A black suit with a black bowler hat to match, the hat covered brim to brim with black sequence, sunglasses as black as the suit. The man could be blind behind there, behind those dark as night shades, it wouldn’t make any difference in the dimly light underground subway. Crisp white gloves on each hand, black tap shoes on each foot, coupled together with a red bow tie over a white button down shirt.
With a beat in his legs to match the tap in his foot, he searches through his flip book cd collection, searching for the song in his bones. He creates a mood with his energy as much as he does with his percussion step. His style is sleek, his dress is subtly costumed, his demeanor that of the born dancer. He chooses an old jazz song to start, tapping on top of the melody, hands jazzed to accompany the horns, he spins with spirit, glides with an effortless slide. This guy gives the cha-cha an easy-going jive, he twirls arms wide, with a smile of childish glee hidden behind the dark black suit.
He seem to do it out of enjoyment, not for the tips, although the box is clearly marked and never empty.
A one man act, he steal the attention of the traveling masses, stops that hustle of the day, casts a performer’s spell on the rushed crowd with his musical shoes.