One of the better ideas to bubble out of the MTA in recent years has been the addition of musical acts at Penn Station and, I presume, Grand Central. The scheduled performers are uneven, but generally are of far higher caliber than the unlicensed buskers who previously plied the crowds, hoping to shake loose a few bucks with syrupy versions of “Fire and Rain,” “Wild Horses,” or—God help me—“I Honestly Love You.”

In the nook where I await my train, the concert rotation includes a Joni Mitchell-like heart-bearer who strikes me as a few blossoms short of a bouquet; an organ player who inexplicably includes an Eric Carmen cover in his play list; an extremely talented rock and blues guitarist who I hope will move on to better things; and, best of the bunch, the Ebony Hillbillies, a duo of African-American men who reel out some fine country, bluegrass and countrified versions of pop hits on their banjos and fiddles. It’s the best entertainment for a $1—if you’re generous—that you’ll find outside of the quarter video parlors. Or so I’m told.

I tend to stand quietly and listen as I munch my post-work pretzel, but I’ve been astonished two or three times to see fellow commuters sufficiently moved to dance. I’m not talking about a subtle hip sway, or maybe a few steps that slip out before composure returns; one guy, in what looked like a Brooks Brothers suit, offered a full Martha Graham number. Call me cynical, but I think alcohol was involved.

Anyways, as much as I love catching the overflow from someone’s iPod, or listening to the mellifluous announcements of the trains preceding mine, the dash of complimentary music is one of the nicer touches of commuting.