Serenade

I know the venue and I know the crowd; I’ve played this house before. They anticipate my arrival and I sense a change in the gallery, an electric charge in the air. I step from the alcove onto the stage and I am greeted with a volley of accolades followed by a ripple of color and bustle as they seek their designated places. I pluck a few notes on the 12-string guitar suspended from my shoulder, deep and resonant, but just a tease — not a real song. The throng echoes its approval as they settle in. I nod a greeting and say something trite like, “How y’all doin’ today?” They love it. I am showered with a burst of enthusiasm and support. I look them over, searching their faces, and I am stunned by the expressions of pure adoration coming back at me. A performer’s dream: they know what’s coming and anticipation is approaching melt-down. They’ll soon be eating out of my hand. 

That’s how it is when you play for parakeets.

It’s become a matter of daily routine, these little gigs. I can no more leave for the office without playing a song or two for the ’keets than I would without combing my hair. The stage is my back deck where they are kept for a season that approximates major league baseball, mid-April through October. Inside for the winter they create one helluva mess, but it’s worth the effort: an audience as appreciative and responsive as this one is a rare item.

At last count there were 17 of them. Each has a name and a distinct personality. When the music starts, pecking order routines are laid aside. I play to the cage and it responds as a single entity. Veteran parakeet performers recognize this phenomenon as transmogrifique d’budgerigar, unique to the species. All responding as one produces a lot of noise; broadside to the ear, it can actually cause pain. They jabber excitedly when I arrive and pour forth a boisterous ovation of indecipherable parakeet clamor when I am done. During the performance they are relatively quiet and attentive; many start preening their feathers and take on dreamy expressions appearing if not drugged, suspiciously content. Some burst out in a premature vocal frenzy, but most wait until I finish. A sour note will sometimes bring a scolding squawk. It’s not at all clear who gets more out of this, the caged or me, but, like love well made, there doesn’t seem to be a provision for a prevailing party.

They came with my wife whose interest in parakeets preceded her interest in me. She keeps records and journals; she knows which can breed with whom and discourages incestuous pairings; she knows each by name and can tell even the most identical of twins from one another; she keeps a sharp eye on their health and provides them with a studied diet. I imagine them to be among the most fortunate of parakeets. That they express an uninhibited joy, vocal and otherwise, at my live performance is my own little bonus. I’ve played music most of my life, nothing heavy, just a sideman: these guys make me a star.

Crazy Olive, forever upside down, must think she’s a bat; Barney, puffed and ruffled, has eyebrows and looks an owl; Greybird, unique among monogamous parakeets, has two wives, neither seems to mind the other; Toonces the Magnificent, always preening his stunning coat of multi-colored feathers, strives to be a showbird; Little Latin Lupe Lu, a bright yellow female, says you better not mess with me and pretty much has her way; Calvin and Little Blue, both favorites and both lost to tumors before their time, are forever remembered for their intelligence, devotion and personal appeal.

With each new clutch comes the ritual of naming them. No rules, names simply happen. My wife calls from Atlanta where she attends a conference. Banding of chicks has fallen to me — a rite I am certain chick parakeets regard in the same light as do male infants circumcision. The band must be administered during a growth window of very few days; it slips over the toes that outgrow the ability of the band to slip off in no time at all. Toes must be bent, this way and that; a toothpick and some peanut oil come in handy. The chicks, naked and eyes barely open, cry out in anguish at the bracelet on their leg, worn for life like so many slaves, convicts and other such social unacceptables.

“Make sure you put it on the right leg,” says my wife, “and use the toothpick to get the large toe back through the band. Have you named any of them yet?”

I look at the poor naked waif struggling in my palm, no bigger than a walnut, my first attempt at banding. “Uh, yeah, just one. Listen,” and I hold the crying up to the receiver. “That was ‘Lefty’ dear.”

In keeping with the momentum of our life, Lefty’s clutchmates all have Hawaiian names more or less in preparation for our coming migration. The music, too, has taken on the same color. Having worked through idioms of blues, folk, bluegrass and a little rock & roll, the concerts are now strictly ki’ho alu, Hawaiian slack-key guitar, a recently acquired craft. Traditional Hawaiian music is unique unto itself and held in high regard around our house. A friend who is both a medical doctor and a burgeoning fan of Hawaiian music perhaps put it best when he stumbled upon discovery: “You know,” he mused, his brow furrowed in contemplation, “it’s almost impossible to listen to that stuff and maintain a crappy mood.” Read All About It: Doctor discovers effective mood elevator — no prescription required.

The ‘keets and I seem to agree. Positive notes beget themselves and the days start out accordingly. If I arrive home, crappy mood in tow, I know just the Rx.