Two of my (sort of) interests converged on Sunday when ukulele players were invited to entertain the crowd at the Mayor's Cup, a kayak marathon that began in the Hudson River at Battery Park City and ended somewhat short of circumnavigating the isle on a Sunday afternoon. I could see it was too windy for me to go out in a motorboat on Jamaica Bay—frankly, it was too windy even to bike downtown to the Battery—but this did not stop the kayakers from pushing off into the Hudson. Now, make no mistake: I have never been caught in a kayak, for the simple reason that if I ever got into a kayak I would never be able to get out again. I would be like one of those mythological creatures, a Centaur, half woman, half surf-ski: a surfosaur.
So I was lazing around on Sunday, feeling bad not so much for missing the kayak race as for not coming out to support Ukulele Fun, in which some friends were playing. I hoped they had brought along fingerless gloves. I needn't have worried: the event was cancelled, both uke and race. Here is a description of the conditions from the Times: "The wind picked up speed ... and worked against the current to create a volatile chop, said Greg Porteus, a retired New York State trooper and the safety officer for the race. The currents in the river overtook several racers immediately after they turned north from the harbor, leaving them struggling to control their boats." One guy ran into a barge, and there was a pileup as kayakers tried to avoid him and negotiate the current. Several people had to be rescued from the water. Luckily, nobody drowned. If I were the Mayor, I would take my name off this event.
Read the whole article here and watch hair-raising footage of the race from the makers of the kayaks, who believe that there's no bad publicity.
Showing posts with label ukulele players. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ukulele players. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Friday, September 12, 2008
Caravan
Last April in Provincetown, the Ukulele Caravan made its climactic stop at a memorial, mit ukulele, for Frank D. Schaefer, the proprietor of the White Horse Inn, who died a year ago this weekend, on September 14, 2007. Frank’s wife, Mary J. Martin Schaefer, a.k.a. Uke Diva, told the crowd (and it was a crowd) that at first Frank said he didn’t want a memorial, but, when pressed, he said, Well, maybe something at the Arts Association, with ukulele.
It was good to remember Frank, and touching to realize that he drew many of his friends from among people who had originally been guests at his inn. One such guest who became a friend repeated a story that Frank had told (imitating Frank's enthusiastic German accent) about a Provincetown character who invited him for Thanksgiving and put popcorn in the turkey stuffing: “Popcorn flying out the ass!”
The music at the memorial mit ukulele was enough to win over the most hardened ukulele skeptic. John Kavanagh (above, with Mary), of Nova Scotia, played Bach and “When You Wish Upon a Star.” Patsy Monteleone (right) played a sublime arrangement of Duke Ellington’s “Caravan.” Sonic Uke, a.k.a. Jason Tagg (above, with cookies) and Ted Gottfried (below Jason), the duo who produced the Caravan and who dreamt up the annual New Year’s Eve Uke Drop in the Village, did something silly in platinum-blond wigs, and a young woman called Jamie Scandal (below), who had a kind of clownish Mae West shtick, said that, though she hadn’t known Frank Schaefer, she drew comfort from the knowledge that “normal people will find each other.”
Roni and Peter, guests who had become friends and doubled as uke buffs, baked ukulele-shaped cookies. There was good champagne, and when the memorial proper was over, everyone went back to the White Horse and played into the night.
Frank would have loved it.
It was good to remember Frank, and touching to realize that he drew many of his friends from among people who had originally been guests at his inn. One such guest who became a friend repeated a story that Frank had told (imitating Frank's enthusiastic German accent) about a Provincetown character who invited him for Thanksgiving and put popcorn in the turkey stuffing: “Popcorn flying out the ass!”
The music at the memorial mit ukulele was enough to win over the most hardened ukulele skeptic. John Kavanagh (above, with Mary), of Nova Scotia, played Bach and “When You Wish Upon a Star.” Patsy Monteleone (right) played a sublime arrangement of Duke Ellington’s “Caravan.” Sonic Uke, a.k.a. Jason Tagg (above, with cookies) and Ted Gottfried (below Jason), the duo who produced the Caravan and who dreamt up the annual New Year’s Eve Uke Drop in the Village, did something silly in platinum-blond wigs, and a young woman called Jamie Scandal (below), who had a kind of clownish Mae West shtick, said that, though she hadn’t known Frank Schaefer, she drew comfort from the knowledge that “normal people will find each other.”
Roni and Peter, guests who had become friends and doubled as uke buffs, baked ukulele-shaped cookies. There was good champagne, and when the memorial proper was over, everyone went back to the White Horse and played into the night.
Frank would have loved it.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
More on Ukuleles
I saw Tom Harker, of Circleville, Ohio, playing his ukulele on the stoop of Murray’s Space Shoe, site of the New Year’s Eve Ukulele Drop, last Friday night, and stopped to listen and get directions to Julius, on West Tenth Street, where the Ukulele Rejects were playing. It was the Second Annual New York Uke Fest, and the local crowd—the ones who turn up monthly for the ukulele cabaret, hosted by Sonic Uke (a.k.a. Jason and Ted)—were feeling excluded. Across town, there was a three-hundred-ukulele circus going on. Still, the regulars had something the Uke Fest did not: Scotty the Blue Bunny was hosting.
The Bunny wears a sheer blue bodysuit with a hood, extra-high Lucite heels, and super-tall bunny ears. He says he suffers from “obsessive-compulsive performance disorder.” The Bunny used to be zaftig, but then he lost weight and discovered Pilates and now he is a svelte, ripped bunny, and looks taller than ever. With his heels and ears on, he is over seven feet tall.
The Ukulele Rejects were backstage in a black room with a black picket fence and sticky black tables with a couple of ancient French fries stuck to them. It was hot—the radiator was on full blast—and smelled of a recent visit by the exterminator. There was a refrigerator with a padlock on it. A painting of a cuke and two tomatoes suggested the old cock and balls. According to the Bunny, Julius is the oldest gay bar in the Village and its name means “the happiest place on earth.”
A skinny guy named Andrew was revved to go on, but he had to wait his turn. Scotty introduced D’yan Forest. His notes for her read “Incorrect lesbian sings about senior sex.” I had seen her act before, and while it is astonishing when you’re hearing it for the first time, she could use some fresh material. Towards the end, she introduced some obscene finger puppets, as well as a prop for “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” (a fluorescent dildo). As she left the stage, the Bunny ad-libbed, “Does Ben Gay make good lube?”
“I can’t believe there’s sports on in a gay bar,” the Bunny said. He introduced his friend Mary Martin, a.k.a. the Uke Diva, who sang “Ukulele Gypsy,” about her need to find a place to stay when she comes to New York (sorry, I’m still recovering from the Italian-Argentine house guest), and did a cover of “Ring of Fire.” She also played two songs she had just written during a stay in a dune shack in Provincetown.
“Don’t you just hate when there’s someone playing the ukulele between you and the bar?” Scotty said as he waited backstage.
Andrew thought his turn had come, but for some reason the program order changed and he had to sit through a set by a guy who had come with his own entourage, all of whom gradually joined him onstage. When he announced that they were doing two more, Andrew groaned—"Two more!?"— and stretched out on a bench.
Scotty said the bartender had asked him, “How long is this going to go on?”
Finally, Andrew took the stage, but he had already peaked, and he knew it. One of his lyrics was “Hard sweet and sticky, she’s tired of my dickie.” He put on a headband featuring the cock and balls (to blend in?) and smashed a toy ukulele at the end of his act.
“That’s it,” Scotty says. “One more introduction and I’m outta here.”
Tom Harker and Uke Diva were gossiping backstage. Evidently there is a schism in the uke world. Tom finished his set with an ode to Pee-wee Herman: “Pee-wee, where did you go?” (This one stuck with me and I was still humming it the next day.) Meanwhile, Gio, the heavy-metal uke player, was putting chains on, adjusting elbow guards. I’m not sure what he was supposed to be: a roller derby star?
The Bunny peeled off his costume and changed into his street clothes. He stuffed his high-high heels in a duffel bag. Then he held up what looked like a black portfolio. “Ear protectors,” he said. And he bounded off into the night.
The Bunny wears a sheer blue bodysuit with a hood, extra-high Lucite heels, and super-tall bunny ears. He says he suffers from “obsessive-compulsive performance disorder.” The Bunny used to be zaftig, but then he lost weight and discovered Pilates and now he is a svelte, ripped bunny, and looks taller than ever. With his heels and ears on, he is over seven feet tall.
The Ukulele Rejects were backstage in a black room with a black picket fence and sticky black tables with a couple of ancient French fries stuck to them. It was hot—the radiator was on full blast—and smelled of a recent visit by the exterminator. There was a refrigerator with a padlock on it. A painting of a cuke and two tomatoes suggested the old cock and balls. According to the Bunny, Julius is the oldest gay bar in the Village and its name means “the happiest place on earth.”
A skinny guy named Andrew was revved to go on, but he had to wait his turn. Scotty introduced D’yan Forest. His notes for her read “Incorrect lesbian sings about senior sex.” I had seen her act before, and while it is astonishing when you’re hearing it for the first time, she could use some fresh material. Towards the end, she introduced some obscene finger puppets, as well as a prop for “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” (a fluorescent dildo). As she left the stage, the Bunny ad-libbed, “Does Ben Gay make good lube?”
“I can’t believe there’s sports on in a gay bar,” the Bunny said. He introduced his friend Mary Martin, a.k.a. the Uke Diva, who sang “Ukulele Gypsy,” about her need to find a place to stay when she comes to New York (sorry, I’m still recovering from the Italian-Argentine house guest), and did a cover of “Ring of Fire.” She also played two songs she had just written during a stay in a dune shack in Provincetown.
“Don’t you just hate when there’s someone playing the ukulele between you and the bar?” Scotty said as he waited backstage.
Andrew thought his turn had come, but for some reason the program order changed and he had to sit through a set by a guy who had come with his own entourage, all of whom gradually joined him onstage. When he announced that they were doing two more, Andrew groaned—"Two more!?"— and stretched out on a bench.
Scotty said the bartender had asked him, “How long is this going to go on?”
Finally, Andrew took the stage, but he had already peaked, and he knew it. One of his lyrics was “Hard sweet and sticky, she’s tired of my dickie.” He put on a headband featuring the cock and balls (to blend in?) and smashed a toy ukulele at the end of his act.
“That’s it,” Scotty says. “One more introduction and I’m outta here.”
Tom Harker and Uke Diva were gossiping backstage. Evidently there is a schism in the uke world. Tom finished his set with an ode to Pee-wee Herman: “Pee-wee, where did you go?” (This one stuck with me and I was still humming it the next day.) Meanwhile, Gio, the heavy-metal uke player, was putting chains on, adjusting elbow guards. I’m not sure what he was supposed to be: a roller derby star?
The Bunny peeled off his costume and changed into his street clothes. He stuffed his high-high heels in a duffel bag. Then he held up what looked like a black portfolio. “Ear protectors,” he said. And he bounded off into the night.
Thursday, February 1, 2007
On Ukuleles
I expected to lose my spot over the weekend, because I had plans to go away, but they were cancelled. So on Saturday night I went to the ukulele cabaret.
Somehow I have fallen in with a group of ukulele enthusiasts. Lucky me. I have been to the first annual New York ukulele festival, to several ukulele cabarets, and twice to the uke drop, a highly risible New Year’s Eve event involving the lowering of a ukulele wrapped in Christmas lights down the façade of a brownstone in Greenwich Village at midnight, while a duo called Sonic Uke play Auld Lang Syne on the fire escape. It beats the hell out of Times Square.
Three things have struck me about people who play the ukulele. One is that they are partial to hats. The uke diva favors an orange baseball cap with “OM” printed on it in summer, and in inclement weather one of those huge hats with a fur brim and fur ear flaps that stick out. Or she tucks her hair under a blue crocheted skullcap. It seems to be part of the uke aesthetic. If you don’t wear a bowler, skimmer, toque, or turban, you will never be a ukulele virtuoso. They also favor leis and feather boas.
The second thing is: the bigger the guy, the tinier the instrument. At first I thought this was an optical illusion, but no. Some ukuleles are bigger than others—there are sopranos and basses and everything in between, even ukuleles shaped like pineapples—but chances are that if a man shops at Big & Tall Casual Male, he has a sopranino.
Third: they write really dirty songs. An act called Hot-Time Harve’s Roller Coaster of Kicks, out of New Jersey, do a number with the line “Lesbians don’t like my songs.” Over the weekend, I heard a nice man named Tom Harker, from Circleville, Ohio, possibly one of the most innocent places in the nation, sing an ode to a sex-education teacher by the name of Bonnie Beaver. This was at the most recent edition of the ukulele cabaret (I went because my friend K., on whose street I park, and the uke diva, my house guest, would be there, and if I sound defensive about falling in with this uke crowd, it is because I feel defensive; remember Arthur Godfrey? Don Ho?). There a gnomelike little lady proudly took the stage, in a geometric-print sweater (“She’s not gay,” murmured a woman near me in the crowd). She introduced her ukulele, saying it was fifty-nine years old. She herself was D’Yan Forest, and she was seventy-two. She launched into her own version of the Maurice Chevalier hit, “Thank Heaven for Senior Sex.” She had also reconstrued some old American favorites, including “Homo, Homo on the Range.” I don’t even want to think about the punch line to her interpretation of “She’ll Be Comin’ Around the Mountain When She Comes.” D’Yan had a snappy between-song patter that amounted to a stand-up act: she joked about having a boob job (“They were calling me One Hung Low”) as if it were routine auto maintenance (“So I had them realigned”).
She was followed by two young men, on ukulele and keyboard, who performed a tender love song that began, “I wanna fuck you.” That’s when I relinquished my barstool, even though I hadn’t quite finished my pint of stout. I should have known that it would be all downhill after the dirty-minded seventy-two-year-old lesbian.
Somehow I have fallen in with a group of ukulele enthusiasts. Lucky me. I have been to the first annual New York ukulele festival, to several ukulele cabarets, and twice to the uke drop, a highly risible New Year’s Eve event involving the lowering of a ukulele wrapped in Christmas lights down the façade of a brownstone in Greenwich Village at midnight, while a duo called Sonic Uke play Auld Lang Syne on the fire escape. It beats the hell out of Times Square.
Three things have struck me about people who play the ukulele. One is that they are partial to hats. The uke diva favors an orange baseball cap with “OM” printed on it in summer, and in inclement weather one of those huge hats with a fur brim and fur ear flaps that stick out. Or she tucks her hair under a blue crocheted skullcap. It seems to be part of the uke aesthetic. If you don’t wear a bowler, skimmer, toque, or turban, you will never be a ukulele virtuoso. They also favor leis and feather boas.
The second thing is: the bigger the guy, the tinier the instrument. At first I thought this was an optical illusion, but no. Some ukuleles are bigger than others—there are sopranos and basses and everything in between, even ukuleles shaped like pineapples—but chances are that if a man shops at Big & Tall Casual Male, he has a sopranino.
Third: they write really dirty songs. An act called Hot-Time Harve’s Roller Coaster of Kicks, out of New Jersey, do a number with the line “Lesbians don’t like my songs.” Over the weekend, I heard a nice man named Tom Harker, from Circleville, Ohio, possibly one of the most innocent places in the nation, sing an ode to a sex-education teacher by the name of Bonnie Beaver. This was at the most recent edition of the ukulele cabaret (I went because my friend K., on whose street I park, and the uke diva, my house guest, would be there, and if I sound defensive about falling in with this uke crowd, it is because I feel defensive; remember Arthur Godfrey? Don Ho?). There a gnomelike little lady proudly took the stage, in a geometric-print sweater (“She’s not gay,” murmured a woman near me in the crowd). She introduced her ukulele, saying it was fifty-nine years old. She herself was D’Yan Forest, and she was seventy-two. She launched into her own version of the Maurice Chevalier hit, “Thank Heaven for Senior Sex.” She had also reconstrued some old American favorites, including “Homo, Homo on the Range.” I don’t even want to think about the punch line to her interpretation of “She’ll Be Comin’ Around the Mountain When She Comes.” D’Yan had a snappy between-song patter that amounted to a stand-up act: she joked about having a boob job (“They were calling me One Hung Low”) as if it were routine auto maintenance (“So I had them realigned”).
She was followed by two young men, on ukulele and keyboard, who performed a tender love song that began, “I wanna fuck you.” That’s when I relinquished my barstool, even though I hadn’t quite finished my pint of stout. I should have known that it would be all downhill after the dirty-minded seventy-two-year-old lesbian.
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