There is a trumpet (or some other horn instrument) player at Etoile and sometimes at Kleber who plays lovely music. His renditions of "It's a Wonderful World" and "Les Temps de Fleurs" are soothing on the way home at night.
On the other hand, there is music that involves the massacre of a masterpiece by butchering lyrics or dramatizing the tune by means of an accordion (ick).
As I wrote this post in my journal, a musician jumped on my wagon of the train and started placing a decent, violin version of "I Wish You Love," which in French is a delightful Charles Trenet classic, "Que reste-t-il de nos amours." Surprisingly, I don't want to break the violin or ask him to shut up as I do when people sing La Bamba or Volare on the train.
A few days ago, a man with an electric guitar and an amp (why these things were on the metro is beyond me) got on the train and started mumbling the words to "Dust in the Wind" and "Imagine" over a cacophonous mess of guitar strings. I'm sure I saw tears of agony stream down the face of the woman in front of me as I'm sure she saw my endless eye-rolls and must have thought I was having a seizure. As the man stopped playing, she tapped me on the knee and said, "I feel the same way."
Every time I hear "La Bamba," "Historia de un amor" or any song by the Gypsy Kings, I want to print the lyrics and the sheet music, bind them and offer them to the performer instead of any centimes from my coin purse.
Since I almost never carry my iPod anymore because I've been too lazy to charge and add new songs to it, whoever decides to provide musical entertainment on the trains will have to suffice - even if it means my ears and my heart bleeding.