Christopher Kalama was gifted. A Mozart, some people said.
At three, he picked up his father’s ‘ukulele. It looked like a guitar in his little hands. And he began to strum. But this was not just any random striking of strings.
His father played music professionally. A perfectionist, he would practice for hours every day. Because of this, his son heard him all day long.
And by osmosis, a mix undoubtedly of nature and nurture, he picked up the ‘ukulele and began strumming “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” It was a warm-up tune his father played every day. A bit of calisthenic ritual before the haul of hours-long practices.
His father came out of the kitchen when he heard the song. Speechless when he saw his little boy playing, he sat down to watch the show.
When his son had finished the song, his father clapped and shouted out “Terrific, Christopher. You da man. Try play something else.”
The boy, beaming with this praise and encouragement, began strumming, “Pearly Shells.”
As he finished the song, played flawlessly, his father jumped up off the couch and ran to embrace his little boy.
“Christopher, how you did that, boy? It’s amazing. Wait until your mother comes home. You going blow her mind.”
“Can I play more?” Christopher asked.
“Go for it, son. You play whatever you like.”
And with that, the three-year-old launched into “Beautiful Kaua‘i,” then “Lahaina Luna,” “Pōhakuloa,” and on and on.
After an hour of playing non-stop, Christopher put the ‘ukulele down. “I’m sleepy, Daddy.”
His father, wiping away the years for the miracle he’d observed, called his son to him. “Chris,” he said, embracing the little boy, you going be one star.”
And it happened. At first, he performed several songs with his father’s band in the evenings at Kahamoku’s, the prestigious Waikīkī nightclub. The audience had always been good before, but now with Christopher playing, the place was jammed with listeners every night.
Gradually, the little boy began to sing the songs, too, and he had a beautiful voice. His father began making recordings of Christopher, selling CDs at the club and online. A YouTube following grew quickly. The little boy became a viral hit.
One day his father received a call from a promoter in California who wanted to sign Christopher. After reviewing the contract with a lawyer, his father signed his son to a four-CD deal.
Now agents were contacting his father, and when a woman from William Morris knocked on his front door, Christopher’s father knew that his son’s star would rise fast and far.
There are more than 8,000 hula hālau in Japan, and it’s estimated that as many as 1,000,000 people there dance hula. Constantly flying from Hawai‘i to Japan made it seem to Christopher as if he spent more time there than back home. He became fluent in Japanese, and as time passed his family bought a home just outside of Tokyo.
But Japan was not the only country demanding Christopher’s performances. At 18, he was on the road nearly 300 days a year, and it seemed to him sometimes that he’d missed his childhood and had lost any kind of anchoring home.
After he’d turned 13, he’d begun to tour without his parents, traveling only with a tutor, Daniel Toyama. In addition to Japan, he played all over the U.S., Europe, and South America.
He blinked and tried to focus. The conversation, Christopher thought, might have gone something like this:
“Hello, Mr. Kalama, this is Daniel.”
“Eh, Dan, yeah. How’s Chris doing? You’re in Chicago tonight, right?”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Kalama, I don’t know how to tell you this, but, ah, Daniel’s gone missing.”
He blinked again. The shock to his father, well, he was sorry that his parents would experience that, but he’d reached the point of total exhaustion.
Leaning over the sink, he examined his face in the mirror. “I don’t recognize you,” Christopher said.
He threw some water on his face, then returned to the terminal lobby and waited for the bus that would take him somewhere he didn’t know for sure.
“Excuse me,” a woman sitting across from him said. “Is that a ‘ukulele?” She pointed to the case beside him.
“Yes, ma’am, it is.”
“Oh wow, I love the sound of it. Can you play something for me?”
Christopher gave her a weak smile. “Ah, yes, sure.”
He opened the case and took out the instrument that had begun to feel like an albatross strung around his neck.
Near the point of tears, he exhaled and began to play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”
When he finished, he looked over at the woman. She was smiling.
“Wow, I like the way you play,” she said.
Christopher smiled and thanked her.
His bus had pulled into the terminal. Rising, Christopher walked out, stepped up, and soon was on his way.
Lanning Lee 