaker on the ground in front of him. No doubt it was turned up to 11.
“You can’t do that here!” a woman yelled.
A pair of teenage skateboarders rolled by with a PEP officer in tow. She passed the bassist as if he wasn’t there.
I’d written off the ongoing noise issue here as another effort by pampered elites to transform Manhattan into a bedroom community with penthouses. Now I imagined I was living in one of these tony residences surrounding the park, attempting to share a quiet meal with my family while the “Spinal Tap” disciples brought on the pain. I saw myself demanding action at community board meetings. Even Tic and Tac became targets of my wrath. It didn’t matter that they were talented, considerate guys trying to make a living. I just wanted peace.
I stood up to leave and threw my saxophone case over my shoulder. Maybe I’d try busking another time.
Better yet, I’d get a day gig.
