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The Spring Sweep
0April 30, 2015 by admin
The day started off well. The guitarist at the Imagine Mosaic was playing “Eight Days a Week,” and people sitting on the nearby benches were singing along. Picnickers had spread out under the deceptively healthy-looking chestnut tree. A natural mosaic caught my eye: pink magnolia petals strewn among yellow dandelions. Across the road to the south, cherry blossom clusters the size of softballs lit up the sky. Also to the south, two enormous erections rose twice the height of any other buildings on the skyline.
At the fountain, a modest number of people sat around the benches, a photo shoot was taking place by the lake, and a black dog pranced in the water. Two little children, restrained by their mom, tried to climb headfirst into the water to join it. A kibitzer in a suit and tie watched the action. “Have you got time for a hula today?”
He was waiting for a friend, who took so long to catch up that the man felt compelled to reward me with $2 for keeping him entertained. The two little children, saved from drowning, sat on the bricks in front of me to listen, reminding me of Maggie. The photographer, Ann Price, sent me a second photo of me and Maggie.
The day’s Aloha was shattered by Rangers Wheeler and Brown, uniformed Parks Department employees who advised me that I was playing in a Quiet Zone and had to move. They suggested I move to the Arcade or to the Bandshell on the other side of the road. I will not attempt to record the conversation that ensued; suffice it to say I mounted a spirited, unsuccessful defense of my First Amendment rights, was threatened with a summons, then moved on to my second favorite location, under the maple on the path to the Boathouse.
We buskers have seen this before. Every spring, with the exception of 2014, the powers-that-be clear the park of musicians. Over a period of a few weeks, enforcement is strict, so that by June only the strong of heart remain. The Quiet Zone Wars of 2011-2013 produced a settlement, negotiated by NY Civil Liberties Union lawyer Norman Siegel. It contained some time, duration and location restrictions, but was generally workable, especially for acoustic soloists.
At my second location, despite the high fence masking work on the rowboat rental operation, I cast my eyes to the heavens, to the fluffy white clouds, to the gracefully proportioned skyline of Central Park West, to the cardinal screeching from the towering mulberry tree. Slowly, the Aloha Spirit returned. A dollar here, a dollar there from passing men, 50 cents from an old lady, a dollar from a late teen boy who apologized that it wasn’t more.
Four Australian lads, just arrived, hula-ed through a verse of “The Hukilau Song.” “So what have you guys planned for today?”
“Not much,” said one. “We’ve already seen enough. I think we’ll head for a bar. Oh, and there’s a concert tonight with an Australian band, you should come.”
A school group trooped by. When I asked where they were from, someone shouted “Michigan.”
“Have you heard this one?” I sang a cappella, “Oh, how I wish again, I were back in Michigan, down on the farm.”
One of the kids gave me a dollar. “Thanks,” he said, “I never heard that one.”
A young woman cresting the hill and coming into sight reached deep into her very large purse for something to give me. A teenage boy dropped 60 cents.
Rangers Wheeler and Brown then showed up again. A walkie-talkie crackled on Wheeler’s belt. “It’s you again,” she said with amusement. “You’re our call.”
“What call?”
“We got a call about you, a complaint. You can’t play here. We told you where you can play.”
“Who complained? About what?”
“We can’t tell you that. Now move or we’ll call NYPD.”
It was almost quitting time, so I counted up $7.10 and stuffed it in my breast pocket. When I got home I wrote a note to Norman Siegel. Tomorrow, if it’s a nice day with temperatures above 60, I will once more into the fray.
Category Uncategorized | Tags: Eight Days a Week, Norman Siegel, The Hukilau Song
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Here Come the Leaves
0April 29, 2015 by admin
The park has greened up since last week. At the Women’s Gate entrance to the park, where the bicycle rickshaws congregate, wood hyacinths have joined the purple pansies, and red white-striped tulips and pink bleeding heart mingle among the white tulips. The chestnut tree, blighted though it may be, has fully developed 7-lobed leaves with 4 inch spiky blossoms. The catalpa, one of the last trees to leaf out, shows the tiniest bit of green at the tip of its bare branches, like green pilot lights indicating the fire of life just below the bark.
At the fountain, I tuned up and began my set under a wind-swept sun-drenched sky. From time to time, fountain spray blew against the back of my neck and arms. In rapid succession, 3 people put singles in my case.
Maggie the dog came to sit at my feet. Her master and I chatted for a while, but when it was time to move on, Maggie wouldn’t budge. “I guess she wants another song,” the master said. After a second song, he peeled a single off a wad of bills for me, picked up Maggie and carried her away.
Two young women, who had been eating lunch on the bench in front of me, stopped to drop a fiver when they were done.
A toddler and I locked eyes. Her father, pushing an empty stroller, noticed the connection, took a dollar out of his wallet and tried to explain to the kid what to do with it. When that didn’t work, he walked her to me and completed the transaction.
A middle-school group, following the red umbrella held high by the leader, stopped to hear instructions in English and French. “Have you got time for a hula today?” I asked 4 girls as they walked by. They seemed not to understand and kept on walking. I had better luck with another quartet of classmates. Seeing the dance, more kids wanted a try, and the leis moved from neck to neck as the dance got more and more free-style. The group was from Quebec. “Is the hula part of the curriculum up there?”
Altogether 10-12 kids danced, from which I earned $0 Canadian.
Category Uncategorized | Tags:
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Sienna, Sam and Ann
0April 23, 2015 by admin
Four 40-something women stopped me as I walked by and asked me to take their picture as they sat at the edge of the fountain. After two snaps, I invited them to do a hula. “Not me.” “Not me.” “Not me.”
“I will,” said one.
“I knew she would,” the others said. I quickly unpacked my uke, and off we went to the hukilau. The women were from Texas, the dancer from the Houston area. She closed her eyes and undulated languorously, while her friends took photos. I got a fiver from a friend and a buck from the dancer, an excellent start to the day.
There were several groups of elementary school kids assembling on the stairs or at the fountain for class pictures. They were young and hard to manage, so I wasn’t surprised that the teachers did not want to stop for a hula. But a quartet of high school boys, on a trip to NYC from Atlanta, had wandered from their classmates and wanted to dance. I gave them a quick lesson, they lined up and danced a marvelous freestyle. When called back to their group, they dropped $2 into my case.
A little girl of 4 or so walked up to me, wanting to dance. “Are you here with your mom or dad?” I asked. “Go ask them if it’s ok.” She ran off and soon returned with permission. Two verses of “The Hukilau Song” were not enough for her, so I played “My Little Grass Shack” too. Off she ran again, this time returning with a dollar for me. Her mother, father and brother followed. She told me her name was Sienna. “The color or the town?”
Her brother answered, “The color, two n’s.”
Walking down the path toward me came the dog Maggie and her master. They’ve been regulars over the years. Maggie loves my music; she happily sits in front of me to listen. A photographer thought the scene cute and started taking pictures. A toddler on a leash approached and bounced up and down on her chubby knees, grinning and clapping. Finally a 75-year-old man in a baseball cap stopped to listen. “This is my music,” he said in a thick middle European accent, and as I sung out “Get Out and Get Under the Moon” he began to tap dance. Amid all this chaos, money piled high in my case.
The tap dancer was Sam Katz, who after a career dancing in the city now lived in Parsippany. He had not lost his joie de vivre. The photographer was Ann Price. Here is one of the pictures she took.
Another 1pm drought took hold, and for the next 30 minutes, except for 2 women bikers eating lunch, I sang to the empty spaces. As I packed up, one of the bikers approached and gave me $3. “Thanks for entertaining us,” she said.
Category Uncategorized | Tags: Get Out and Get Under the Moon, My Little Grass Shack, The Hukilau Song
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