Readers’ pick: Steel drums player
On an unseasonably warm day in late March, a local musician set up their steel drums in front of the Foggy Bottom-GWU Metro station.
Sunlight blazed off their silver instrument as he tapped his mallet against the smooth, metal surface. The soft, bubbly music stood out against the blare of ambulances headed to the neighborhood GW Hospital and the shouting of vendors as they hawked D.C. memorabilia lining tables at the mouth of the escalators.
The Metro gives other cities’ transit systems a run for their money, not only with its cleanliness and merchandise but also its live musical performances. Most commuters don’t flock to the Metro for a tune — the Kennedy Center is right down the street, after all. But if passersby removed their AirPods, they would find the Foggy Bottom Metro station offers a front-row seat to an outdoor symphony, with the steel drum player as its star.
I have passed by a plethora of productions while hurrying to catch the incoming train — including a guitarist and, once, a bagpipe player — but I’ll confess that I never paused to listen. I’ve smiled as I hurried past a man playing mournful songs on a string instrument, making a beeline for the farmers market. I recall a small-scale war ensuing between a student in JBKO Hall and a religious zealot featuring dueling signs.
But as I look toward graduating next month, I decided to broaden my experiences, pausing to hear a musical sidewalk performance so I’m able to say my strongest memory of Metro showmanship is something more pleasant than a screaming match. After emerging from the escalator, I veered to the side to watch the performer’s rhythmic drum hits instead of darting across 23rd Street to my next destination.
I stood a few feet away from the drummer, wearing a purple shirt, as I watched him strike the hollow steelpan with the mallet. He nodded his head and tapped his foot as he played an upbeat, pop-esque song I could not name. After the mallet met the metal, a punchy note burst through the humid air, stirring up my excitement for the next punch as a soothing, joyful sound reverberated.
The rhythmic pattern contrasted the uncertainty of the city life around me. I had no idea whether another ambulance would roar by or if a businessman boarding the Metro would run into me while I watched, not even bothering to mumble sorry as he left. But I knew I could rely on the composition of the steelpan player’s song: the jolt of impact and its quieter, yet no less interesting, echoes. Most passersby walked right pass, barely giving a glance to the performer as his eyes remained trained on the mallets they used to play the drum.
But Foggy Bottom’s steelpan still rang above the roar of sirens from ambulances from GW Hospital and the grumblings of chess players poring over their boards.
