Prologue
It is no secret that I love myself some ukulele. My recent rise to fame in my local Thessaloniki has ensured that all the people know that I play ukulele, and that I am decently good at it, too. But my relationship with the instrument has tossed and turned plenty since my fingers first scraped its fretboard sometime in 2019. I am writing to share this morning’s ukulele-related revelation.
I
If you’re anything like me, you’re a blockheaded autist who won’t take anything less than the world. You might be an ill-fated university student, and you might just be suffering through exam season trying to score straight A’s, winding up fed up of literature and stuck in a perpetual maze of Grice’s maxims of conversation. You might therefore settle for doing what any wise blockheaded autist would do; going to the beach with your ukulele to write a song about trains or whatever, all in an attempt to chill the fuck out for once.
Your pride and joy, the acoustic-electric “Beast” ukulele usually accompanies you on such excursions, but today there is a shift in the air – you choose to embrace legacy, to opt for bygone glory. You choose to take a historical specimen with you – “The Growler” (it will soon become apparent why I named him thus), the mahogany instrument that is the base of every ukulele-related memory you have from between 2019 and 2024.
II
“The Growler” has grown with me. I was only beginning middle school when I bought him using my life’s savings up until that point, and since then he’s gone around the country with me, being there every step of the way. He’s seen beautiful days, he’s seen bad days, and he’s seen ugly days – he’s seen a lot, and yet he never bailed on me. He ultimately forgave me when I played him so hard that one of his strings broke, so passionately that my fingers bled. I used a fresh Aquila string to mend the wound, and so the bond between “The Growler” and I remained strong.
Like a troubled lover, however, one moment I loved playing the ukulele, the other I really didn’t. I went long stretches of time without picking “The Growler” up at all, and it was not his fault – no, it was I. It was I who was flawed. Regardless, when I turned 18 I suddenly found myself faced with real life, and I realized that I could exploit my dear friend for the lunch money I otherwise wouldn’t possess. I decided I would take this whole ukulele thing out to the streets, and become a full-time Street Performer™ for a job.
III
No later than I first hit the ground running was it that I realized that “The Growler” would be insufficient for this exciting new venture – his sound was too bright, it was too small, too “tinny,” if you may, way too shy for its own good. While he could fill the atmosphere in every room he found himself in bravely and selflessly, he was nowhere near audacious enough to withstand the outside world. I quickly figured that he would need to be replaced by a counterpart more powerful than himself, ASAP as possible.
I saved up to get myself a “beast” – a versatile instrument that can drown out the hustle and bustle of the local town square, be it by itself or with the aid of an amplifier. This instrument had a certain beauty to itself and a full, roaring sound that I could use to at once become the boss of Kalamaria. I looked long and hard for an instrument that was perfect compared to “The Growler,” who suffers from string buzz (perhaps due to imperfect string action?), whose intonation is kind of shite and has always been, and who overall sounds unpolished. While it is a charming sound that “The Growler” sports, it is not ideal for a professional context, such as that of Studio Recording™ and Street Performance™.
Thus in come “The Beast”; a classy mahogany build, strung in low-G, and a very sassy little diva. She was the love of my life from when we first met, she really was. Playing her felt smoother than twinkling with “The Growler” ever had, her sound was richer, and she was much more likely to help me achieve jazz-rock stardom, much like I was born to do. She quickly entirely displaced “The Growler,” retiring him to home use.
Over time, I lost touch with “The Growler.” He alienated me completely for reasons I have never been able to precisely pinpoint. It was strange how an instrument of such rich history was left alone to catch dust while its close sibling got shredded by yours truly every single day, in every shoddy alley and each deserted town. So you see, it was a while of not playing “The Growler” until I – by some twist of fate – willingly chose him today. I just thought that it had been a while, and maybe this old friend and I would have some good ol’ old-timey fun this fine June morning.
IV
What I quickly found is that what made this instrument “unfit for performance” back in the day now makes it a delight of the highest order. It’s a thin, bright, tinny sound indeed, and compared to its low-G strung counterpart it almost always falls flat, but it was just so perfect for the occasion of frolicking on the beach on a laid-back Saturday morning. I felt every vibration of the soundboard in the center my chest as I played, and while eating the sunshine, I had what might as well be called a “transcendental” experience; an “I-left-my-body” type ordeal. I played some Japanese songs and had a go at some improvisation. I felt a warm wave wash over me, and all that I felt in that moment was peace. The happy memories of playing this ukulele for most of my conscious life flooded my being, and it was how I figured that the nostalgia I was suddenly drowning in was a direct result of “The Growler’s” perceived flaws. Its small sound was a turn-off for the occasion of business, sure, but in hindsight, it really is indispensable. The physical wear-and-tear on the instrument used to appear unfortunate, but now it seems that such cosmetic bruises are something to rejoice in, alongside the story of their emergence. The sound I once tolerated but was not fully satisfied with is now music to my ears, and it is a whole new genre of music, too. It’s “The Growler’s” own genre, and boy oh boy it is funky.
Then I packed up and went home.
Epilogue
I promise to play this ukulele a lot more from this point forward – for as long as I go on to play ukulele, anyway. Should all go well, it will be several years to come, and on that note, I am going to go street performing with “The Growler” right about now.
Such is the act of maturing (i.e. “growing the fuck up“).
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