Although they did describe us a “A little dorky,” I still think that somehow gives more cred. If we came off all slick it wouldn’t be quite what we’re projecting either: the earnest, simplicity of feel-good music and the natural blues.
The singer lowers his trumpet and leans back against the wall, belting out another song, eyes shut, heart open.
Exactly.
Here is the part of the article related to Tin Pan. For the full monte head here.
Soul Train
Roxana Robinson
It’s hard to hold a crowd on the platform. We’re a captive audience, but only until the train arrives. The mezzanine floor at 14th Street is a better venue because we don’t see the train we’re about to miss, and we might linger to listen.
Late one afternoon, there are five guys there, in their early 40s: the Tin Pan Blues Band. They’re playing lively, funky jazz on banjo, clarinet, trumpet, saxophone, bass and a silver guitar. The trumpet player sits on a chair in the middle. He has a roundish face, a short, nondescript beard and glasses. They all look like this: friendly, a bit dorky. The clarinetist wears an ochre sweater with red diamonds across the chest.
The trumpeter lowers his horn and begins to sing “St. Louis Woman.” He has a strong, bluesy voice, not beautiful, but full of heart. We all feel it. The bass thumps. The crowd thickens. The singer cries, “I wish I could shimmy like my sister Kate.” We all wish we could, too.
In an open space, two couples are dancing. A girl with long blond hair, a red sash around her hips, bell-bottom jeans. Her partner is a young guy, with a brown blazer and a soft cap. The other girl, with long hair and bangs, wears a black dress and neon pink tights. Her partner’s in a black blazer and a black hat with a red feather. They’re dipping and twirling, spinning and sliding. We’re rapt. There are about 40 of us. It’s nearly 5 o’clock, and we need to get home. We can’t move.
The singer belts out “Bill Bailey.” The man beside me says, “No mike, right? He must be exhausted!” He’s right, there is no mike. It’s just us and them. A young mother holds her crying daughter in her arms, swaying to the music. Her daughter turns quiet. The singer picks up his horn and puts in a mute. The dancers switch partners. The woman beside me says, in a thick Jamaican accent: “I love this music! I love the dancing! I love it!”
People coming up the stairs find themselves suddenly center stage, in the middle of a concert. Hurrying past, they turn to look. Some of them quickly throw bills into the open case. The singer lowers his trumpet and leans back against the wall, belting out another song, eyes shut, heart open.
It’s long after 5 when I finally tear myself away. They’re still singing. I go downstairs, still listening, and get on the wrong train. By the time I realize it, I’m on the wrong side of town. I get off the subway and go up to stand in the dark, waiting for the crosstown bus.
