As my ability to play
improved, my interest in the ukulele grew. There were a lot more
people playing than I realised.
Sadly it had become an
overnight hipster sensation which was a bit off-putting, but I was
going somewhere hipsters wouldn't be seen dead, a place that was a bit too "rustic" for those artisanal arseholes.
I went with a friend to
a ukulele festival in Keighley. It was just a small affair in a church
hall or community centre or something. There were 'turns' and there
were workshops. There were people selling ukuleles and associated
paraphernalia. And more importantly there was beer and hotdogs.
A beer and a hotdog
opened up the day nicely as the first act came on stage. It was about
20 people strumming and singing – fairly standard ukulele festival
fare. They weren't good, but what they lacked in ability they made up
for in enthusiasm.
I had another beer and
another hotdog. My wallet suitably lubricated I parted with £70 for
a fairly decent ukulele and a hard case for it. Now I was serious
about playing or at least I would have to be to justify the
expenditure.
Another act started and
it was more of the same. Even the performers looked the same.
More beer, more
hotdogs.
We went to a workshop
that was for beginners, but seemed like a laugh. We were taught how
to play Come On Eileen, the Dexy's Midnight Runners classic, even
though there was nobody among us wearing dungarees. The tempo changes
and different strumming patterns quite possibly had some of the
participants running for the hills and was a little ill thought out
by the organiser, but it filled time between beer and hotdogs.
I
saw a sign advertising ukulele tattoos. That sounded like a cool idea
even though I was probably too intoxicated for anyone to legally tattoo
me by that point. My excitement turned to disappointment when I found
out it was the ukulele that the guy tattooed rather than your flesh. And
his method of "tattooing" the ukulele seemed to be nothing more than
drawing on it with a marker pen. I passed.
No matter. More beer.
More hotdogs.
Another group was
performing. All the groups had a bass player. It was the same one all
the time as clearly only one man in Keighley plays bass. He looked a
little like Mike McShane, the portly regular of 90s improv show,
Whose Line Is It Anyway? Perhaps it was him, fallen on hard times? I didn't ask.
And there was a woman
who was in every group too. She later explained that she was in
something like 25 different ukulele groups spread all over South and
West Yorkshire, Lancashire and Cheshire. There aren't enough hours in
the day and spreading herself so thinly didn't seem to have helped her playing at all. She played a mean kazoo though.
I was starting to feel
no pain and I went for a wander. I opened a door at the back of the
hall to see if it was a toilet. It wasn't, but bizarrely it was a
large cupboard in which a man was selling candy floss. He had the
machine and everything. At this point I realised I was a little too
drunk for a Saturday afternoon as I willing bought some of his fresh
candy floss and actually enjoyed it.
More beer and hotdogs
ensued and it was all over by 6. Some festival.
Stay tuned, uke
hunters.
You can follow me on
Twitter:
https://twitter.com/ukehunts
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