Posts Tagged ‘The Hukilau Song’
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Drones Come to the Hukilau
0May 8, 2015 by admin
The day brought brilliantly sun-lit, hot, mid-summer weather. The chestnut blossoms have creamy white flowers more than halfway up the stalk; people have spread blankets and picnic under the dense foliage. Because I know the blight will soon turn the chestnut into a brown and withered corpse, I was put in mind of some Mexican art, where skeletons can be seen cavorting, death and life commingled.
The sprinklers are on, surprising walkers from time to time with cool spray. The flame-like leaves of the catalpa are on the boil, sprouting from the branches in all directions.
“Have you got time for a hula today?” A family from Chicago stopped and, with a little encouragement, two young girls, maybe 4 and 6, rocked from side to side and waved their arms in dance. Dad gave me a fiver.
Three passersby, in rapid succession, dumped pocket-loads of change in my case. “You should have an umbrella,” a young man advised. “You’ll burn to a crisp out here.”
“I’ve got a hat, SPF 70, and a bottle of water,” I assured him. “Thanks for your concern.”
A large group of students from the Netherlands wandered into the plaza. A girl with a camera moved to the rhythms, but would not hula, nor would any of her friends. After a few tunes, however, they couldn’t help themselves, and pretty soon a half dozen Dutch girls donned leis, lined up and danced to the Hukilau. They told me they were from Brabant, that part of southern Netherlands that was the battlefield of The Thirty Years’ War. At the end of the dance they wandered off, although 2 girls did come back with a tip for me.
People were looking to the sky, so I looked too. High in the air was a drone, an aircraft maybe 18 inches across with a camera mounted on top, and 4 whirring propellers. It climbed to 50 feet over the fountain, flew over the lake, descended to 15 feet, hovered, rising and falling at the operator’s will. “This has got to be illegal,” I commented to a Greek man on a bicycle who stood, with me, watching.
“There he is,” said the Greek, pointing out a man sitting at the west end of the plaza, who appeared to be staring into a monitor.
The drone was a major distraction that lasted 10-15 minutes. I kept playing, but people were focused on the sky; it was impossible to ignore. And it was totally creepy. I strummed through to the end of my set and started to count my money, $11.82.
Three little girls were attracted by my leis. They gathered around me while I packed up. “Have you got time for a hula today?” I asked them. Their eyes widened, they looked around for the man who had brought them to the park. He looked at me, made a quick evaluation, said ok. So I passed out the leis, put one back on myself, and off we went to the hukilau.
“Turn to your dad so he can take a picture,” I said.
“He’s not our dad,” they told me in unison. “He’s our uncle.”
At the end of the dance, uncle gave me a buck. The little girls squealed as they walked away, “that was so much fun.”
Category Uncategorized | Tags: The Hukilau Song
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No Problem
0May 1, 2015 by admin
I entered the park with some trepidation. There were 3 guitarists in Strawberry Fields, one playing, one on deck and one counting his money on the fringes of the throng. At the outcropping with the international plaque, the homeless guitarist made it 4 musicians operating in the Quiet Zone. I looked around for the Park Rangers, hardly noticing the white dangling bells of the Solomon Seal spreading beneath the trees, or the delicate violets emerging from heart-shaped leaves in the lawn.
At Bethesda Fountain, Rakeem was blowing up a storm on his saxophone. I asked Jim, the big bubble man, if he’d had trouble yesterday. “Yeah, they tried to chase me, but I made them call their sergeant and she said I was okay.”
Rakeem said, “I haven’t had any problem, and I just saw them walking by a few minutes ago. They rousted you? With that puny little uke?”
I set up on the path, looked around, started to play. Not long afterward, an energetic young man asked if I could play while he rapped. I asked him for a beat and he started huffing and bupping in syncopated time.
“Sorry, man, I’m pretty much a plink-a-plink kind of guy.” After playing around with a few more chord patterns, he found one he liked (Am, E7, Am, E7) and off he rapped about hanging in the park with the ukulele man. About 10 feet away, a cameraman and soundman captured the show.
His name was Ed Bassmaster, a YouTube star, and he was gathering material for his upcoming tv show on CMT (Country Music Television). Ed pulled $4 out of his own pocket, then a production assistant gave me another $20 after I signed a release. He took my card and said he’d let me know when the show was on.
An old man took my picture and gave me a dollar. Another man emptied his pocket of quarters; he was a Brit, judging by his “you’re welcome” when I thanked him. A Japanese man listened to “Honolulu Baby.” After 2 verses, when the 3rd chorus came around, he started singing quietly with me. We chatted for a while. “Haru wa kite,” I said.
“Yes, spring has arrived,” he said. He dug deeply into his backpack and pulled out a change purse. Turning his back to me, he seemed to be counting for a long time, then he put 17 pennies in my case.
A black man, bopping his head to the music, walked by with his girlfriend. As he got close, he let go of her hand, crumpled up a single and tossed it, like a foul shot, into my case.
A couple from Virginia came in view. “Have you got time for a hula today?”
“No, no, but I like your music,” said the man, giving me a dollar. “If we did have time, I’m sure my wife would love to hula.” A guitar player himself, he was interested in my instrument, how it was tuned. I handed it to him; once he got used to the missing 2 strings, he was playing beautifully. It wasn’t long after that I had a lei around his wife’s neck and off she went to the Hukilau. “Boy, that’s worth something,” he said, handing me a 10-spot.
Every few minutes, it seemed, someone was giving me money: a few teenagers, 2 German girls, a dog walker who swooped past, dropped a buck, and said, “That’s because you sound so happy.”
By the end of my set, I’d made $47.76, a very fine take for a day that started out with so much anxiety.
Leaving the park, I saw the song and dance man whom I warned last year to lose the amplifier. Waiting patiently for him to finish his number were 2 park rangers, not Officers Brown and Wheeler this time, rather Officers Thomas and Gonzales. They wanted him to turn off the amp, and to take down the self-promoting sign he’d rigged to the balustrade.
I recognized Officer Thomas from years past and, explaining what had happened yesterday, asked if the rules had changed. When I named Brown and Wheeler, a knowing look crossed her face. “Don’t worry,” she said. “If you aren’t amplified and are at least 50 feet from a monument, no problem.”
“Would you say it’s 50 feet from the fountain to dry ground?”
Officer Gonzales took a good look. “No problem,” she said.
Category Uncategorized | Tags: Ed Bassmaster, Honolulu Baby, 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
