As I’m approaching the elevated subway near my home I hear a series of explosive pounding noises. At first these appear as isolated bursts, echoing menacingly under the subway tracks; then, gradually, a pattern emerges (unmistakable once it forms): the brash, military cadence of a marching band. I stop in the parking area underneath the tracks where a few other people are gathered, all gazing in the direction of Long Island City where the faint outline of the band can be seen making its way up this extended parking area that divides Queens Boulevard. Amplified by the acoustics of the elevated tracks, the heavy percussive sounds grow louder as the band approaches; then, a block away, the music stops on a dime and the marchers assumed a relaxed position. It’s clear that, despite the fact that they’re dressed in traditional marching band uniforms, this is a mere rehearsal. The band leader gives instructions for several minutes, then they recommence. I can now make out the composition of the band, which ranges from a girl playing the drums who looks about ten, to the bandleader in his seventies. The rest are a mixture of teenagers and adults, representing a wide range of ethnicities – a microcosm, it would seem, of the neighborhood’s demographic multifariousness. Other pedestrians stop, comment, and point their phones at the band (a few even waive and cheer, perhaps confusing this inspired drill for the real thing). A rumble underneath the band’s percussion signals the arrival of a train overhead; I take one last look at the band then dart up the stairs to catch my subway.