Gabby Pahinui

Hawaiian music makes me think of Elvis, conga drums, or that whiny background music in the two-hour Brady Bunch Goes to Hawaii special that aired, oh, around 1970-something.

Not so.

I'm not even remotely schooled-up enough to start describing Hawaiian music, not even the instruments or style. But I so want to learn. I feel like I'm at an extravagant wedding feast, and I've sampled a lovely bit of sweet bread -- but I'm about to plunge into so much more. I hear it between local stories on the public radio station, but when the announcer slurs out a name, it sounds something like Jeff Hona'catcher'oo or Monica Oo'oo'lani. Not helpful for looking up names on Amazon.

A couple of Saturdays ago, Matt and I were all set to do chores around the house. We were lingering over breakfast on the back patio, me doodling around on my phone, him immersed in the Star Advertiser, Oahu's only newspaper. Suddenly, he said, "How soon can you be ready?" He'd found a local music event called the Gabby Pahinui Festival over in Waimanalo Beach.

I said something helpful like, "But we have honey-dos to do." And he looked at me like, "Are you kidding?

Two hours later, I was slung down in my little camp chair, my back to the eastern shore of the island, my face soaking up the mist as it rolled down off the Koolau Mountains. In true Hawaiian fashion, locals from all over the island were setting up awnings and taking mountains of food out of their coolers: huge containers of chunked fruit, macaroni salad, and fish in fried, grilled, baked, and raw varieties. Big, pink boxes of pastries were handed round.

Local vendors were in on the action, too, selling coffee, homemade soap, and flipflops.

And, oh, the music. It lulled us straight to paradise. There were six-string guitars, soft drums ... and other stuff. I honestly don't know how to describe it, other than to say I wanted to listen to it forever. The voices -- sometimes one, sometimes, two, sometimes many -- lifted and fell and chanted and clapped. The best were the dancers, though, telling some ancient story in the gentle curve of their hands.

After a couple of hours, Matt said, "Gosh, we should get going. We have chores to do." And I looked at him like, "Are you kidding?"

I stalled as long as possible, bribing him with banana ice cream (unsuccessful) and lunch at a fresh fish truck (very successful). We dragged our feet in the sand and bugged a life guard about jelly fish reports we'd been hearing.

And rolled down our windows when we reluctantly drove away.