1. A Good Friday

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    March 27, 2016 by admin

    The sky looked like a concrete sidewalk, including the variations of gray and the swirling irregularities, as if smoothed by a distracted workman. Rain was predicted for the morning, but by noon it still hadn’t come.

    There seemed to be no life on the wisteria covering the north pergola. Upon closer investigation, however, I could just make out some growing tips emerging from the vine’s creases. It was the change of shift at the Imagine Mosaic, one guitarist carrying away his case to count his money, the next sitting down on the back of a bench, his feet on the seat, his case on the ground, tuning up. The magnificent magnolia was drawing a crowd; I edged my way past to avoid spoiling anyone’s photos.

    Was that a raindrop? No. Is that a dandelion? Yes.

    The cowboy had arrived before me, so I set up under the leafless maple. A man smiled as he tossed me 50 cents, then looked to the sky. “It’s not gonna rain,” I said, just as the leading edge of the front moved overhead, and annoying drops turned into real rain, rain I could no longer ignore. I folded everything into my case and headed for the tunnel under the road leading to the Conservatory Pond. Although I was no longer walking with an air boot and cane, I could still only make my way slowly, so I got pretty wet.

    The space under the tunnel was packed with tourists waiting it out. Despite the darkness, I found a cloth in my case and wiped down my uke. After 10-15 minutes, the rain stopped, the sun peaked through, the people scattered, and I headed back to the maple. On a hunch, however, I kept walking to the fountain to find the cowboy hadn’t come back, so for the next hour, center stage was mine.

    A school group from San Diego had time to hula. Eight or nine teenagers donned leis and pranced around. Once again, my case filled with bills. After the dance, the kids hung around, during which time I learned that they’d never heard of Laurel and Hardy (“Honolulu Baby”) or Dean Martin (“Making Love Ukulele Style”). One girl asked what decade my songs were from. “Mostly the 20’s and 30’s.” The look on her face made me realize just how long ago that must seem. Comparatively speaking, how many songs from the Civil War did I know at her age?

    “Have you got time for a hula today?”

    A shy teenage girl from Virginia was talked into dancing by one of her friends. After a few bars of “The Hukilau Song,” a pair of younger girls from somewhere else wanted to join in. “Put on a lei.” I motioned to the colorful array of leis draped over the back of my case. The three danced a verse, the Virginian bowed out, and the kids kept waving their arms until the final Huki-huki-huki-hukilau. What had started as a dreary day was now bright and warm. When I played “Tiptoe through the Tulips,” I felt that by singing, as the song says, “we’ll keep the showers away.” The front moved through;people were happy to add to my growing pile.

    Over my shoulder I could hear amplified music. It was the Chinese accordion player, sitting on her stool in her cap and sweater, midway between me and the Boyd singers in the arcade. She was really too close – I could have called her out on her breach of busker etiquette — but I didn’t. It had been a fine day. I made $22.42.

    As I walked past the accordion player, she played the theme from “The Godfather.” In a box at her feet were a few dollars and her CDs. My CD, “Aloha, New York,” is currently out of print. I must attend to that.

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  2. The Tough Get Busking

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    March 24, 2016 by admin

    It was another warm day for March. The park is slowly showing color: purply-white phlox divericata, red-striped ground tulips with golden yellow middles, deep blue wood hyacinth, yellow daffodils, baby-blue chindoxia and dusty brown hellebore. The rose bushes are bursting with claret-colored leaves, the magnolias have popped, the forsythia have flowered, and the fern-like leaves of the willows by the lake droop toward the water.

    The buskers too are out in force. Benny and Griff still cavort at the foot of the stairs by the fountain, and the amplified cowboy sings along with his recordings. At my secondary location, near the maple on the path, the doo-wop ensemble, consisting of a bass viol, a lead singer and 4 backups, has gathered a large crowd around them. I crossed the road in search of place to set up. After wandering through the area around the Conservatory Pond, I circled back and found a place under a pin oak.

    A young man started me off with a dollar, followed a few minutes later by an older man, who folded his bill into a tight aerodynamic package which he launched into my case. A trio of bicyclists from Denmark stopped near me, one of whom dismounted to give me dollar.

    An older couple stopped to chat. I’d seen them before over the years. We talked about retirement; they wanted to know where the Meta the harpist and Arlen the dulcimerist had gone. I, of course, could not tell them.

    A large school group came toward me from the east. “Does this group have time for a hula dance?” I asked the apparent leader. “Could be,” she said.

    I handed out a dozen leis, my entire inventory, and off we went to the Hukilau. At the end of 2 verses, the dollars started rolling in. Usually a large group is good for $3-4, but these kids, from somewhere in Connecticut, kept dropping money in my case until there was a large heap of bills. I put my metal capo on top of the pile to keep it from blowing away.

    Not long afterward, 2 girls from the Florida panhandle went to the Hukilau. One of them gave me a dollar, the second gave me $2, and a third, the designated documentarian, kicked in a fiver.

    A steady flow of music lovers added to the pile until quitting time. Despite the competition, which had driven me to set up in this unfamiliar spot, it was a stellar day.

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  3. Two in a Row

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    March 11, 2016 by admin

    On the Monday after the big storm in January, feeling something like a caged tiger, I set out for the gym, leaped over a snow pile at the corner, fell and broke my leg. I write this now to convey the sheer joy I felt yesterday, bound though I was by a walking boot and cane. Going out with my uke two days in a row approached bliss.

    The park retained its overall earthen colors. The sky was mostly gray; warm, wet winds blew the occasional hole in the clouds to let in some sun. I saw more daffs than yesterday. The rose wood was greening, and when I looked hard I saw the nubs of growing tips. Except for the stray forsythia floret, nothing.

    The guitar platoon at the Imagine Mosaic is back, if they ever left.

    At the foot of the western staircase, where the acrobats work, 2 clown-like guitarists sang and danced to silly songs. They’d set up a cardboard bandstand reading Benny and Griff, and seemed ready to do their show all day. I assessed the situation for conflict. No amplification, no foul. “I play over there,” I told them, gesturing with my cane. They were very nice, they called me “sir.”

    After I sang my openers, “Making Love Ukulele Style,” “Sunday,” “Fit as a Fiddle,” “I Saw Stars,” and “Ukulele Lady,” a man my age, who’d been sitting by the water to my left, came up and asked, “Surfboard accident?” He complimented my voice, gave me a dollar and encouraged me to keep up the good work.

    A slim, beautiful black woman, close-cropped hair, flowing clothes and bare arms hula-ed toward the benches with her male companion. I encouraged her to put on a lei and do a proper hula, and she did. We went through both verses of “The Hukilau Song,” by which time she’d drawn a crowd. Even her friend was taking pictures. She gave me back the lei and returned to the bench.

    An older Asian woman stepped forward and put a dollar in my case. She had been in the crowd and appreciated the expressive beauty of the hula.

    The next dancer was a Dallas girl of 7 or 8, who pranced around quite freely while her mother got it on video. Then 3 more Texans, from a teenage tour from El Paso, gave their rendition of the hula. Quite a bit of banter and dollars were exchanged, as their classmates wanted in on what was happening. “You’re my second group from Texas today,” I told them. “Is this Texas in New York Week?”

    “It’s a big state,” I was told.

    With my final song, “Little Grass Shack,” I sat down to count the day’s haul, $12, then hoisted myself to my feet and started home. At the foot of the stairs, Benny and Griff were still at it.

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