Bay Ridge Brooklyn’s The Third Rail Classic Rock Band from Pavement Pieces on Vimeo.

Marathon runners passing the 4th avenue and 88th Street corner in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn threw up rock-out symbols, air guitars, and even stopped to dance to the ripping tunes of rock-and-roll street band, The Third Rail.

The four Bay Ridge locals of The Third Rail have become friendly faces to locals and marathon runners alike, now playing for the third year in the New York City Marathon, with 4th avenue and 88th Street becoming their official stomping grounds.

Guitarist Matt Daus, 45, put on an “electrified” show, slinging his guitar behind his head to jam out the chords of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman”, and pay homage to the Bay Ridge music community he calls home.

“We have a lot of local people we know and they know us back from playing in the 80’s and 90’s to playing The Third Avenue festival every year,” said Daus, “Bay Ridge is one of the last true communities in the city of New York.”

Drummer Derek Rushton, 44, threw his drum sticks into the air in between bashing his drum set to Led Zeppelin, hoping his co-workers running in the marathon caught his beats.

Named after the third rail in the subway, the band has been playing for 25 years. Starting as a home band in the basement of guitarist and bass players Matt and Paul Daus, the band began opening for Brooklyn rock bands in the 80’s and 90’s. Of all the arenas they’ve performed, the New York City Marathon is the most captivating.

Paul Daus, 42, feeds off the energy of the Bay Ridge marathon audience, which he said has made playing music after 25 years worthwhile.

“When the audience gets involved, you get an adrenaline kick,” said Paul Daus, “That’s the exciting part about it, when you have somebody coming and saying ‘wow you sound really good’ it makes you feel good, and all the time you spend rehearsing or in your room playing guitar for hours on end actually pays off.”

For Matt Daus and lead singer Rob Delcastillo, 47, the combination of the audience interaction and the event itself is an invigorating experience.

“Here you’re one with the people and you’re part of a bigger event, an ancillary part of it where as when you’re on stage, everybody is looking at you as the event,” said Matt Daus.

The Third Rail guitarist Matt Daus of Bay Ridge, plays with high intensity at the New York marathon. Photo by Talia Avakian

The audience is just as much a part of the band as the members themselves.

“We have an open door policy,” said Delcastillo. “Anybody who wants to come and be part of the show, it’s more than fine.”

The lively interaction goes both ways. With wireless capabilities, the band members sailed into the marathon crowd and got spectators to sing on the microphone.

Third Rail Singer, Rob DelCastillio high fives marathon runners while belting a song in Bay Ridge Brooklyn. Photo by Talia Avakian

While tighter security measures this year meant ropes guarding the band off, that did not stop them from getting up close with runners and onlookers alike, jutting their hands out to high-five runners and drawing their legs over the ropes to rip guitar shreds as close as possible to the action.

The band’s continuous involvement in the marathon was due to Matt Daus’ involvement in running two marathons, one in 1996 and the other in 2011.

“I saw the bands playing there and said, ‘we’ve got to do this one day,” said Daus.

For DelCastillo and Paul Daus, running the marathon was always a goal.

Bay Ridge rock band The Third Rail’s band members Paul Daus, 42, Rob Delcastillo, 47, Matt Daus, 45, and Derek Rushton, 44. Photo by Talia Avakian

“I was very much into running when I was younger and it’s always something I wanted to do but never got the chance,” said Daus. “Now my knees are shot and I don’t think I can.”

While bad knees made participating in the event difficult, the band members paved their own way into the event, showing that no matter the age, you can still rock out.

“I was cursed to have the knees of a 90 year old man afflicted with arthritis, but I’m lucky and blessed to have the lungs of an athlete,” said Delcastillo. He gripped the microphone before getting back to belting Freddie Mercury’s “Another One Bites the Dust”.

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On the narrow streets of Kathmandu, the name “Phiroj Shyangden” is more recognizable than that of Bob Seger or Cat Stevens, legendary rockers who’ve both written songs about this exotic city less than 100 miles from Mount Everest.

As lead guitarist and vocalist of 1974 A.D., the popular band whose concerts have packed stadiums and caused traffic nightmares throughout Nepal since the mid-1990s, Shyangden – with his pierced eyebrow and patented dark sunglasses obscured by wavy black bangs – could rarely surface in public without being hounded for autographs or irritated by gossip-like whispers.

But such hassles no longer plague Shyangden, who continues to sing his hits, albeit from a less glamorous platform: The Himalayan Yak, a restaurant in Queens whose website proudly declares, “Good news for all yak meat lovers: We now have yak meat on our menu.”

Three years ago, Shyangden sang and played guitar to the roars of thousands; these days, the closest thing to a roar during his performances is when the “7” train, just outside the Jackson Heights eatery, thunders across the elevated tracks above Roosevelt Avenue.

“To be honest, sometimes I feel very embarrassed playing here,” admitted Shyangden, in his customary soft, deliberate tone that would be a whisper if any quieter. “Sometimes I have to play in front of two tables, in front of three people, instead of playing in front of 50,000 people. But I have to do it. This is for my bread and butter.”

Shyangden, 45, is one of several household names in Nepal who have traded the limelight for better financial opportunities in America.

It’s an immigrant narrative with a peculiar twist: celebrity musicians and actors from a faraway land abandoning their fame and ending up among their fans and fellow countrymen in a neighborhood in Queens. The dynamic, however, often leaves “regular” Nepalese-New Yorkers surprised to find such well-known artists living, working, and in many cases struggling, right alongside of them.

Samir Shahi, a Jackson Heights resident and fan of Shyangden, said that back in Nepal it would’ve been “nearly impossible” to cross paths with the rock star.

“But in New York, I see [Shyangden] every week,” said Shahi, 25, whose iPod includes numerous Shyangden tunes. “Here I’ll bump into him.”

According to Shahi, Nepalese celebrity sightings are not infrequent. He said he recently spotted Gauri Mulla, the famous Kollywood (Nepal’s film industry) actress, on the subway.

Ang Chhiring Sherpa, the Editor in Chief of The Everest Times, a Nepali language newspaper in Woodside, put it this way:

“In Nepal, people like Shyangden, they cannot meet in a public area. It’s impossible,” said Sherpa, the first South Asian journalist to climb Mount Everest, according to his business card. “But when they came here, everybody is busy, and nobody cares who he is.”

In Nepal, an underdeveloped, landlocked country scrunched between China and India, Shyangden said he would typically earn just 20,000 rupees (approximately $244) for large concerts and as little as 2,000 rupees, or $24, for small shows. He also worked as a grammar school music teacher, although that job similarly paid “very little.”

“It was very hard to support my family in Nepal,” said Shyangden, who departed for New York in 2009 while his wife and teenage daughter remained in Kathmandu.

Shyangden acquired permanent U.S. residency as an “alien of extraordinary ability,” a special category of American immigration law that allows foreign citizens who possess a “record of sustained national or international acclaim” to bypass standard bureaucratic procedures and automatically obtain a green card.

Once in New York, which Shyangden describes as “a very fast city” and “vastly different from Kathmandu,” he met two Nepalese immigrants who had been playing a regular gig at The Himalayan Yak: Rajesh Khadgi, 38, an eccentric, eternally-headbanging former drummer of Robin and the New Revolution, one of Nepal’s best-known bands, and Prazwal Bajracharya, a pony-tailed, soft-spoken 30-year-old computer networker who had belonged to an underground Kathmandu band called Lithium.

Blending traditional Nepali folk music with modern genres of rock and roll, blues and jazz, the trio performs several nights a week at the restaurant, which draws a predominantly Nepalese crowd.

Dr. Tara Niraula, an expert on the Nepalese community and an administrator at Bankstreet Graduate School of Education in Manhattan, said that he has spoken with a number of Nepalese celebrities about their transitions from fame to obscurity.

“In Nepal, they were primetime, they had all the attention and prestige,” said Dr. Niraula, who noted that several Nepalese movie stars also reside in Baltimore. “Then all of a sudden, [the fame] is gone and that’s a difficult thing, because in their heart they are different.”

Each morning, Shyangden awakes at 8 a.m. and calls his wife and 14-year-old daughter in Kathmandu. He spends his days practicing guitar, composing songs, and discussing music and life with his band-mates over tea at a Bangladeshi café. To supplement his income from The Himalayan Yak, Shyangden also gives private guitar lessons to Nepalese children.

Shyangden hopes for his family to join him “in the near future,” but “it is a very long process,” he laments, one that “requires a lot of money.” Still, his combined wages from singing and teaching are far greater than what he earned in Nepal, which helps his family.

The Himalayan Yak is at the heart of Queens’ South Asian cultural hub, with the colorful commercial strip of “Little India” just around the corner. Its spacious, rectangular upper floor is outfitted with gold and brick walls, multiple paintings of Buddha, a photograph of the Dalai Llama, and two miniature stuffed representations of the restaurant’s mascot and namesake.

Against this backdrop on a recent Thursday night, Shyangden and his band played an acoustic show in front of about 15 people. Shyangden said he “loves playing” at the restaurant, even if, at times, the miniscule crowds challenge his ego.

At around 11 p.m., the band broke into a cover version of the Eagles’ Hotel California, with Khadgi, the greasy-haired drummer, head-banging and flailing away at his drum set like “Animal” from The Muppets. Once Bajracharya, who’d assumed lead vocals, belted out the famous line, “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave,” Shyangden erupted into a guitar solo that whipped the tiny audience into delight.

“Every time I hear him play, my energy, my vibe, gets better,” beamed one of the few spectators, Xlabia Khadka from Kathmandu, who now lives in Jackson Heights. “Whenever I come here, half of my stress just goes away.”

It was almost midnight, and up on stage, Shyangden showed no evidence of tiring. His eyes half-closed as if in a trance, Shyangden sang “Gurans Phulyo,” his original composition that once dominated the radio airwaves of Kathmandu.

Across a two-person table, Khadka’s friend, Mohan Poudel, 23, sang and clapped along.

At the song’s conclusion, Poudel smiled and shrugged, as if trying to communicate how surreal he found the scene before him.

“When I first came to New York, I said, ‘What the hell is Phiroj Shyangden doing here, playing in this restaurant?’” said Poudel. “I knew him as a star.”

“But that’s the New York life. He’s trying to survive, just like us.”

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Small sculptures, jewelry, poster art and paintings are showcased in the Cuban Art Space in Chelsea, Manhattan. Photo by Emily Canal.

For two years, the 16-member Cuban band Los Munequitos de Matanza has planned a nation-wide U.S. tour, hoping to end in New York City for the Si Cuba festival this month.

But the Cuban government must first approve their departure from the island and issue them visas, which could put their travel plans on hold.

“It’s a pretty nail biting experience,” said Ann Rosenthal, the executive director and producer for MAPP International Productions, a nonprofit performing arts organization that staged the Los Munequitos de Matanza concert. “We have obviously made the arrangements and still don’t know for sure that they will get on a plane on April 1.”

Roadblocks to U.S. travel are not new for Cuban artists. Yet some Cubans and Cuban-Americans in New York are now facing an internal struggle between celebrating the country’s culture and condemning travel regulations imposed by its political dictatorship.

Nick Schwartz-Hall, the project line producer for Brooklyn Academy of Music, which helped organize the Si Cuba event, said between 125 and 150 Cubans will travel to New York. They will participate in music and dance performances as well as exhibits, discussions and film screenings.

“There is a rich, vibrant, diverse, contemporary culture… that has valuable contributions to make to the New York cultural world, ” Schwartz-Hall said in an e-mail. “So far, we are unaware of anyone being prevented from coming to the U.S.”

But Iraida Iturralda, vice president of the Cuban Cultural Center of New York, a non-profit organization that strives to preserve and promote Cuban and Cuban-American culture, said government restrictions will prevent some artists from attending.

“I love it. I think anything that celebrates culture is enriching,” Iturralda said. Apart from a few Cuban performers such as Telmary Diaz, one music genre Iturralda hasn’t seen in the Si Cuba line-up is hip-hop, whose artists “are very critical of the government and aren’t allowed to leave,” she said. “There is a huge hip-hop underground movement that deals with topics that are taboo.”

Carmen Pelaez, of Cobble Hill, Brooklyn, a Cuban-American writer and actor who may participate in the Si Cuba festival, said she doesn’t think the festival will be lined up with “little pawns for Castro.”

“I think the intent is in the right place and I think the artists coming will reflect that,” she said, adding that events like the festival are great ways to connect the cultures but will not solve all political issues.

“The best way to break away the embargo is by getting to know each other,” Carmen said, referring to the long-time U.S. commercial blockade on the island. “It’s by getting to see your country and by them getting to see you.”

Si Cuba will be the first large-scale Cuban cultural festival in New York. The idea for the festival blossomed two years ago when several New York institutions independently planned Cuban themed events, Rosenthal said. When word spread, the venues and organizations decided to collaborate to create a citywide celebration.

“Its just amazing that it lined up in such a beautiful way that we could work together,” he said. “Its interesting that independently we were interested in taking risks to reengage with Cuban artists at the very moment we were able to,” crediting Obama’s eased travel restrictions in 2009 as the driving force behind interest in the island.

Since then, the number of artists at another celebration—the Havana Film Festival in New York—has nearly doubled, said Diana Vargas, the festival’s artistic director who will also perform in Si Cuba.

“During the Bush Administration, none of them were coming in,” she said. “It was so sad to produce a festival where the honorees were usually Cuban and we couldn’t bring any of them here.”

Paquito D’Rivera, a musician and composer of traditional Cuban music and jazz, said he’s against the Cuban dictatorship, not the artists who will perform in New York.

“You cannot leave Cuba if they do not authorize you,” said D’Rivera, a nine-time Grammy winner who moved to the United States from Cuba in 1990. “Every person that comes here is sent by the Cuban government and they are from the dictatorship.”

D’Rivera added he was disappointed that the country has seen 52 years of dictatorship and that U.S. festivals are celebrating artists approved by the Cuban government.

“We should do the same with thing with Qaddafi and ask him to organize the Libya festival with belly-dancers and shish kebob,” D’Rivera said. “I don’t see the difference.”

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Over the sounds of silverware and clinking glasses, Yuka Seka serenaded a small dinner crowd with their methodic Cuban guitar, cello and bongos. Near the front of the dimly lit Habana Room, a midtown restaurant, the trio performed a variety of Cuban standards as patrons enjoyed traditional meals.

Sergio Montolio, 33, the general manager of the Habana Room on East 48th Street and Lexington Avenue, said the restaurant atmosphere reminds customers of Cuba.

“I am trying to connect people to the culture through music and food,” Montolio said.

Pablo Moya, the guitar player and singer who started the band, said he was surprised by the number of people interested in traditional Cuban songs.

“We like playing the songs people recognize,” said Moya, 69, of Harlem.

Yuka Seka is just one of the bands in New York City that plays Cuban music, a movement that gained momentum after the debut of the Buena Vista Social Club in the late 1990s. Despite the almost 15-year-anniversary of the Buena Vista Social Club’s success, customers still flock to Cuban restaurants to hear the sounds of the island.

“You could feel the ambiance of the Buena Vista Social Club in the United States,” Moya said. “The traditional music is still fresh here.”

Moya, who was raised in Guantanamo, Cuba, said he came to the U.S. in 1999 to study orchestra and saw a thirst for music from his country. He formed the band in 2002, which primarily plays covers of Cuban standards with a few original tracks.

Ben Lapidus, a musician and associate professor of music at The City University of New York, said Cuban music has a strong history here since the first Cuban music was recorded in New York in 1899.

“I think we are in a day and age where people want to dance and listen to good music,” Lapidus said. “When Cuban bands come to the city, Cubans from all parts come to see the bands they haven’t seen since they left their homelands.”

Moya said he likes playing Buena Vista Social Club covers because the audience knows the music and sings along. The band performs without an amplifier and samples traditional styles like Son, Cha Cha Cha, and Changüí, an offbeat style of salsa from eastern Cuba.

The genres differ in tempo, but share instruments like the Cuban guitar, bongos, conga drums and cello. Faster styles like mambo and cha cha cha fall under the salsa category.

“We have a folky down to earth sound that swings,” said Jennifer Vincent, 41, the cellist who moved to New York from Oregon about 10 years ago. “We are one of the bands in New York that everyone knows.”

Vincent said the five band members shuffle between gigs depending on their availability, but there is usually three performers on stage. She added that the group doesn’t rehearse together and uses the concerts as band practice.

Renato Thoms, the group’s percussionist, said he isn’t of Cuban decent but grew up in Panama listening to the music from the Caribbean island.

“I have heard this music since I was a kid and fell in love with it,” said Thoms of Brooklyn. Thoms said that Timba, comparable to salsa, is very popular among young restaurant goers.

Kristen Husby, 31, of Minneapolis, Minn., watched Yuka Seka’s three-hour performance from her front row table, sampling the fare from the restaurant.

“The music is hypnotic,” she said.

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