As I left Hunter, my ears turned on and picked up: “You’re a wonderful person, are you fond of Earth”? The woman’s voice was probably about 60-70 dB SPL. It was clear, direct, and aggressive. Living in New York or in any city in the morning to afternoon, anyone is bound to hear voices. From the side of me was a sound of a crumpling wrapper. The crumbling wrapper was actually the sound of a woman’s coat, and as she approached, she yelled: “What?! She worked in the Bronx? Don’t ask me for $35”. I would place her around 70 decibels. Occasionally, I heard people speaking in a tongue that I didn’t recognize; relatively normal. Then my favorite, well most distinctive phrase of the day: “…sir, you murdered five people”.
Perhaps shocking in regular conversation, but this was all to be expected; the city is full of people, especially people with cell phones. Talking was a given, but while walking, I heard something else.
I’m musically bias, but the city had a beat. After the Green Peace advocate made her declaration of the person’s nature and asked a question, I heard a distant honking. It was slow. *beep* ……….. *beep* ………. *beep*. As, I was walking toward 42nd Street, the sound started to dissipate, and became more of an echo. It sounded like the sounds one hears within a sea shell, and then it disappeared…well not disappeared but just became so minute and dwindled down to a decibel that I couldn’t hear.
That one honk started the beat.
Several honks followed suit, one by one, and then, the order didn’t matter. Some were sharp, some were soft, and some seem broken, while others were as rough as a punch to the face. I heard screeching, like nails scratching a window pane, from the bus driving by. Then there was a fast pace clicking that I learned came from the wheels of a bike. I heard the echo of the plastic window from the restaurant and then large thumps. *boom* *boom* *boom* *boom* *boom* Just noises of clashing and heavy loads falling; it sounded like a minor earthquake. Later I saw that the ruckus was actually construction work. Still, all these sounds collaborated into a song. The heavy bricks were the base, the people talking were the singers, the wind that would blow ever so gently and then smack me in the face were the flute and low/high pitched strings. The leaves, papers, and bags on the floor all sounded so similar, but some sounded heavier and reminded me of the scraping of sandpaper. Nonetheless, the leaves, papers, and bags were the guira. Then there were the main drums. The drums were the shoes. Each step gave off a different sound. Some were sharp like pins dropping, while others were like a snare. They would all pile up against each other. At times the beat would slow down due to the streets being less vacant and then as more people came on the block, I heard the wonderful fast pace beats of the African drums. Then someone would cough, the music would quiet down and then start again.
Every rustle, every step, every paper, and every breath; music in the air.
The city was alive.
