It happens every time.

The first time was at Manhattan School of Music, my alma mater. The pre-college teachers had been negotiating with them for six months and had gotten nowhere with the union busting lawyer the school hired, so they called a one-week strike. Which, in fact, was a one-day strike as they only taught Saturdays. I got there on that cold Saturday morning in January wearing my 802 baseball cap. I shook some hands, spoke to organizers of the strike and met some of the teachers, many also 802 members. Then I joined the picket line. We walked an oval, round and around the sidewalk in front of the school’s entrance on Claremont Avenue. The line grew and shrank as folks joined or stopped for a cup of coffee. Two or three folks brought Home Depot buckets and drumsticks and kept a beat while we marched. Then there was the megaphone. And the chant caller. It was hypnotic, walking that oval, responding to the caller. Younger folks in the line were putting everything they had into those responses. We were loud! We were proud!

I considered myself a guest at this event, showing support from Local 802. They, the stakeholders, the teachers, were in a fight. They were told by the union buster that MSM wouldn’t have to negotiate, only to wait until the NLRB was dismantled by the current circus in Washington DC. After six long months of trying, they were beginning to feel desperate. Hence, the passion in the chanting. Round and around we went. There was a strong sense of unity in that line, with the chanting and the bucket beats. I began wishing I brought a drumstick too, and a cowbell or something, to join the groove, to make some noise. It was spiritual. My eyes got wet.

The second time was also at Manhattan School. But this time, no line. It was a rally. And this time there were a LOT more folks in attendance. And this time I spoke to those folks (watch the video). And this time New York’s finest were also in attendance. It felt like a badge of honor, having them watching, then putting up a barricade to keep the sidewalk open, then telling organizers “no more megaphones.” We were too loud! It turned out, we didn’t need megaphones. More drumsticks, buttons, and kazoos were handed out. Then came the announcement that we would make six minutes of constant noise. One minute for each of the months this fight had dragged on. It was AMAZING!

There were many speakers that day, including politicians and other union leaders. Notably, AGMA President Ned Halon spoke eloquently, then handed the crowd lyric sheets to the famous labor anthem “Solidarity Forever,” sung to the melody of Glory Hallelujah:

When the union’s inspiration through the workers’ blood shall run.
There can be no power greater anywhere beneath the sun.
Yet what force on Earth is weaker than the feeble force of one, but
Our union makes us strong!

Chorus:
Solidarity Forever
Solidarity Forever
Solidarity Forever
Our union makes us strong!

In our hands is placed a power greater than their hoarded gold.
Greater than the might of armies magnified a thousand-fold.
We can bring to birth a new world from the ashes of the old.
Our union makes us strong!

They say our day is over; they say our time is through.
They say you need no union if your collar isn’t blue.
Well, that is just another lie the boss is telling you.
Our union makes us strong!

Through our sisters and our brothers, we can make our union strong.
For respect and equal value, we have done without too long.
We no longer have to tolerate injustices and wrongs.
For our union makes us strong!

We sang that day, a Capella, and again my eyes got wet.

(Quick update: as Allegro goes to press, the faculty was on the cusp of victory in winning their contract. See story elsewhere in this issue.)

Most recently was the “March to Stop the Cuts!” rally in front of the New York Stock Exchange. It was Saturday, March 15. Again, I put on the cap, added an 802 button to my coat, and headed downtown. I heard the rally would be big, really big. Walking from the subway, all the streets were closed to traffic, police on every corner. My destination was the New York Stock Exchange. I heard there would be a band there. I wanted to hang with them.

I’ve played my fair share of street band gigs. As a matter of fact, the NY Post published an article (see below) circa 2003. It was cold that day too. Funny what you remember.

New York Post (Feb. 26, 2003)

Back to March 15 of this year. I got to the stock exchange, but it was still early. As I scanned for my people, I felt the eyes of the law on me. This would be big, all right. Finally, I found what I was looking for. A bunch of instrument cases on musicians’ backs, street snares, a bass drum, and a sousaphone on the ground. A bunch of quick introductions all around — 802 was here. I had played NYC’s Labor Day parade with one of the trumpet players some years back. We reminisced a bit while waiting for the protesters to arrive. They had another stop to make before descending onto the Stock Exchange.

Then we heard them approach. The crowd. The signs. Many posters of tombstones. And they kept coming. Mobile carts with speakers, all connected wirelessly to a microphone somewhere. And a speaker calling out “All tombstone holders to the front of the Stock Exchange! This is where we will hold the die-in.” I heard a parade organizer tell the band leader the routine. The show. The protesters would lie down with their tombstones. There would be a tolling of a bell, then the trumpets were to play taps.

Speeches, another die-in, tolling, taps. Today’s chant: “I BELIEVE THAT WE WILL WIN. I BELIEVE THAT WE WILL WIN.” Then it ended, and the band played on. It was earthshattering, the way these musicians catapulted the crowd. People were dancing in the street!

I walked back to midtown, shaken to the core. And my eyes were wet. Remembering that day, they are wet now.