Berlin - Fifty years ago, organ-grinders were commonplace in Berlin, churning out the music of a past age. Today, gypsy musicians provide the entertainment in the German capital's public spaces. The organ-grinders' music seemed to hug the city's walls, alleyways and side-streets, and Berliners, ever appreciative and a touch sentimental, would open windows to toss a few coins wrapped in scraps of paper to the pavements below.
No longer. Leierkastenmaenner, as they are known in Germany, are rarely to be seen these days pushing their barrel organs from street corner to street corner, whatever the weather.
At the height of the hurdy-gurdy era in 1920s Berlin, there were three barrel organ manufacturers in Berlin. But by the late 1960s the only firm still surviving was that run by Giovanni Gacigapupo, the son of Italian parents.
At one point he had 50 employees. But when he died, the firm died with him - the demand for barrel organs had dried up and his few remaining workers found themselves reduced to repairing broken down church organs to keep themselves busy in the troubled communist era in east Berlin.
Nowadays, only two or three organ grinders are to be found in Berlin, playing in front of big city stores like the KaDeWe or, at annually held Leierkasten music festivals.
Their role in Berlin has largely been taken over by gypsy musicians from Romania and parts of former Yugoslavia. Equipped with their accordions and brass instruments they entertain Berliners and tourists alike with a distinctly Balkan-flavoured brand of music.
You see them on Berlin's overhead (S-Bahn) suburban and underground (U-Bahn) trains, smiling and playing a mix of numbers for a little spare change between station stops.
Constantly on the move, they arrive to play at kerb-side restaurants and cafes along the Kurfuerstendamm and Unten den Linden boulevards and at other haunts around the Savigny Platz and on the Alexanderplatz.
For the most part, Berlin authorities tolerate their activities.
Several gypsy groups, whose members received music school training earlier in eastern Europe or elsewhere in Germany, have now settled in Berlin, forming bands that feature regularly at city swing and jazz venues
Ask Berlin officials how many gypsies - or Roma - there are living in Berlin, and they tend to shrug their shoulders, hinting that some among them may be here illegally without papers.
Of the several hundred officially registered, a disproportionate number are musicians.
One of the best-known Gypsy Balkan brass bands in Berlin is "Fanfare Kalashnikov" who first began performing on the "Kudamm" boulevard and around the Alexanderplatz, according to Robert Rigney, a local writer.
Clemens Gruen, a young German anthropologist-cum-DJ and Latin music afficionado, who, in earlier years worked with the famous Buena Vista Social Club, was swift to recognise their talents, becoming their manager.
Nowadays they play to packed audiences at venues throughout Europe. As for their "Fanfare Kalashnikov" band name, tuba player Sergiu simply explains: "We play just like a Kalashnikov: very fast and very precise!"
Another prominent "Roma" singer in Berlin is Anicka Fecova, who arrived from eastern Slovakia via Prague in the 1980s.
"I have been my whole life a professional singer, although I can't read notes and can't play a musical instrument," she told the "ExBerliner" - a Berlin-based monthly English language magazine recently.
Fecova, often hailed as the "mother of Berlin Roma Music," has never had much trouble finding work in the West, playing with her band at the city's Junction Bar, Jazz Train and House of World Cultures.
Like many Roma in Berlin, she finds Berlin's multicultural environment liberating. She stresses back home in the now Czech Republic she never experienced any racism and was always seen as a gypsy.
In Berlin it's different. "Here I'm often mistaken for an Arab or Turk," she says a trifle whimsically.
Life hasn't always been smooth for gypsies in Berlin. In 2005 the city authorities began organising the deportation of about 50,000 refugees, mostly Roma, back to Kosovo after a period of asylum in Germany, in some cases after a decade or more.
Human Rights groups claimed Berlin's action reflected "deeply held prejudices in Germany's immigration system" and was insensitive given the large number of Roma killed in the Nazi era.
City officials reject such talk, saying the Kosovan refugees had known from the outset in the 1990s their stay in Berlin was of limited duration.
