I heard one man playing a stringed instrument very eloquently. It was soft and strong, piercing and delicate. I walked towards the sound of the music. As I walked through the park, the human structure of glass and concrete gave way to tall trees and soft ground. The further I walked, I heard more music as well. Another stringed instrument joined in, followed quickly by another.
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| The doggie and I concur: what a good show! |
I walked around a bend and I saw three middle-aged Chinese men. What started as one man simply playing whatever melody suited his fancy quickly morphed into something more structured and organized. Another man sat down with them and started playing a flute. The quartet was complete.
Not long after the band started playing together, I found myself mesmerized. Could I really restrict what I was hearing to simply be "Chinese" music? Sometimes I couldn't help but wonder if I was in the western hills of Ireland during the 18th century. Or if I was on horse farm in Kentucky. Perhaps I was in a stately court in Paris, listening to chamber music for the aristocrats. It touched off so much thought and emotion that I had to start recording.
The players played for another minute and half. When they completed their little ditty, another spectator asked all the same questions that were on my mind.
"Was that" he asked the mandolin player, "meant to be anything other than Chinese music? It sounded like could have been other things."
"No," said the mandolin player. "South China--Canton. Cantonse."
The spectator was still incredulous. "Because it sounded so much like it could have been bluegrass, or Western folk."
"Cantonese," the Mandolin player repeated. "Only Cantonese."
So modest. Yes, it was unique unto itself. And yet I could hear it all: touches of European chamber music, celtic melodies, and a touch of down-South American bluegrass. But Cantonese. In lower Manhattan.
Truly, a small world.
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