D-FOB-Freeland 23 SUBWAY SOUL MAN A muscular voice issues a gritty ...

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SUBWAY SOUL MAN A muscular voice issues a gritty plea: "You need someone like me to make love to you, constantly." A short heavy-set woman, entranced by the slinky groove, dances. The singer is an unassuming man in black t-shirt and sweats, tossing off blustery vocal runs with a master's ease, stretching his arms wide as he pulls listeners into the funk of R. Kelly's "Bump 'n' Grind."

Hearing him growl and coax, it's clear the best vocalists aren't to be found among the over-stylized warblers on American Idol. In Michael Young's case, they're on the platform of the Chambers St. subway at rush hour on a Friday afternoon, performing in front of an open drum case that piles up with dollar bills.

Young and his band, Majestic K. Funk (which includes his brother, Jameel, on drums) are soon forced to move camp when two members get slapped with police tickets for $25 each. Sitting in the E train as it speeds uptown, Young shares the ups and downs of a career marked by momentary glimpses of stardom.

"I was signed by RCA when I was 16. I did a little background work for them, and then I signed with T-Electric [a subsidiary of major label MCA]. That was in '79 or '80. They put out albums on Etta James and Love Committee, and my album was supposed to be the third one, but then the owner claimed bankruptcy."

Young's debut was never released. Since then he's been singing up to five hours a day, working with three different groups. Afternoons are spent performing in subway stations—where Young lands jobs by passing out cards. Evenings and weekends he plays gigs at weddings and clubs. It's a grueling routine, but Young shows little fatigue as he looks up from his seat and smiles: "To be able to perform, it's a blessing."

The band sets up shop at 53rd and 5th, squeezing onto a small platform already crowded with tired office workers. Young brightens the atmosphere by launching into an impassioned set of soul standards—"Kiss and Say Goodbye," "Sexual Healing"—as his voice rises, peaks with a shout, then lowers on a sea of melisma. Unlike so many of today's r&b singers, Young's notes are always distinct and on-pitch, in the tradition of great soul men like Sam Cooke.

Only when a young man approaches to ask, "Hey, how long have you guys been playing?" does Young let down his spirits. "Seems like forever," he says with a sigh that conveys the weariness of a long afternoon and an even longer career.

But the moment barely has time to sink in. In the next second, Michael Young is scaling the falsetto heights of "It's Your Thing" as the remaining subway patrons smile and nod appreciatively. o