Ode to Street Musicians

note: I did pay all of the street musicians I photographed here

What makes somebody decide to become a street musician?

That question makes it sound like “street musician” is a career choice. And maybe for some people it is. But I don’t mean it like that here; I mean, what makes somebody take their instrument out and plant themselves somewhere in public and start to play (or sing)?

There were a lot of street musicians in Riga, more than I’ve seen in any other city this trip. Part of it is summer; nobody enjoys summer the way people who live in the far north do. Their summers are pleasant and mild, without the egg-frying heat you experience everywhere else in the world right now. But it’s also because summer is a break from winter, and winter means darkness that descends as early as three p.m. and lifts as late as ten a.m. So maybe all the street musicians in Riga are just human manifestations of Latvia’s summer joy.

I heard the first street musician before I saw him, and I recognized the music: “The Swan” from Saint-Saëns’ Carnival of the Animals. Originally written for cello and orchestra, but here played quite determinedly on electric violin. He was an older man, set up in the shadow of a church with his violin, amplifier, and music stand. His case was open in front of him for donations.

His next piece was Edward Elgar’s “Salut d’Amour.” I took a video and sent it to my friend Andrew, who had played it as an encore at his senior recital. He’s the only person I know who did an encore at his senior recital, but it was actually quite adorable. Andrew replied with “Aw” but followed it up with “I played it better tho.”

I listened for a few minutes, left a few euros in the man’s case, and kept walking, kind of wishing that I had my violin too. Which is not an electric one.

Baku, Azerbaijan

Playing the violin alone, in front of people, makes me so nervous. Almost nothing else in the entire world makes me more nervous. When I was younger, violin recitals were the ultimate stressors (also because I had to wear a dress; I almost always ended up in black shift dresses that made me look like a very young politician). I remember at my first (and only) jury in college—when you play for a few professors at the end of the year, like a final exam—my legs started shaking so badly while I was playing that I was sure the professors could tell.

In an ensemble, it’s okay, I’m not stressed. Hence…many, many, many years of orchestra.

The next street musician I saw was another older man, squatting on a short stool behind an electric piano, and he was really good; his fingers moved quickly and easily. I saw him twice, a few days apart, in exactly the same spot in the park. I started to imagine what this man’s backstory might be.

Maybe he had a long and full career as a pianist in the way that most musicians who aren’t Itzhak Perlman have careers: cobbled together from many sources of income. And maybe he decided that he’d had enough, it was time to retire and spend more time with his grandkids, but after a year or so of retirement he realized he missed music. So, he comes out to this park every afternoon and spends an hour or so playing.

Maybe he’s a shop owner or a bus driver who started taking piano lessons on weekends a decade ago because it was something he always wanted to do but never had the time or money for. Maybe he comes to the park because he’s proud of how far he’s come, and he wants to share that with the world.

Or maybe he studied piano as a boy and as a young man, but never loved it enough or was quite good enough to make a career of it. Plus, he knew how hard the life of a musician can be. He was a lawyer or a doctor instead, and he enjoyed his job, but part of him never stopped being a musician. When he retired, he had more time on his hands, so he polished up a few pieces, bought an electric keyboard, and started coming out to the park.

Tashkent, Uzbekistan

These three little stories all have one thing in common: the man is here because he wants to be. And we want him to be here! He makes the day a little brighter for everyone who walks by. He provides a pretty soundtrack for the couples walking hand-in-hand, the mothers pushing strollers, the American girl reading a book on one of the benches.

I’ve seen lots of street musicians on this trip. In Tashkent, there was a violinist playing in a pedestrian underpass. In Baku, there was a man playing a Persian stringed instrument in Fountains Square at sunset. And in Riga there was a little boy playing “Pirates of the Caribbean” on the clarinet.

There’s no audition required to be a street musician, no grade, no jury. Many of the people walking by probably can’t read music, and most of them probably aren’t familiar with standard piano or violin repertoire. There is no pressure; you can choose when you start and when you stop, what you play and how loudly or softly or fast or slow you play it. Whoever wants to enjoy it will enjoy it, and whoever wants to ignore you can keep walking. How wonderful does that sound? Isn’t this music how it’s supposed to be?

I’m a good violinist, but not a great one. You could hire me to play Canon in D with a trio at your wedding and you wouldn’t be disappointed. I could teach your child Vivaldi and sit in the violin section of any community or university orchestra. But I can’t sight read well, at least not without hearing the piece first. I don’t really count when I play, even though I know that’s bad. My abilities plateaued at Sarasate’s “Romanza Andaluza.”

Part of it is that I don’t love music or the violin in this all-encompassing way. It’s not my whole life, and there is so much about that world that I don’t know and don’t really have any interest in learning. I decided after COVID that I was going to stay good enough to keep my spot in UNC’s orchestra, but that was it. I was officially relegating violin to hobby status.  

And that allowed me to see that I really do love violin and love music. It’s not my whole life, but it makes my life better. I love it the way I like to think that pianist in the park loves music, not because I have to, but because I choose to. It brought me some of my best friends and holds the key to some of my most beautiful memories.

I love going to the symphony and to the opera, of course. But I also love standing and listening for a few minutes to a man who is playing for no other reason than because he wants to. I’ll never be a violinist in one of those symphonies orchestra. But there is a chance that someday I’ll be that man in the park.