Street Sounds of Chicago: Music, Voices, and Life on the Sidewalks
        Welcome to the ELI’s Finding Chicago Global Perspectives Podcast Series for AEPP 2025. I’m your host, Chen, and I’m currently enrolled in the University of Chicago’s Physical Science Division.
        I did the summer program here last year, and I remember coming to Chicago in mid-July. Before coming, one of my first impressions of the city was about its chaos and danger. During that summer, I spent most of my time in the lab, and my leisure time in downtown. I visited several museums and art galleries with my friends. I also saw people having steak and drinks on the sidewalks. Chicago’s streets really surprised me with its energy and prosperity. With so many shops and stores, you can literally find everything.
        However, this year felt different since my role has changed. I used to be a visitor, while I’m now a Ph.D. student planning to live here for a long time, so I need to adapt myself to local life and explore the neighborhoods. After doing this, my impression of Chicago was completely altered.
The moment that really captures how I see Chicago now didn’t happen in a classroom, a museum, or anywhere downtown—it happened on the sidewalk in the Hyde Park. I remember it was a bright afternoon, and I was walking along East 53rd Street, heading to the Bank of America to open a credit card. Then, I heard music rising above the traffic noise. A group of street musicians had gathered at the corner, playing jazz on trumpets and trombones. They had cool hairstyles and quirky outfits. Under the fierce sun, their bronze instruments shone brightly. The beat was irregular and playful, the trumpet wiggled freely in the high notes, while the trombone was being naughty down in the low notes. The drum seemed to disagree with the other instruments, bouncing around off the rhythm. Every note seemed to have its own personality.
        At first, I thought they might be playing for tips, since back in my country you sometimes see people singing and playing guitar with an instrument case full of cash and coins. But I soon realized that wasn’t the case—they were playing completely for themselves. They didn’t ask for anything; they just played, and pedestrians enjoyed it anyway. A few people stopped to listen, but for most, it seemed like just another normal day. The music itself felt like part of the sidewalks, part of everyday life.
        It made me think about how art is created. I used to play in a symphony orchestra, where every instrument follows strict rules and fits seamlessly. Street music, by contrast, seemed chaotic at first. To put it nicely, they turned the sidewalks into a little world of jazz; to put it harshly, the instruments didn’t always coordinate. But if you listen carefully, you’ll notice each instrument had its own voice and character. Maybe there were a few cracked notes—but who cares? That’s what made the music feel alive, and that’s what made their music full of emotion.
        And it struck me that this kind of scene is not unique to one place. I’ve seen people from different backgrounds—Latino, African American, White, and others—playing songs together. But even beyond one city, you could imagine the same happening in a square in Spain, on the entrance of a train station in Asian, or at a seaside market in Africa. People from different languages and traditions might not understand one another’s languages, but they can still share a rhythm, a beat, a melody. The courage and passion to express oneself in public, and the freedom to do so, feels like something deeply rooted in the essence of human.
        The sidewalks are never truly silent. Music is only one voice among the many others. I see carpenters or artisans showing their handmade pieces, greeting passersby with stories. Even if most people don’t buy anything, I will not forget the pride and joy on their faces. It seems that wherever you go, ordinary people find ways to make life more than just survival. They offer their voices freely, leaving the joy of the moment to make the neighborhoods colorful. And you do feel such strong sense in the sidewalks of Chicago.
        So, what does this mean? To me, it shows that culture is not only about galleries, history, or professional stages. It’s about the everyday rhythm, where art and life coincide in the most ordinary places. The sidewalks aren’t just for walking—they can become a stage, where some people perform and others become the audience, even if only for a brief moment.
        I feel the sidewalk sounds capture more than the spirit of a single city. They show how cultures, when brought together, can create something alive and unexpected. When I hear those playful notes on a street corner, I can’t help but think they mirror life itself—sometimes unpredictable, sometimes chaotic, but always full of diversity and passion.
        That’s the Chicago I’ve come to know: not just places of tall buildings or famous landmarks, but a city shaped by its people, their rhythms, and their stories. The sidewalks are the name tags of Chicago. They show me that culture isn’t just kept inside—it’s created in normal people’s voices and footsteps, in laughter and music on random places, and it is accessible to everyone. I should say that the Chicagoans is the culture of the city itself. Every time I walk down the sidewalks, I feel like I am walking through the living bloodstream of the city itself.
        Thanks for listening to my podcast. I really appreciate you taking the time to hear my story. Walking along the sidewalks of Chicago, I’ve realized that the city has its own characteristics, and the most memorable moments happen in the simplest places I hope this story encourages you to pause and notice the little things around you, because they often tell the most beautiful sounds of Chicago.