Tuesday, June 10, 1997 | 11:03 a.m.
You'd see them around the New York City subway stations, the platform performers, pitching their tunes to passing commuters at Times Square or Grand Central.
People would stop and gather. To many New Yorkers, this was the only spot of music in a busy day.
Who knew? Maybe in that crowd of people tossing in coins lurked Sony Records' Tommy Mottola, about to sign them and propel them to fame.
I, of course, was always too busy to pause, with places to go, people to see.
So even though the Trembles would harmonize sweetly in Grand Central Station, where I had to pass through twice daily to and from work, I never really noticed them.
Who looks, really looks, at a subway performer? But put them on a stage, and, ah, now they are stars.
Imagine all those tone-deaf music execs who must have walked right by such talents every day. Born performers like Michelle Weeks, who sang "You Don't Know What It's Like," and gravelly-voiced Roger Ridley, who sang "Try a Little Tenderness." I guess they hadn't had their coffee yet.
It might have been different. If this show was conceived, written and cast with actors, it would be an utter bore, a poor man's attempt at "Rent," a variety act of two-bit lounge singers no different than any show on the Strip.
But what saves New York-New York's glorified new variety show, "MADhattan," is watching a dream come true before your eyes.
Dragging former street performers to the Las Vegas desert and granting them a forum may be downright gimmicky, but it works. Doesn't make it worth $40, but redeems it a bit.
For after years of playing to a restless audience without the benefit of seats, these are performers skilled at riveting attention.
Some acts were so fascinating they might have made you lose track of where you were heading in New York. Like Danny Herman, who splashed his paints before your eyes into stunning portrayals of -- well, I won't ruin the surprise.
Others made me wish I could keep walking, like the slapstick humor of Dick Monday and Peter Pitofsky's mime act.
The show's director, Danny Herman, uses his background with Ringling Bros. Circus to create a similarly fluid style, shifting the eye from one performer to the next as they seamlessly finish their piece and remain on stage to watch the next performer.
The meticulously sculpted sets portrayed landmarks the performers once called their turf -- the concrete lion by the steps of the Public Library on Fifth Avenue, to the arch of Washington Square Park.
The theater design also scored points for details like the token-emblemized carpet in the lobby, although in typical NY-NY casino style, the tiled subway station posing as the theater's lobby was too scrupulously clean for a real New Yorker's taste.
Though the costumes were allegedly based on the performers' native garb of choice, matching rasta-colored shirts with camouflage pants, these Crayola-happy costumes were more colorful than any ragamuffin street performer I've ever seen.
The finale was rousing enough to get the audience on its feet and out of the theater and maybe even to the parking lot before realizing they shelled out two 20s for what once cost a handful of change.
But that's to be expected now that these talents have conquered the entertainment capital of the world. They don't even need a Mottola lurking in the audience anymore -- the cast has cut an album of their own.
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