Fifteen Minutes: Carnegie Hall It Ain't

It takes but a pair of functional ears and the modest budget of 85 cents to experience the vibrant talent of T musicians. FM inserted tokens and stomped the MBTA subway system in search of the stories behind these local voices. The findings: they are an eclectic crowd--college students, immigrants, schoolteachers and hard-working everyday people.

Thursday, 6 p.m., Government Center, green line. Lines B through E screech cacophonously past waiting passengers. A middle-aged man strolls in with a dolly full of wires, batteries, an amplifier, a microphone and a guitar. He begins to construct his stage against the back wall of Dunkin' Donuts. Eric Talerico is a 42 year-old musician who has played in Boston subway stations for nearly 10 years. Once a private school teacher, Talerico moved to Boston in search of another classroom, but found himself on platforms instead. Performing in the subways became a full-time job. He works 40 hours a week, usually for six hours per sitting a few days during the week, and on weekends for up to 12 hours straight. "I love playing. I tried to give it up and haven't yet succeeded," Talerico admits. Scottish, Irish and English ballads are the usual melodies from this man, but his eccentric repertoire has drawbacks. "Sometimes I feel like a freak show."

Music plays a significant part in this performer's life--it's even a career. He has business cards, cruise ship gigs under his belt and offers from the industry. Although Talerico makes rent and has sufficient leisure time, the job lacks the benefits of a 9-to-5. Last year a heart attack struck this performer and left him above ground for nearly six months. Without medical insurance, Talerico estimates that he'll be paying for that tragedy for a long time. Overall, however, the subway has provided a viable source of income, albeit an unpredictable one. Talerico explains that he has played 12 hours and made a measly 12 cents, but has also earned $1,200 in just one hour. "The money is spotty. You've got your good days, and then you've got your bad days, then your very good days and your very bad days. It's a living, but not a killing."

Thursday, 10 p.m., Downtown Crossing, red line. Barely a dozen passengers linger at this nearly silent stop. A scruffy- looking gentleman zips up his guitar case. Sergei Alexeev heads home; there is seemingly no more money to make for the night. Rather than bless his crowds with songs of old Mother Russia and Stoli, this immigrant with a thick accent strictly sticks to the guitar. For three years he has played in subways full time. This 36 year-old hope to get noticed and eventually belong to a big-time band.

Friday, 5 p.m., Park Street, red line. Trains whiz by left and right. An 8.5" by 11" sign perches on a guitar case: "This performance has been modified in the following manner: It is fitted to fit this subway platform." Karl Swetland wears a yellow hat over frizzy brown hair that creeps out like Weird Al Yankovic's and a pink tie-dyed shirt reading "Red Raspberries" that compliments his acid-washed jeans perfectly. Commuters look on in wonder as the beanie babies in his guitar case stare back in equal amusement. Swetland fights for attention with the little girls across the tracks claiming they saw a rat. An old friend shows up and taps the musician on the shoulder and the music comes to an abrupt halt. Just saying hi, Swetland explains. "I'll forgo another four or five dollars just to maintain a social life out here." This 40 year-old Cantabrigian from Albuquerque, N.M., is another full-time public transport musician. Once in the "Carter Volunteer Army," this self-described "armchair traveler" has performed on platforms across the country including in San Francisco and New York, where he made his start. Swetland has had many an odd job in his time--foot messenger, fruit stand salesperson, film production assistant and sporadic stints as a writer. Claiming to have designed a rack of satirical t-shirts (including those "Hahvahd" spoofs) Swetland describes himself as "somewhat of an artiste" who writes in his Central Square apartment from time to time. Although his T performances pay for his rent and survival, this performer's motivation is much more heartfelt. "I like to think that up to 10,000 people around Boston who are stressed out from their work don't go home and scream at their wives or yell at their children as a result of having been cheered up by my music." Citing that his apartment avoided the removal of rent control, Swetland thinks that his "deities" are watching out for him.

Friday, 7 p.m., State Street, orange line. A synthesizer rolls out the accompanying beats to the tunes of a shiny chromatic harmonica and a lively voice. Michael Wright wears a baseball cap, a warm fleece sweater and a huge grin. Dating back to 1978, this amiable gentleman in his early 40s is a veteran of the Boston subway system--one of the original underground performers. A truly accomplished musician, Wright has played in several local bands and in venues such as the Wang Theater and the Berklee Performance Center. During the daytime, Wright supports his music career with "straight jobs" and comes down to the subway a couple times a week to practice and entertain. "I come down here because I enjoy connecting with people. This is my labor of love, this music. When I am playing and I see people reacting and feeling my music, that is the ultimate high," he describes. "I come down here to spread love, music, and positive vibes." The self-taught musician narrates a true story in which his music moved a woman deeply in the tunnels. After noticing that she had let four or five trains pass by, Wright finally stopped and talked to the woman only to discover that the sobbing passenger was in a joyful sorrow--apparently his music had brought back memories of her deceased husband. Wright was equally moved by the fact that "people can be that open." Wright performs for such moments, he explains. "I try to cheer people up, and sometimes I get verbal, telling people to keep a song in their hearts and a smile on their faces. That's a combination for a perfect day."

Saturday, 1 p.m., Porter Square, red line. This vacuous stop is fried for the day. Two young women pack up their professional equipment. Allison Dimond and Emily Cox have been playing at T stops since only November. Both guitarists and vocalists, these two usually submerge on Saturdays to practice and promote their music (see them at the Dogwood Cafe in Jamaica Plain on Sunday nights). They even gave a private feel-good performance for FM. Working at Radcliffe and teaching at a local charter school keep them busy during the days while musical expression keeps them smiling at nights and weekends.

Saturday, 3 p.m., Park Street, green line. Halted and boarding, a Cleveland Circle train provides a colorful background and temporary audience for a young violinist; the shrieking rails intermittently muffle the soothing tunes. One admirer pencils out a sketch of the charming young lad. Kip Jones appears both solo and with his cellist roommate. This third-year Berklee College of Music student considers his subway performances part of a work-study program. Playing on platforms since last September, Jones can make about $25 per hour on a good day. Groceries, laundry, fixing his bow and a plane ticket to Kansas City to see his honey all serve as motivation to collect coins and bills in his carpeted violin case; he has also received action figures, valentines, cigarettes and even pick up lines from drag queens. Aside from supporting his college lifestyle, Jones says he enjoys "making friends with some of the homeless" and the "great amount of enjoyment" he receives from entertaining passers-by.

Saturday, 4 p.m., Park Street, red line. A large gathering of Saturday shoppers can't help but turn their heads and listen to an enthusiastic performer crack MBTA jokes about the red line. The comical tune "Street Signs in Boston Suck" receives a resounding mixture of applause and laughter from fans. Tom Bianchi is a funny character. The 30-year-old has played in subways full time for the past 18 months and truly tells it like it is, singing, "the rats on the tracks always upstage me," "I just love to play, all day, hooray" and "please stay behind the yellow line." Bianchi sticks to his motto, "keep it real," which has taught him many a lesson in his day. He tells a story of himself working a slow night at Hynes Convention Center. "If not to make it worse, this guy spilled this whole jar of tomato sauce all over, so I helped him clean up [the glass]." Along came another passenger a bit later and Bianchi played hero, shouting to the man over the mike to watch out for the sauce. Pretty soon the puddle of Prego became the object of humor and caution for the rest of the night as Bianchi warned passengers and cracked jokes all night. Within a few nights, this character had a song about tomato sauce that his regular commuters absolutely adored. He realized that he should just be himself rather than trying to please his audiences, and it has worked. Bianchi has become a popular character, possessing a special something that keeps even cute B.C. girls waiting past two or three trains. Above ground, this musician can be heard at the Middle East on Monday nights.

Tuesday, 4 p.m., Harvard Square, red line. The biggest beat in Boston subways thumps from an R. Kelley CD. With warmth and passion the musician cries, "A city of justice, a city of love, a city of peace, for everyone of us..." Pumla (a.k.a. "Usher"), a graduate of Cambridge Rindge and Latin, moved to the United States from South Africa seven years ago. During the daytime he studies at the Berklee College of Music, and "whenever there's a chance" he comes down to the Harvard Square T stop to practice and rehearse. Only 22 years-old, Pumla frets, "I'm an old man," but a larger career in music lies just ahead. This free-spirit who sings professionally here and there wants to appeal to all audiences. "I've got something for everybody," he boasts. The aspiring vocalist hopes to jump into the industry soon, since his graduation from Berklee looms near. He assures FM that he will make it "Keep your eyes open. Look out for me, something's gonna happen soon."

These T musicians come from a multitude of backgrounds and play for a myriad of reasons, but common among all of them is a deep sense of satisfaction and fulfillment from performing for appreciative, although temporary, audiences. Although they are not all in it for the money, they all gladly accept tips. Talerico advises FM, "If you like what we're playing, feel free to throw in a couple bucks, and if not, keep it to yourself--it makes a bad day even more miserable." Wright echoes the sentiment: "If you see a street musician, not that money is the main object, when you throw in a quarter, that's something we don't take for granted. Since trains come every six or seven minutes, if you miss one train, it probably won't spoil your plans. So miss a train and really listen to a musician playing."