Posts Tagged ‘Eight Days a Week’
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Four in a Row
0August 13, 2017 by admin
A knowledgeable reader has informed me that the plants I cannot identify are the annuals gomphrena and celosia. Except for a single golden stella and 2 pink dog roses, gomphrena and celosia provided the only color behind the benches on Friday, the fourth day in a row of beautiful busking weather in Central Park.
The Imagine Mosaic guitarist was singing “Eight Days a Week.” A yellow-vested workman on break shouted to his buddy, “One of me favorites.”
Leaving Strawberry Fields, I noticed the wood anemone had emerged from the scrub along the path. It was already 5 feet high, with large buds visible in a nest of leaves at the end of the long stems.
At Bethesda Fountain, the cowboy was finishing up “Song Sung Blue” (Neil Diamond, 1972). He motioned to me to sit down for his last number, “Quando, Quando, Quando” (Engelbert Humperdinck, 1968), accompanied by prerecorded strings.
My first hula dancer was a teen-aged Australian boy. At the end of “The Hukilau Song,” he rejoined his parents and walked away.
Obnoxiously loud music started blaring to my right. Something was going on near the big bubble man. A young man had spread roses on the ground in front of a young woman. He dropped to one knee. It was a marriage proposal, complete with an amplified soundtrack. There was nothing to be done but stand quietly and wait for the scene to play itself out. She said yes, they kissed, the crowd applauded. A friend, who had been taking pictures, finally bent down and turned the music off.
A group of young men wanted a picture. One of them gave me a dollar. When I asked where he was from, he answered, “Verona,” as if answering “Italy” would have done an injustice to his heritage.
A cheerful mom from Hagerstown, MD, offered up her son and daughter to the hula. The kids did a credible dance; mom gave me a fiver.
An Asian mom unbuckled her baby from the stroller and gave her a little push toward me. She swayed to the music of “Get Out and Get Under the Moon.” Mom was delighted and handed the baby a dollar to give to me. The child ran off, the mother gave chase and came back with my gratuity.
Another baby girl, named Tenzing, from Tibet, was unleashed by her mother. She walked to within a few feet of me and looked up, locking eyes. When I finished my song, she started to cry. Mom picked her up with one arm, as she dropped a dollar in my case with the other.
A prosperous-looking man in a straw hat and Bermuda shorts put a fiver in my case. As he walked by he said, “Good luck to you in your life.”
A group of Dutchmen walked by. A teenaged boy fell behind to do a hula. I threw a lei over his head and he danced to a quick rendering of the first verse of “The Hukilau Song,” sans intro. Handing back the lei, he said, “You make people happy,” before running off to rejoin his group.
A boy and girl, both under 20, straggled by. “Have you got time for a hula today?” They were hesitant, embarrassed. “We’re homeless,” the boy said.
“All right, then, this hula’s for the homeless.” I asked them to imagine they were in Hawaii, blue sky, warm sand, the ocean waves lapping at the shore. They smiled, swaying as I sang to them like palm trees in the breeze.”
“You know, I feel pretty good,” the boy said, returning his lei. We shook hands.
“Yeah, that was fun,” said the girl. Together, they turned and blended back into the crowd.
A mom, dad and 2 kids sat at the edge of the fountain. The kids had watched the homeless hula. I motioned for them to step up and dance next, but they quickly turned away. When they got up to leave, however, each kid had been provided a dollar for me.
Category Uncategorized | Tags: 'Quando, Eight Days a Week, Get Out and Get Under the Moon, Quando Quando Quando, Song Sung Blue, The Hukilau Song
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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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Easter Monday
0April 7, 2015 by admin
After a lovely Easter weekend, the daffodils have popped and crocuses have opened wide in pastel purples and yellow. As yet budless tulips have pushed their leaves through the groundcover toward the warm sky. Waves of light blue chindoxia grow against the wire fence. The London plane trees, dressed in camouflage green, gray and brown bark at the base, rise to a sepulchral white tangle of bare branches. The forsythia has started showing tiny yellow buds.
At the Imagine Mosaic, one guitarist is singing “Eight Days a Week,” while another stomps past me, complaining into his cell phone about the angry words just exchanged and the punch in the nose he left unthrown. Thus the early season jostling has begun for this lucrative site. I expect that soon these guitarists will work out their platoon system, as they do every year.
Center stage was mine. I set up at the east end of Bethesda Fountain, turned my face to the sky and sang my heart out. In short order, some preteens came by and did the hula. Other little kids, sitting on the benches with their moms or sitters, quickly got the idea. After only 10-15 minutes, there was already $6 in my case.
A mother from California was resting with her daughter beside their bicycles. They enjoyed the show the kids and I put on, eventually wheeling their bikes toward me to chat. The daughter had recently moved to NYC; this was mom’s first visit. They wouldn’t hula, but mom dropped a fiver all the same.
Two women came by for a hula while a third took video. They danced to both verses of the “Hukilau Song” and put a total of $16 in my case, each giving me a bigger bill than the last. A couple of boys followed up with an energetic dance. A young girl stepped up when they’d finished.
“Can I wear a lei for a selfie?” she asked, pulling a dollar from her wallet.
“Of course,” I said, handing her a lei and stepping out of the way.
“No, come back, I want you in the picture too.” Silly me, I thought a selfie was a picture of herself.
At the end of my 90 minute set, I sat down to count my money and pack up. At $31.64, if history is any guide, this could well be the best day I’ll have all season. A 20-something walked up and handed me another dollar. And it just keeps getting better.
Category Uncategorized | Tags: Eight Days a Week, The Hukilau Song
