1. Fifth Graders and Yorkshiremen

    0

    September 30, 2018 by admin

    The cardboard sign was stapled to a stick hammered into the ground; it showed an arrow pointing straight ahead to “The Set.”  Not good, I thought.

     

    Along the path past Strawberry Fields, I checked in on the wood anemones.  Having been beaten to the ground by this week’s downpour, they’d recovered a little.  Both plants were flowering in the single digits.  I didn’t stop to count.

     

    Across the road, another sign; this time it showed an arrow to “Set #2.”  I briefly worried there’d be no place to play, until I heard the acrobats’ music coming from the promenade.  Looking over the balustrade above Bethesda Fountain, I saw with relief that the place was all mine.

     

    I got a handful of change from a kid passing by.  From a handsomely dressed woman, more change which included, upon inspection, a Susan B.

     

    A class of 20-25 fifth graders marched past.  I asked the teacher in the lead, “Does this group have time for a hula today?”

     

    “You guys want to hula?”

     

    There was pandemonium.  The kids grabbed the leis, posed and danced, before I could say a word about the hukilau, so I just started singing, “What a beautiful day for fishing…”  They were spread out around the fountain in a 45 degree arc.  Kids in the middle jostled to star in their teacher’s video, while kids on the edges barely moved.  One girl danced beautifully, her eyes on me.  After the first verse, those with leis gave them to those without, and the dance came to a riotous conclusion.

     

    The teacher hustled everyone back in line.  I collected the leis – one was broken – and put the solar hula girls back on their feet.  The girl who had danced the lovely hula pulled a quarter from her skirt pocket and tossed it into my case.  “Aloha.”

     

    A man who’d been listening with his family got up and put a buck in my case.  He was from Leeds.  “In the north, like George Formby,” he said, referring to the English music hall performer, star of stage and screen, and composer, in 1933, of “With My Little Ukulele in My Hand.”

     

    “And like the Beatles,” he bragged.

     

    “And Beethoven,” I added.

     

    “And the Monkees.”  He walked off laughing.

     

    A mom followed her 13-month-old daughter around the fountain.  Whenever she toddled my way, I tried to lure her in for a hula, with mom’s encouragement, but the kid wasn’t interested.

     

    A young man came off the bench and pitched a dollar into my case.  “Thanks, man.”

     

    The kid came back.  I picked up the torn lei and tied it back together to form a baby lei.  She inched closer.  I turned and slowly waved the lei, like a hypnotist might wave a pocket watch.  She took another step closer.  We locked eyes and I gave her my big Mr. Ukulele smile.  Off she ran to mom, who swept her up and plopped her into her stroller.  “Thank you,” said mom, giving me me a dollar.

     

    The change of seasons is palpable.  The temperature stayed in the low 70s, and the breezes blew cool.  I had $7.58 for my efforts today, and I barely broke a sweat.

     

     

    Category Uncategorized | Tags:

  2. Hot and Humid

    0

    September 27, 2018 by admin

    The begonias and Michaelmas daisies along Central Park West just won’t quit.  Behind the benches at the Women’s Gate, a few roses bloom above a bushful of hips.  Two yellow foxglove, with thimble-like flowers, have emerged in the middle ground, where the dinner plate hibiscus has melted away in the heat.  The reddening dogwood fruit resembles spherical strawberries.

     

    At the Imagine Mosaic a new guitarist has shown up with an amplifier.  The button seller told me that he’s been told several times to lose the amp, to no avail.

     

    The crowds were sparse at Bethesda Fountain.  A kid of 12 or 13 dropped a handful of quarters into my case.  A few songs later, an elderly man, walking by, covered the change with a single.  A baby sitter, with two charges, gave me $2.  The kids were too young to dance, but they came back later for a picture.  The boy of 3 or 4 put on a lei, but the girl, not yet 2, ran crying back to the sitter.

     

    “Real nice,” said Carole, with camera around her neck.  “Making the little girls cry.”  It was too hot and humid for her to stand with me in the sun for long.

     

    An Asian teenager spotted me as she walked down the path from the Boathouse.  Sporting an ear-to-ear grin, she danced a lovely hula to “The Hukilau Song.”

     

    A young woman, Kate, from the Parks Department, roamed the fountain on her lunch break.  We chatted for a while and she danced a lazy hula (“Why not?”) before moving on.  A Chinese photographer captured a dollar’s worth of “Honolulu Eyes” on video.  A trio of young women, 1 from Westchester and 2 from East 86th St., lined up for a hula.  They snapped photos while they danced, laughing all the way to the hukilau.

     

    After an hour, the crowd thinned further, until several songs went out only to the trees and sky.  At such times, I often close my eyes and play for myself alone.  When I opened them again, a tall blonde woman and her tall blond daughter had just dropped $2 into my case.

     

    I closed my set, as always, with “My Little Grass Shack.”  A 30-something bicyclist, in spandex and a racing cap, walked with a handful of change from the bench where he’d been listening.  When he returned to his bench, I thought for a moment I should play him another tune, but at that moment the sun came out from behind a cloud, and the tropical humidity dissuaded me, so I stuffed $10.55 into my pocket and went home.

    Category Uncategorized | Tags: , ,

  3. Mr. Ukulele Loses His Aloha

    0

    September 21, 2018 by admin

    A gray Thursday in the park, the platoon guitarist pleads “Let It Be” at the Imagine Mosaic.  By the lake, the jazz combo’s drummer pounds out a samba, joined by bass, guitar and horn.  Colin is still playing at the fountain, for another half hour, he tells me.  Along the path to my second venue, it is strangely quiet:  no caricaturists, hand-writing analysts, artists.  I set up under the maple, where, unlike at the fountain, I don’t need to project, so even my busking is subdued.

     

    Then I spotted Eugene and his parents, fresh off the red-eye from California.  Eugene was a stocky early teen, with bright pink hair, shaved at the temples.  “Have you got time for a hula today?”

     

    The parents kept walking, but Eugene had time.  I set him up with a lei and simple instructions, then off we went to the hukilau.  Mom and dad came back to take pictures, while Eugene grinned broadly through his orthodontics.  He told me he too played the uke.  I handed him mine, and his parents and I chatted until Eugene was ready to sing his song.

     

    “I haven’t played in almost 3 weeks,” he said, by way of apology.  His first chord was D major 7th, a teenage angst-filled chord if ever there was one.  When he was done, he handed the uke back to me and reached for his wallet.

     

    “No, mom,” he said, when she offered to pay.  “This was my thing.”  He had a dollar out and ready.

     

    “I’ve got it,” she said, and handed me a fiver.

     

    “Thanks, Mom.”

     

    I packed up my gear and headed for Bethesda Fountain, where Colin was finishing up.

     

    A young couple walked by.  “Have you got time for a hula today?”

     

    They were from Tennessee, he visiting her, who now lived in Flatbush.  They danced beautifully together, with beatific smiles, very much in love.  When I took back the leis, he handed me another fiver.  The warm aloha of Eugene and Tennessee had already made the day a great success.

     

    All of a sudden, as loud as can be, “The Theme from the Godfather” crashed into my conscientiousness, played on the accordion.  I looked in the corners under the balcony formed by the stairs, both north and south, where accordionists, like cockroaches, can be found.  I looked along the edge of the fountain.  I couldn’t locate the source at first, but there he was, his back to me, not even 90 degrees from where I played.

     

    There is an etiquette to busking, the first rule of which is you don’t set up against another busker.  Here was a gross violation.  I tried to ignore him.  When I moved farther from him, he moved closer.  It was maddening, hostile, intolerable.  What was I to do?

     

    What I did do was finish out my set, put away my 2 fivers, pack up and head out, but just walking past the accordionist was not possible.  I strode up to him and said, “Next time you come out, how about looking around to see who else is here.  You didn’t even try to keep some space between us.”

     

    “Vaffanculo.”

     

    “What did you say?  Do you even know what I’m talking about?  Do you speak English?”  All the while he muttered unintelligibles, still playing his damned instrument.

     

    Now that I’d lost my aloha, what?  Push him in the fountain?

     

    It was time to leave.

    Category Uncategorized | Tags: ,

« Older Entries

Archives