This story is fictional, but it could have happened.
Both of my parents worked full-time jobs during the day. My mother was one of the cafeteria ladies at Kalihi-Luna Elementary School. My father was a mechanic at the old Alapa'i bus station, where he met a young Lena Machado, a well-known Hawaiian musician and singer back in the day. My mother, Luana, happened to be present at the time and made certain that the meeting between Lena Machado and my father was just that. Honopū Kawili was devoted a husband as they came and an even more devoted father to us. In the evenings after they got home from work, my parents would have us shower and change into our good clothes before having dinner. They'd pack us up in the Chevy station wagon, and to Waikiki we went. My parents were part of a music group that played in the Paradise Lounge, which was a part of the old Waikiki Ali'i hotel. The lounge faced the ocean, where torchlights illuminated the tide coming right up to the property. My mother played the stand-up Bass, and my father played lead guitar. Uncle Randall played the steel guitar, while his brother, Uncle Chester, doubled on piano and an electric keyboard.Haole couples were often overcome by the romantic atmosphere, and as was their proclivity, they danced to the slow songs even though they were sung in Hawaiian. Two requests were always made for the Hawaiian wedding song, and the Love Song of Kalua. The entire time, we were backstage doing our homework and sipping on fruit punch. We were allowed to have two snacks each, and that was the limit. By the time my parents were done, my siblings and I were fast asleep. Uncle Randall helped my parents carry all the equipment to his van while Uncle Chester stayed back and watched us until my folks returned to bring us to our station wagon.
The following evening, Uncle Randall and Uncle Chester came over for dinner. Mom made na'au stew, pipikaula, ha'uke'uke, and poi with sides of pa'akai and raw corned beef from the can. My uncles bought us strawberry koloaka but we couldn't drink those until Saturday night. My siblings and I sat on the spread-out newspaper on the kitchen floor while the mākua sat at the dinner table. We kids heard the grown-ups' conversation, but we could never be a part of it. We were to be seen but not heard.
"We've been playing four months at the hotel, and we still don't have a name for our group," Uncle Chester said.
"I have a name," Uncle Randall chimed in. "If we have Luana sing most of the songs, then we can call the group Luana and the Kawili Trio. Since we're all Kawili' ohana, the name makes sense."
"What about Luana and the Kawili three?" Uncle Chester suggested.
" The only problem with that is everybody speaks pidgin and they're going to say Kawili Tree and not the number three," my father offered. "Then everyone's going to ask, what's a Kawili tree?"
"How about the Kawili' Ohana? That sounds better, that way the name is not focused on one person, you know? It includes all of us," my mom was always the voice of reason.
After an hour of being caught in a deadlock, my siblings and I had already finished dinner, brushed our teeth, and were now sitting on the couch watching television until 7:30 pm. Then we were supposed to be off to bed. However, my father called me over to the table.
"Ae, Papa?" I answered.
"What name do you think is good for our music group?" He asked.
"Luana is good. Especially if you tell the audience what Luana means, they'll like it and then they will like the music," I said very carefully.
My parents and my uncles laughed, but that ended up being the name of the group. Luana.
It worked. When the host at the Paradise Lounge introduced the group, the music started. My mother then explained the meaning of the name Luana, and the tourists loved it. Their signature number was Scotch and Soda by the Kingston Trio, which at the end flawlessly transitioned to Ku'u Ipo I Ka He'e Pu'e' One.
"The first song," my mother would say into the microphone. "It's about drowning your sorrows of love in alcohol. The second song is in the Hawaiian language, and it speaks of a heartbroken girl who can never marry the love of her life. She calls him her sweetheart of the rippling sands, where the sea rustles the pebbles, where the memory is impassioned in the forest where they delighted."
My father and uncles sang the song in Hawaiian as my mother stepped out from behind the stand-up Bass and performed a beautiful hula to the mele written by Princess Miriam Likelike. It brought the house down every time. People stood up and gave my mom such loud applause, many were in tears, and profoundlyply struck by the song that they'd throw money on the stage.
Eventually, the group Luana was approached by the owner of Ohana Records to record an album of their songs. The first thing my mother asked about was how the group would be paid. The owner of Ohana Records who was not Hawaiian said that since he owned the record lable and that it was he who would be producing the record, all the money would go to him, and that Luana would make their money by traveling and playing live music to promote the album on the raidio, in public, and perhaps a few gigs on TV. Maybe even the mainland.
"Sold-out shows at the Waikiki Ali'i Hotel are one thing," Joe Martin said. "We gotta get you out of the lounge and on the road. That's where the real money is."
"No," my mother said. "We'll produce our own records."
Joe Martin was not expecting that answer. "You don't even have an engineer to help you, and you can't produce a record from a tape recorder!"
"That's not your concern, Mister Joe Martin." My mom's voice was strong. "Luana is not only the name of our group, but it's also MY name. No one is going to own MY name!"
My mom, my dad, and my uncles walked out of Joe Martin's office. "How are we supposed to get a record deal now?" Uncle Randall bellowed.
"Hun, are Hawaiian musicians still using the alapa'i station to record music?" Mom asked my father.
"Yes. Why do you ask?" Dad replied.
"Because that's how we are going to record our own music," my mom said. "I'll take off from work and I'll go with you. You introduce me to the person who oversees the recordings, and I'll do the rest."
It goes without saying that the self-titled album Luana was recorded and produced. It goes without saying that the record was wildly successful. My parents and my uncles played sold-out shows every night.
Soon, they began traveling to all the islands and sold out every gig. They were doubly successful on the mainland. Their audience clamoured for another album, so two more were recorded and produced. The second album was entitled 'Luana. Songs of our Ali'i, which acknowledged Hawai'i's royalty, ancient and modern. The third album was called 'Luana, nā mele aloha.' The love songs.
We had more gigs, more traveling to promote each album, and more time away from us because we had school, so traveling was difficult. Only three albums were ever released. Then, one day, my mother and father were home all the time. Suddenly, they didn't play at the Waikiki Ali'i, nor did they play anywhere else. It just stopped. Uncle Randall and Uncle Chester didn't come over anymore, and when I asked about where they were, my parents would only say that our uncles were busy or that they couldn't be bothered. As well, there was something strange that hovered between my parents. They were hardly as affectionate as before, and they only gave yes and no answers to each other. As time went on, they stayed apart more than together, each off doing their own thing. New up-and-coming promoters would call my mother all the time, encouraging her to go solo, but she wouldn't hear of it.
"Luana was four people, and without those four people, Luana does not exist," she told one promoter before hanging up.
My sister Mia graduated from college, got married to a Pacheco, and moved to Hilo. Honopū Jr. got a degree in geology from UCLA and went on to become a boss in the Texas oil fields. He sent money home all the time, even after he got a house for our parents. I worked for Young Brothers, and I decided to live close to my parents. My father passed in his sleep one night on his recliner while watching reruns of Gilligan's Island. Honopū Kawili packed them in at his services. Many notable Hawaiian musicians attended, as well as the few remaining Hawaiian royalty. Mia was there with her husband and kids. Jr. also participated with his flavor of the month, while I sat with my mom, making sure she was alright. Obviously absent were uncle Randall and uncle Chester.
"Whatever happened, you and Dad should have just let it go and made up with Uncle them," I whispered.
"No more will be spoken of it," my mother nodded while patting my hand.
My mother lived for several more years after that. Even after she retired from her state job, she stayed active, cooking, planting, and joining a genealogy club at the Bishop Museum. Lei making, also participating in covert games of Mah-Jong at a friend's establishment on Smith Street. One day, she called me and asked me to take her to Kawaiaha'o Graveyard because the Ulu from the Ulu tree should be ready to pick.
"Mom, that's growing in a graveyard," I warned her.
"So," she countered. "How do you think the native Americans did it? They die, their bodies are left to the elements, which grow grass. The buffalo eat the grass, and the Indians hunt the buffalo and feed their people. Same thing with the Ulu. Stop thinking like a haole, my son."
When we got to the graveyard, she used her stick to pick the Ulu right in front of the caretaker, who took the stick from her and plucked as many Ulu as she wanted. In fact, he got a wooden box and placed all the Ulu in it, and carried it to my car.
"Do you know who this woman is?" The caretaker asked me. "This is Luana. I listened to her music all the time growing up. I always imagined you were my girlfriend!" The caretaker gushed.
"You sure know how to make an old woman blush," she kissed him on the cheek, and I swear he was going to faint.
On the ride home, she asked me to pull in at the old alapa'i station. There was a nice breeze coming through the parking lot, which meant I didn't have to keep the car idling with the a/c on.
"We traveled a lot during the time three albums were produced," she began. "The recognition and the money were very infectious. We were able to buy the house that you, your sister, your brother, and your uncles grew up in. Traveling like that, being with each other all the time, tensions usually flare up, bickering, fighting, but not us. We were family, and we were all very close, very tight. Working as a cafeteria lady, I'm up early, and I have to be at the school cafeteria as early as 4 am. I'm used to getting up early, which is what I mean. So no matter where we traveled on the mainland, no matter what the time difference was, I was up early in the downstairs restaurant, lounge, or whatever, having my coffee. Your papa was still upstairs sleeping every time. Your uncle Randall was a bus driver, so he had the early routes to drive, and he was used to getting up early, too. We spent a lot of time drinking coffee in these places. Then we began spending time together in other ways, every chance we had. Recording those albums was very difficult because we'd have to record live with our instruments while all standing close together under one microphone. On my right was your papa and uncle Chester. On my left was your uncle Randall, right up against me."
It took a second for everything to register, but once it did, I physically pushed myself up against my car door, recoiling away from my mother. "Ma, what are you saying?"
"Your uncle Randall and I are the reason why there is no Luana anymore." She looked at me straight on, not flinching once.
"Oh my god," I placed my face in my hands, and when I removed them, I saw my mother in a different light. "That's why everything stopped all of a sudden? That's why uncle Randall and uncle Chester stopped coming around all these years?"
"Yes," she nodded. "Your uncle Chester saw me and Randall together in Vegas. I had to fly ahead because your father couldn't get off work, so he was going to fly in the next day. Randall flew with me. Chester was supposed to fly up with your father, but he knew something was up. He got an earlier flight, checked into the hotel, and waited. He saw us check in together and saw the two of us go up to Randall's room. He knocked on the door, and that's when we were found out. Chester and Randall got into a big fight.
I couldn't stop them, so I left. Initially, nothing was mentioned to your father, but when we played that gig later that night, Chester had already told him everything right before we went on. So when it came to Scotch and Soda, your father beat Randall up right in front of a packed crowd. Luana was done after that, but for some reason, as hurt as he was, your father had every right to divorce me and take everything, but he didn't. He felt that you kids shouldn't suffer because of my stupidity."
"So, where's uncle Randall and uncle Chester?" I asked.
"Long gone," she sighed. "Up until the very last second, even on his deathbed, Chester refused to speak to Randall."
"How did Uncle Randall die?" I pressed her.
"At Lunalilo homes," she laughed. "Probably listening to one of the albums."
"Mom, all this time, and what has it gotten you?" I hoped she had a good answer.
"You and your siblings, that's what," she nodded. "There was nothing between me and your father anymore, but for the sake of you three, he kept us together. He came from a broken family, and he swore to himself that if he ever had a family of his own, he would never break it. He didn't, he kept his promise, and for that I have to respect your father. You should, too. It doesn't matter what you think of me, but never disparage your father. He was a good man until the end."
The Alapa'i station is long gone. No longer are Hawaiian musicians recording their music in a walk-in freezer where the acoustics were otherworldly. The old station has been through a few incarnations.
Today, it is known as the Alapa'i Transit Center. Many who work there overnight claim to hear beautiful Hawaiian music from the past, echoing through the hallways or even in the parking lot. People often follow the sounds of the beautiful music only to discover that it has no place of origin. It manifests on its own from various locations in the building. I like to think that some of that old Hawaiian music is my Mama Luana, and my father Honopū, accompanied by my uncles Randall and Chester. I almost want to linger in those hallways myself on some late night, waiting to hear Luana's version of Green Rose Hula. That one was always my favorite.
That is the story of Luana, the woman, and the Hawaiian music group that shone brighter than the sun at Kumukahi and one day took its final rest at the pillars of Kamawaelualani.
This is undoubtedly a fictional story, but it could have happened.
No comments:
Post a Comment