
10 years ago, ukuleles were a novelty instrument. Whenever you heard one, you were either in a Hawaiian airport or listening to Tiny Tim sing "Tiptoe Through The Tulips".
Actually, 9 times out of 10 you were probably listening to Tiny Tim sing "Tiptoe Through The Tulips".

You know, just in case you had a some cutesy song in your heart that needed to get out.

I understand the appeal of the instrument, which is distinctly Hawaiian with roots in Portugal. It's small and therefore easily transportable. It has a small neck board and four strings, replacing much of the complexities of a standard guitar with a beautiful, simple, and accessible instrument, perfect for anyone who wants to flirt with being musical. There are also a variety of prices one could pay, the cheapest being around $30, an infinitesimal price that is very appealing. Even for $250, which might get you a not-so-good acoustic guitar, you could get a beautiful ukulele made from exotic woods.

My problem with the ukulele is more of a problem with whimsy in general. And as my brain seems more tuned to sound than any other sensory input, it's only natural that I attack that which is providing the soundtrack to the cute and whimsical. There are elements to this culture of whimsy which I admittedly subscribe to: I make wine and pickle vegetables, for example. But I also listen to music that doesn't have anything to do with being precious and/or coy. I am an adult. Keep those playful, quaint thumb-strummed ditties until either I have children or I'm 90 years old and shitting myself like one. When I'm drooling and toothless. THAT'S when you can bust out a ukulele.

But like I said, ukuleles are a symptom of a greater cultural virus, one that I believe has been spurned on by the cat memes, Zooey Deschanel, Wes Anderson movies, Arcade Fire, and the Adventure Time cartoon.
As I am at work and probably being spied on by my bosses, we'll have to explore this theme in future posts.