Gone Tiki

Just say "Hawai'i" like the locals do (Ha-VI-ee) and the word sets off a sensory overload: air laden with exotic flowers, gentle rains that bring out double rainbows, the twang of slack key guitar. Friendly people with a sonorous, rhythmic language. Shave ice. A dramatic landscape that is both nurturing and cruel.

That I first visited that beautiful, inspiring land on business - business! - is almost deflating. Almost, but not quite, since, among other things, I got to experience two Gods of Tiki.

The O'ahu Visitors Bureau, which regularly invites media, brought me to Hawai'i in April 1998 as part of a general five-day press tour. My husband and I were greeted by a limousine driver, who presented us each with a lei (the first of many), escorted us to a white stretch limousine (the first of many) and drove us to the Hyatt Regency Waikiki. Following a quick change, a cocktail reception overlooking the small but regular waves of Waikiki Beach and the setting sun, we were off to see the legendary Don Ho, who was performing at the Waikiki Beachcomber.

Our group was ushered into a darkened venue to some back tables, because the performance was already in progress. Ho, resplendent in a dazzling white suit, lounged onstage in the type of rattan chair favored by Morticia Addams. Next to the chair was a small table with a white phone. Occasionally he picked up the receiver and talked into it, and then there would be a flurry of waiter activity in the audience. (Once, he spoke, and a waiter suddenly appeared at our table. "Mr. Ho wants you to have these," he said, brandishing copies of Ho's stateside concert schedule.)

The show itself was made up of variety acts, which Ho introduced. One act was performed by one of Ho's children - a young daughter - who sang country western and Christian music very prettily. When she left the stage, Ho reminisced about a conversation he'd had with a friend: "He said, 'Don, you still having children?' I said, 'Yeah, yeah.'" (He was about 67 at the time, and passed away nine years later.)

In fact, his reminiscences and stories are what I remember best. "The original Hawaiians had no music," he claimed. "When the missionaries came, they built a church and on Sundays, they would sing hymns. Then the people would come, gather around, and listen at the door, because they had never heard sounds like that before." The show ended with his singing "Pearly Shells," after which we fanned out to buy our respective Don Ho T-shirts.

It was toward the end of the trip, when we had some free time, that Lee suggested we pay a visit to Martin Denny, who, like Les Baxter and Arthur Lyman, was one of the fathers of what some call "tiki" music and others characterize as "'60s bachelor pad". Denny lived on the Gold Coast, which is the on other side of Diamondhead, the same as the luxurious Kahala Hotel. His was a mountainside condo with a breathtaking 358-degree view (he informed us) of the coastline and featuring Diamondhead. 

Since it was May 1, which is "Lei Day" in Hawai'i, I purchased a beautiful and fragrant lei at a newsstand on Kalakaua Avenue. As Denny opened the door, I presented it to him and wished him a happy Lei Day. He thanked me and led us into the living room, which boasted the aforesaid view, a grand piano, some recording equipment, and much, much memorabilia of a life in the islands.

Denny was agitated; his wife was in the hospital, and he could only grant us a few minutes. But he grew comfortable with Lee, and they were soon talking about Don the Beachcomber, who lived in a beach hut near the Moana, Surfrider, and Royal Hawaiian hotels, and spent his time developing powerful cocktails. The hut eventually became the original eponymous tiki bar (and later the site of Duke's Waikiki), and the Moana Surfrider combined as a Sheraton, where Denny perfected his "exotic tones" in the lounge. "There were a bunch of bands," he said, referring to Lyman and Baxter, "and we were always trying to outdo the other." (The Moana Surfrider is now a Westin, and the Royal Hawaiian a Starwood Luxury Collection property; but subsequent renovations have restored their sense of Hawai'iana while also improving on amenities. Everyone should check them out.)

In his eighties, Denny was still involved in music. Sitting at the piano, he played us a little bit of a song he was working on. But as daylight waned, he grew restive again about his wife. It was time to leave.

As we stood at the door, saying our farewells, we started talking about Don Blanding, the creator of Lei Day. "He loved the islands," said Denny, "and he wanted there to be a holiday where everybody celebrated the custom." Closing the door, he gave me a final wave, adding, "Thanks for the lei."