1/26/07, 5:21 pm EST

Assignment Three Finalist: Matt Ziselman on street musicians (New York City)

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Note: This is not an official Rolling Stone article. What follows is a submission to the “I’m From Rolling Stone” writing competition.

by Matt Ziselman
Age: 44

I was scheduled for the 5:45 bus to Manalapan, not an impromptu trip to the Bayou.

Street musicians have the unenviable task of trying to eek out a living while competing with the sounds of a city at work (and play): horns honking, jackhammers tearing up a piece of pavement, the E train rattling into the station, and a symphony of cell phones and PDA’s struggling to get the attention of their owners. Oh yeah, and an audience that is, to put it mildly, preoccupied.

It is the rare individual that makes me stop. It’s a miracle that I listen. Amidst the sound of thousands of well trod heels slapping against scuffed tile, I heard a low-register growl. And the feint strum of a guitar that I knew would look like hammered shit.

I wasn’t disappointed.

The guitar, more duct tape than wood, was being played into submission by a guy singing – fuck that – channeling Marc Broussard’s “Home.” You know that cliché about a musician or singer “feeling the music?” This guy was the music.

“Take me home, ho-ho-home.”

He was covered in perspiration: not a novel state of being in the Port Authority. But this sweat was born from something other than an eternally faulty ventilation system. This sweat was righteous. Pure. It was earned. In fact, I couldn’t tell you for sure, but I could swear he was crying: tears of…what? Relief? Redemption?

I missed the 5:45.

Five minutes later the escalator carried me to my destiny of a packed bus and – 80 minutes later - cold meat loaf. And while the lights of Manhattan blinked across the river, I couldn’t help but think that my ride – after my impromptu sojourn to the swamps – seemed rather redundant.

I had already went home.