The Way of the ‘Ukulele
A personal trip into the soul of Hawaiian music.

Ric Valdez

April 11, 2001

I can’t put the frickin’ thing down. I play with it in the lua, on TheBus, between classes, walking down the street. I can’t control myself. … I tossed my Idiots Guide to Yoga. Playing an ‘ukulele feels better. Up until a few weeks ago I’d never played a lick on an uke. After one informal lesson, I’m getting a grip on ‘ukulele technique. This probably sound’s kooky, but I feel I’ve grown to know and empathize with the ubiquitous, Menehune-sized instrument and its heavy, Hawaiian soul.
     ’Course, the ‘ukulele is not indigenously Hawaiian, but after 120 years of assimilation, culture and instrument have become inextricably linked. Originally known as a braguinha, the ‘ukulele first appeared in Hawai‘i in 1879, brought here by Portuguese who came to work the cane fields. Hawaiians renamed it ‘ukulele, meaning "fingers jumping like fleas." King David Kaläkaua learned to play and was influential in the ‘ukulele’s adoption as a rhythmic accompaniment to the hula. By the end of the 19th century, Hawaiian choral groups and string bands had incorporated the ‘ukulele into their ensembles.
     In short, the ‘ukulele became an integral part of Hawaiian culture, and everyone else embraced it too. Even today, regardless of race, folks in Hawai‘i regard the ‘ukulele as the life of the lü‘au, a child’s rite of passage; a virtuoso instrument in able hands and, in the wrong hands and, on occasion, a convenient bludgeon.
     When I first washed up on O‘ahu’s shore, I was an innocent. "Jawaiian" was my first ‘ukulele music. I heard it at my first job washing dishes — not exactly how I had imagined my life in the Islands to begin. Mackie was a sauté cook, beer thief and my earliest teacher of the ways of local. He pounded Kapena from the kitchen, straight through the clatter of pots and pans and waiters yelling, so I could hear it. I’ll never forget Kelly Boy Delima singing, "You must be craaa … aaay … craaazy …" blaring from Mackie’s boombox. The tropical, plickety-plunk of Delima’s ‘ukulele — and friends like Mackie — lived up to my illusions of Hawai‘i.
     For the last few years, people say there has been an ‘ukulele revival going on, and it’s true: ‘Ukuleles are cool. You know it when you see big guys cradling small musical instruments, all over town. Converts are tuning up: My dog has fleas.

Mecca
It’s not the first time the uke has reached up to local "Hula-Hoop" status: Think about the early 1900s, the ’40s and the ’50s. Now, well, ‘ukuleles are again charming players of all ages and races around the world. They’re portable; they’re easy, light and fit in the crook of any arm. Strum, pluck, pick or just sing along to one. It’s no small wonder that this wee instrument has gone global and now supports a little industry. All across the Internet, loads of links promoting ‘ukulele mania: ‘ukulele lessons, clubs; ‘ukulele institutes in Tokyo and the United Kingdom; instructional videos, instruments for sale; memorabilia, sheet music and tablature.
     What the mandolin is to bluegrass and the bongos are to beatniks, the ‘ukulele is to Hawaiian music. In Nashville, Tennessee, mind-blowing guitar-pickers are a dime a dozen. Honolulu is Nashville for Hawaiian music, for the ‘ukulele, a Mecca for ‘ukulele aficionados, a proving ground for upstarts; where premier players and guns for hire trade licks and strum it out at annual ‘ukulele festivals that attract lovers from around the world. Under the deft control of traditional players like Moe Keale, sophisticated jazzers like Daniel Ho and electronic, Hendrixian shredders like Jake Shimabukuro, the little instrument sings into the great wide open.
     In Hawai‘i there are plenty of learning paths, any number of proven and established professional schools for ‘ukulele instruction. Classes in public and private schools. The city parks offer classes. The YMCA, local community centers, youth centers and senior centers have classes.
     Not one to function well in groups, I opted for a less-regimented, one-on-one approach in my search for the way of the ‘ukulele.
     ‘Ukulele builds careers: Byron Yasui, of the University of Hawai‘i at Mänoa, is a music professor, jazz bassist and classical guitarist. He isn’t what you’d call an average, back-porch ‘ukulele player.
     When Yasui’s not teaching or playing jazz professionally, he can be found on the backporch jamming in solitude or in heated kani ka pila at a friend’s garage.
     "This is the real enjoyment of music ’til today," Yasui says, "playing good music with good friends, whether jazz or Hawaiian … the food there ... ahhh, that’s what I live for. That’s Hawai‘i, that’s life, and that’s what music is all about."
     As a kid growing up on O‘ahu, Yasui watched his older brother play ‘ukulele. Whenever his brother set his little instrument down, Yasui would take it and try to play what he heard. The ‘ukulele became more than a casual pastime for Yasui. He became obsessed with it. Along with the challenge of learning new songs and the fun of playing with friends, the ‘ukulele provided Yasui with an identity. He says people still remember him today as that kid around town, playing that ‘ukulele that seemed to be surgically attached to both his hands.
     "Music has made such a big impact in my life," he reflects gratefully. "The ‘ukulele gave me self-esteem, and I felt important. I was able to do something not all kids could do. It helped me develop an ear. Later when I became a music major and a jazz musician, it was easy! All those music-theory and ear-training courses came so easy to me because I played the ‘ukulele."
     Yasui recommends ‘ukulele instruction for beginners, but he offers some cautionary wisdom: "Teach someone to fish so they can feed themselves," he says. "Learning to play music isn’t all about memorization or theory. There’s a lot you can learn and teach yourself, as opposed to being spoon-fed information. Figure things out yourself … play with others better than you. It’s a lot of work, but it’s the best way to learn."
    

Making something nice
There are people in Hawai‘i who build ‘ukulele at home. Tony Schaeffer, proprietor of Maunawili ‘Ukulele Co., builds quality instruments by hand, one at a time, in a spare bedroom in his Windward home. Schaeffer’s been playing around with ‘ukuleles since elementary school in the 1940s. But it wasn’t until his youngest daughter, Suzanne, got into jammin’ that Schaeffer considered branching out into the repair and ultimately the construction of ‘ukulele.
     "She would bring home basket-case ‘ukulele from her friends and ask if I could fix them," Shaeffer explains. Since then, he’s been doing repair work, fixing cracks, gluing, clamping Kamakas and Martins, applying new backs, refinishing and restoring them to brand new.
     Tending to many a "basket case," Schaeffer learned firsthand the ins and outs of ‘ukulele construction. In 1989 he built his first uke from scratch.
     "I figured, if I could take them apart and fix them, I could make them. Pete Bermudez, another indie ‘ukulele builder — he’s called Haiku ‘Ukulele — and a friend from high school, he and I found a book on how to make Spanish guitars. When we make our ukes, we make ’em Spanish-style. A reinforced neck where the neck is not screwed to the body, the sides are split and glued in grooves, giving the uke more support. …"
     I wanted to comprehend but Schaeffer was losing me in shoptalk.
     Shaeffer is a deliberate man. At first he had characteristics I consider "local-man-style": reserved, strong hands, prone to action rather than words. His demeanor changed entirely when the subject turned to ‘ukulele. Schaeffer loosened up, became talkative, informative, and his love for stringed instruments was self-evident.
     Schaeffer grabbed Kamakas, Martins and Nunes off the wall. He pulled koa-wood, pineapple-shaped tenors out of closets and steel-stringed tippos and experimental mahogany banjo ukes down from the rafters. He wanted to explain a particular uke with a long fret space, or a hybrid tenor with a cutaway and maple back; while tuning at will he showed me how tuning can create a certain inflection in tone, timbre or quality of resonance.
     "You have to love it," he said. "If you don’t love it, you’re not going to do well. You can’t be thinking about how much money you’re going to make. In the time that I’ve been doing this, the amount of money spent building the shop … between the ukes I sold and gave away. … I’m actually probably in the red. I love doing this."
     Every now and then you’re going to get a dog, no matter how you cut it. Stradivarius used to thrash his mistakes; Tony Schaeffer gifts his "dogs" to children and friends.
     "I feel that the ‘ukulele is a living thing. It’s got a soul and you can’t let it go. It’s like a doctor giving up on a patient. You’ve got to try whatever you can to bring it back to life."
     That sentiment manifested the moment Tony slid the gem of an ‘ukulele he’d made for his grandson out of its hard-leather case. His detailed introduction of this inanimate object was so personal I felt like I was meeting a living member of the Schaeffer ‘ohana.
     "Curly koa face like tiger stripes," he said. "Ebony fret board, maple body and sides which give it a natural look … the bridge is ebony, too. Slotted neck, Spanish-style. The curved back gives each instrument more volume … my ‘ukulele have a different sound … a deep resonance you won’t hear in a regular tenor uke."
     A seafarer by trade, in 1993 Schaeffer tried to build ‘ukulele full time. The labor of love became too much like a 40-hour-a-week grind. Tony’s back out at sea and Maunawili ‘Ukulele Co. production has been cut back to the hobby-stage again.
     Schaeffer admits his isn’t a cheap hobby.
     "It’s not what you’re gonna get from it monetarily," he says. "What you do get is satisfaction in your heart the minute you string up an uke you just built, and it sounds good. That’s what you gotta think about. And to have the feeling you’re doing something for Hawai‘i’s heritage … make the ‘ukulele something nice. "

$29 to $900
Inspired to learn from Yasui and with a newly developed appreciation for ‘ukulele craft and aesthetics from Schaeffer, I was psyched to get a "hatchet" (’cuz guitarists call their guitars "axes") of my own. Many folks in Hawai‘i have a friend or relative with an ‘ukulele they can borrow. I went window shopping for mine. First stop was one of the more upscale ‘ukulele galleries. Like corporate surfshops that cater to Japanese-sized wallets, these showrooms have beautiful, exquisite pieces, impeccably displayed. The really elegant instruments were protected behind glass and cost more than my car is worth. The young clerk saw me but obviously didn’t smell commission. And on my freelancing budget I didn’t waste her time asking prices. I was too intimidated to touch. I knew I was out of my realm and left before I broke anything.
     I went to my neighborhood music store, Goodguys on Kapahulu. It’s a cluttered, musical candy store where you’re free to sample the merchandise. Owners Brian Aoyagi and Clay Nakasone are personable musicians’ musicians who sell or trade all types of stringed instruments. They have a great selection of vintage, new and used ‘ukulele for pros, collectors and beginners.
     ‘Ukulele come in four sizes: a "soprano" ‘ukulele is the smallest and most common; the rare "concert" is next in size; then the "tenor." The biggest is the "baritone," tuned like the top four strings of a guitar (E-B-G-D) while the other three are usually tuned to the famous G-C-E-A (my-dog-has-fleas) tuning. They come in all kinds of crazy shapes: traditional guitar-shaped bodies, triangular- and gourd-shaped, pineapples, banjo. Some of them are wired with pickups for amplification. Prices range from $29 to well over $900.
     "I wouldn’t buy a Kamaka for an elementary kid just beginning," Aoyagi says, "unless it’s a real special thing." Kamaka ‘ukulele, the most recognized of the local brands, start at $420. We decided a soprano would be a good ‘ukulele for me to start with. They offered me a deal I couldn’t refuse, tuned me up and sent me on my way.

Language of the heart
Clutching my soprano like a child would a new plaything — or a poseur wearing a set of new pearly puka shells — I strutted onto Kapahulu. Unbeknownst to passersby I couldn’t play a damn note. I headed towards Waikïkï for some hands-on instruction, where uke players are as plentiful as superstretch limousines and rookie cops. I passed a bruddah on a road crew by the zoo, jamming on break under the shade of a bulldozer. He had a fluid style, but I couldn’t hear him too well for the guy tearing up the street with the jackhammer. Rounding the "wall" on Kaläkaua, I noticed a lifeguard atop his orange stand thumbing a tune. Up ahead was a crew of blonde, blue-eyed Japanese surfers, checking the waves and having a kani ka pila. … They sounded tight, but they only knew "Brown Eyed-Girl’ and "Stir It Up." Plus the language barrier.
     Before I saw him I heard his voice two lights ahead. He was small in stature, but Jimmy V. can wail! He was gigging across from the Duke Kahanamoku statue doing a singular rendition of "Under the Boardwalk," followed up by "Pearly Shells" — nothing fancy, but Jimmy V. had moxie. After "Stand By Me" and "Hound Dog" my untrained ears discerned a pattern. Jimmy V. played the same chords for every song. I had found my mentor.
     On Jimmy, an ‘ukulele looks guitar-sized; he looked like an oompa-loompa troubadour. He seemed a little preoccupied when I first ran the idea of some ‘ukulele lessons by him.
     Jimmy was polite, but I could tell I was cramping his style — playing the uke and singing for passing tourists is how Jimmy V. earns his Cheddar, which didn’t amount to much.
     "It’s easy … learn by ear … get all the keys … watch my fingers and how I strum," he said in his smoky, whiskey-flavored Ilocano voice. Which is deceptive because Jimmy’s only vices are tall women and Pepsi. I asked again, adding this time that I’d pay. Jimmy stopped in the middle of "I Can See Clearly Now" and poured his undivided oompa-loompa charm all over me.
     "How much you pay me?"
     I was speaking his language. Which seemed peculiar, because the first thing Jimmy V. deigned to teach me was that "music is the language of the heart."
     "Dis is very old," he said, presenting his hatchet. "It’s a Kamaka," he said ripping a lick. "I think it’s a tenor, yeah … C, C7, F bar, it’s F7, B-flat back to C7. You gotta have all the sounds in your mind, once you get ’em in there."
     What a bargain: Using the Jimmy V. ‘ukulele method, learn six chords and you can play any song. A group of town kids stopped to watch. Laughing, they pestered Jimmy to borrow his ‘ukulele.
     "Okay, play … make some money for me," he laughed.
     His hands finally free, we talked. Despite his busy aloha shirt and fresh pink carnation lei so puffy I couldn’t see his bottom lip, Jimmy V. is not all about show biz.
     "Since high school the sound fascinated me. The ‘ukulele represents Hawai‘i. My spirit is Hawaiian. … It’s a symbol of Hawaiian nature," he said straight faced, and I believed him. The Hawai‘i Visitors & Convention Bureau doesn’t officially recognize Jimmy V., but that doesn’t hinder this one-man tourism campaign. He’s a self-appointed representative of the 50th state, showering tourists with song, big smiles and Jimmy V. platitudes: " Welcome to Paradise. … Alooooooha. … Kiss me I’m Hawaiian!"
     The kids soon bored of the wooden toy. Their coordination seemed more suited to Sega Genesis than fingering a chord. Is this the fate of the ‘ukulele? Will the legacy die at the hands of Hawai‘i’s fast-twitch, digital youth?

Building minds
For Wai‘anae High School students, raised in the land of Iz, Rell Sun and the Keaulanas, walking around campus strumming ‘ukulele is natural as swimming, surfing or throwing net. Hawai‘i is accustomed to great musicians and waterman coming out of the West Side. Now you can add artisans to that list.
     Graphic arts instructor Christine Ho wants to perpetuate the music, the playing and the making of ‘ukulele.
     "Music is an expression of a person’s creativity," she says. "Students need the opportunity to express themselves through music. I don’t think it happens enough."
     Ho’s program began when Wai‘anae High School received a grant from the Hawai‘i Alliance for Arts Education. Ho chose to use the money for music education. She recruited the help of the father of one of her students, community volunteer Homer Keliiwaiwaiole, to help teach students how to make ‘ukulele.
     In the summer of July 2000, 20 Wai‘anae students spent a week making four mahogany ‘ukulele. Those ‘ukulele were given to the Wai‘anae High School music department. Because the program was so successful, the art club raised more money and built another four ‘ukulele last October. Four students kept the ‘ukulele they had created.
     The kids’ playing is still raw, but the finishes on their ‘ukulele are weathered, not from shoddy craftsmanship but from much use.
     Rolly says the ‘ukulele is stress relief. "I get choke stress in school," he says. "This class is good fun … it’s our heritage and I get to help others learn."
     Jamison is a senior in the program. "I really liked building my own instrument. I’ve been into the ‘ukulele since elementary school, but I never had one until I finally made one. This program is good. Maybe we can keep what we learned and use ’em our whole life. Make something ourselves to sell in real life … have our own business and stuff."
     When asked who inspired these young people to play ‘ukulele, Israel Kamakawiwo‘ole topped the list of boys and girls.
     Christine Ho and the students at Wai‘anae High School hope this extracurricular activity will become a regular, in-school program. Until that happens, donations and direction are welcomed, Ho says.

Jake Shimabukuro and me
The clock was almost up on my lesson with Jimmy V. "They’re all in there. Put that finger over there … you got ’em like this … can you do this?
     "Everyone has a different way … give it 20 years, you’ll be so good," Jimmy V. said encouragingly as he wrapped his beat Kamaka in a beach towel and left me fingering my ‘ukulele.
     I strolled over to Kühiö Beach Park to listen to the string trio. On my way I stopped in front of Duke Kahanomoku. I bet the Duke could make ’em on the ‘ukulele. I imagined his big fingers working tender sounds out of one. He was a beachboy after all. Underneath the big old banyan tree, the twilight hour for the concert was as shimmering and balmy as it gets in Waikïkï. It was one of those luscious moments, right after Mämala Bay has swallowed the sun, when the conch is blown and the torches lighted. Facing a deepening, lavender Western sky, the trio entertained a mixed crowd of locals and tourists, gathered on the grass for the free show. The trio’s performance didn’t exactly instill confidence in my own musical ability. It did prove that in Hawai‘i, the ‘ukulele is very much an instrument alive.
     The guitarist could have been a burly descendant of David Kaläkaua. He comped, while a plump, gray-haired auntie rode rhythm on a double bass. The slender ‘ukulele player, the smallest of the three in mass and in musical output, suffused the center of the stage with energy and presence.
     How a person carries the ‘ukulele says a lot. A casual ‘ukulele attitude suggests greater skill and confidence. The ‘ukulele requires that it be played with an easy style or else it seems you’re trying too hard. He tickled the catgut with a supple right wrist, while nimble fingers on his fret hand really did behave like ukus dancing over the pint-size neck. With the butt of his concert ‘ukulele body-wedged against the inside of his shoulder like a small rifle, he sprayed ‘ukulele music through the audience. Locals old and young smiled to hear the familiar yet still seductive, vital rhythms of the Islands; tourists glowed sensing their expectations, as promised in the brochures, were being redeemed — and transformed into something more. The magic of Waikïkï is like music, after all.
     I know I’ll never be a Jake Shimabukuro on the ‘ukulele. But that doesn’t mean I’ll never enjoy the strumming or reap its sweet rewards. The way of the ‘ukulele showed me joy is reason enough; reminded me to listen; to be creative, resourceful; to go out of my way to learn Island traditions and to preserve, perpetuate and share what I learn. Maybe the way of the ‘ukulele is the Hawaiian way — the same principles apply.
     Any kook can transplant to Hawai‘i or claim it as their birthright. Just being here doesn’t qualify as living here. Like Hawai‘i’s land, beaches and waters, the ‘ukulele is public domain.