‘Uncategorized’ Category
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“It’s Vicious Out Here”
0May 9, 2022 by admin
At Central Park West and 72nd St., waves of white tulips, with clumps of forget-me-nots, lead me into the park. Bottlebrush bushes display their white wares; bleeding hearts dangle from a few dicentra plants near the budless wisteria.
Along the path I see solomon’s seal, with tiny pendulous white flowers with variegated leaves. There is a hot pink azelia and a plot of spent daffodils. Under the cherry trees are a thick carpet of pink petals.
Bethesda Fountain is thronged with people. It is a beautiful day, yet as I look over the scene from the top of the stairs, the atmosphere crackles with lawlessness: No fewer than 3 buskers are amplified, 2 guitars and a chanteuse. I walked through the chaos and cacophony, casting a stink-eye at the outlaws. Under the Norway maple, I set up between 2 painters selling scenes of the park.
After 30 minutes, I invited 2 young Frenchwomen to dance the hula to “The Hukilau Song.” One took my proffered lei enthusiastically, but the other stepped away to watch. I played both verses, and brought the number to big ending, after which this jeune fille handed me back the lei and walked away.
A Korean grandmother took a toddler out of his stroller and urged him to dance. “Dance, dance.” Barely able to walk, he managed to keep his balance while he bent his knees and pumped his arms up and down. We all yelled with glee at the end of the dance. Grandma gave me a dollar.
Shortly before my 90 minute set was over, a woman of a certain age put a dollar in my case, bringing the total for the day to $2.
Passing through Strawberry Fields on my way out of the park I saw Randy, the dobro and guitar player, at the Imagine Mosaic. It had been 2 years since we’d seen each other. After exchanging inquiries about our mutual health and wellness, Randy pointed to a small group of Italian tourists. “They ask me to do stuff,” he said, “pose with them, sing a song into their friggin’ cellphone. Then, nothing.” He sighed. “You know what I think it is? These goombahs don’t know to tip, they never travelled before, they’re ignorant and suspicious of everything outside their village.”
“I don’t think we can say the same for the French girl who danced a hula and walked away.”
“Maybe we can. Remember, the world has stood still for 2 years.”
“I see you’ve gone to the dark side,” I said, indicating his amp.
Randy shrugged, more of an acknowledgement than an apology. “It’s vicious out here,” he said. “Time to take the gloves off.”
Category Uncategorized | Tags: The Hukilau Song
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Mr. Ukulele Returns
0April 14, 2022 by admin
Another plague year has passed. Yesterday, having assessed the weather, local covid-19 infection rates, my mood, and my collection of clean aloha shirts, I took the subway to 72nd St., and walked east to Central Park’s Women’s Gate. Over the wall, white and yellow daffodils bloom among the purple myrtle, with waves of blowsy tulips in various shades of pink, leading one into the park. Three tall yellow fritillaria, crown imperial, rise above the fading tulips; father on, behind the leafless rose bushes, another royal fritillaria ascends. It is still too early for most plants, but the spring blossoms are glorious: grape hyacinth, wood hyacinth, violets, forsythia, hellebores.
At the Imagine Mosaic, the platoon guitarists now tolerate amplification. The chestnut tree has been pruned to within an inch of its life; tiny buds, looking like Christmas tree lights, poke out of the few remaining limbs and branches.
Farther into the park, blackened magnolia flowers have bloomed and died in the sun, while in the shade of neighboring trees, the flowers are fresh, the size of an open hand.
Austere Daniel Webster, standing erect, oversees the mown lawn at his feet where fat robins peck for worms. In the distance, pink cherry blossoms light up the horizon with color.
Well before I turned to descend the stairs at Bethesda Fountain, I heard the amps, one on the east side, one on the west — bad behavior everywhere. Moving out of the plaza toward my spot on the path to the Boathouse, beneath the Norway Maple, I asked the eastern guitarist if anyone had spoken to him about the use of electronic devices. His response: “I don’t care about that.”
To say that I was out of practice is to understate how much the pandemic has eroded my skills. I forgot chords, words, whole songs. Yet with repetition, the music returned, and under that warm spring sky, with my mask in my pocket, I felt the rush of pleasure that animated Mr. Ukulele from the beginning, 14 years ago.
A man walked by and put a dollar in my case. Two young Chinese women walked by, conferred, then each put a dollar in my case.
A little girl of 6 or 7 stood by the fence with her mother and little brother to watch the boats on the lake. I invited her several times to dance the hula, but she was shy. She would peek at me from behind her mother’s skirts. I would wave a lei at her and she’d giggle and hide her face. Finally, the mother asked me if the leis were for sale. Leis, of course, are my means of production, so I don’t like to sell them, but knowing I had an unopened bag of leis from prior years, I said, “Ok, $2.”
The mother flipped through some bills in her wallet. “I give you a ten.”
Two young women, one from Beacon, NY, one from Queens, stopped to dance the hula to “The Hukilau Song.” They said they didn’t know how, but they were naturals. They laughed and swayed and gave me $2 a piece.
A teenage boy, like many like him over the years, felt compelled to throw a nickel in my case. “Mahalo,” said I.
A bride and groom walked down the path with their photographer. It was a November/December romance. The bride thought it would be a good idea to take a picture with Mr. Ukulele, the groom not so much. Nevertheless, he bent his head to receive my lei, as did his bride, and we three smiled for the camera.
Ninety minutes flew by. I closed with “Little Grass Shack,” then counted my take: $19.05.
Category Uncategorized | Tags: My Little Grass Shack, The Hukilau Song
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Day 1 of the After Times
0May 22, 2021 by admin
The corona virus pandemic of 2020 put me, along with millions of others, out of work for all of last year. Wednesday, the first day of New York City’s reopening, saw temperatures in the 80’s, low humidity and a lapis blue sky. The compulsion to venture out for an afternoon of busking was irresistible. At the entry to the park at West 72nd St., only one pedicab driver was working, and no vendors. The spring annuals were not yet planted out; only the red dog roses seemed happy. Trash trees, like ailanthus, poked through the undergrowth, awaiting the gardeners’ shears.
At the Imagine Mosaic, a single guitarist played “Eleanor Rigby,” starting with the last verse (“…died in the church…”), then hearing himself, starting again (…picked up the rice…). The winding path to the crosswalk which leads to the statue of Daniel Webster was lined with hellebore and wild geranium.
At Bethesda Fountain, The Central Park Conservancy Garden Party was underway, with all the brightly dressed ladies sporting their best chapeaux for the event. Before hiking down to the Norway Maple to start my set, I spotted Dominic, the big bubble man. We fist-bumped our greetings. There was a tacit acknowledgement between us: hula-dancing and big bubbles, signatures of the before times, were now harbingers of the after times. Before parting, Dominic warned me about the amplified guitarist who has made himself a regular.
The foot traffic was light, allowing a little time to tune both my uke and my voice. I started out slowly, quietly, fumbling at first with chords I hadn’t played in 18 months. Muscle memory, however, is a wonderful thing; within 5 minutes I confidently started my set. Mr. Ukulele was back.
A large group from San Diego walked by. “Aloha. Have you got time for a hula dance today?”
After the initial hesitancy, a lanky teenager with a wise-guy smile stepped forward. I fitted him for a lei and off he went to “The Hukilau Song.” He was all arms and legs, not a hint of grace, yet he delighted the adults, as well as the other kids in his group. His mom gave him 2 singles for me, and his dad kicked in another.
A young couple from Arizona stopped to dance the hula. They swayed shyly to “The Hukilau Song.” “Thanks for stopping,” I told them when we’d finished. The man put a fiver in my case, and they walked off hand in hand.
A tall, thin boy with a pretty blonde girlfriend stopped to introduce himself. He was working to complete his requirements for Eagle Scout and asked if he could record me for MacDonald House, so when the kids came back from their treatments, they’d be greeted by my happy uke. I put my hand out in assent, and we exchanged the official Boy Scout handshake. I recruited the girlfriend to dance the hula. At the finale of “The Hukilau Song,” he pointed the camera at my solar-powered hula girls. “Fantastic,” he said, “I’ll run this on a loop, they’ll love it.”
He pulled $3 out of his wallet and tossed them in my case.
Two young women in black caps and purple gowns walked by. “Have you got time for a graduation hula?”
While I put leis over their mortarboards, a woman stopped to ask, “What college?”
“NYU.”
“My niece goes there, she’s trying to decide whether to stay in the dorm or get an apartment.” There then followed a discussion about dorm fees and average rents in the neighborhood. “Oh, I’m sorry,” said the woman, seeing me patiently waiting for her to go away, whereupon she wished the graduates luck and went away.
Despite not having a clue what they were going to do next, the recent graduates gave me a fiver, bringing my first day’s total to $16.
Category Uncategorized | Tags: Eleanor Rigby, The Hukilau Song
