Grace notes Flutist becomes fixture at World Trade Center site

NEW YORK -- Like the clouds of white dust that still sneak their way off the Ground Zero construction site, Phil Belpasso is both here, and not here. Or, to put it simply, he is invisible.

That's the way it is for many of New York's street musicians, especially those with soil-coated Eddie Bauer jackets and fingertips the color of soot. Belpasso is seen, yet ignored. Few look up to catch his face. Nobody stops to say "Hi" or "Hang in there." It is easier this way. Easier on the eyes and easier on the conscience.

And yet, Belpasso looms, and even the blind can sense it. It starts with a singular note; a warm toot from the silver Gemeinhardt flute he keeps by his side in a blue velvet case. Standing on the corner of Liberty and Church, no more than 10 feet from the Ground Zero viewing wall, he begins a stirring rendition of "Amazing Grace."

The flute -- one of many instruments Belpasso says he knows how to play -- glides along his white beard, which is as dense and fluffy as a bushel of cotton. The tempo remains the same -- slow, sad, stirring. Gut-wrenching and beautiful.

As Belpasso seamlessly slides into "America the Beautiful," something happens: People take notice. Oh, nobody stares directly at the musician. But for the 200 or so tourists within sound range, the impact is unmistakable. A young couple, gripped by the site of the World Trade Center's grave, grasp hands. An old man wipes a tear from his face. Three girls, no older than 10, quietly sing along. "Oh beautiful, for spacious skies, for amber waves ..."

Unintentional soundtrack

Unintentionally, and with nary an iota of fanfare, Belpasso has become to this small section of Ground Zero what John Williams was to the initial "Star Wars" trilogy. The events of Sept. 11, 2001, need no soundtrack. But -- thanks to the bearded flutist -- they have one. Every day he stands by the gate, playing haunting song after haunting song, adding a subtle texture to the pain.

"If people listen, that's nice," said Belpasso, a quiet 56-year-old. "But I wasn't looking to take advantage of a tragedy."

Born and raised in Hackensack, N.J., Belpasso used to spend afternoons practicing the flute at nearby Memorial Park in Ridgewood, N.J., directly in front of the plaque honoring Abraham Godwin, who played flute for George Washington.

Since those days, he has spent much of life bouncing around from New Jersey to Boston to Manhattan, playing in a haze of random streets and struggling to get by.

The songs that used to be part of his repertoire -- up-tempo ditties by Elton John and Billy Joel and the like -- were set aside in favor of "God Bless America" and "Bridge Over Troubled Water." Whereas people usually stood around Belpasso tapping their feet, there was now silent disbelief.

In the weeks after Sept. 11, 2001, he moved closer to the site, until he was allowed less than a block away. When he started, Belpasso said his jacket was a crisp beige and his dress shirts were white. Now, his attire -- from blue New Jersey police cap to black sneakers -- is covered in grime.

"I'm gonna die from breathing this stuff in," he said, "but what am I supposed to do? Run?"

Belpasso is as ubiquitous as the merchants peddling $5 World Trade Center paperweights; an almost daily 11 a.m.-to-4 p.m. presence who still finds it odd that two enormous buildings just - poof! - vanished.

"I'm not just a guy who plays music," he said, an American flag tie -- wrinkled and dirty -- looped around his neck. "I've got contributions to make."

The Invisible Man wants people to listen.