It’s necessary for me to confess that I’m a hopeless Jake Shimabukuro fangirl. Here’s a picture of us together that an usher took for me after one of his concerts; the caption should say “Jake Shimabukuro smiling kindly beside Sheri, who is busy desperately wishing she had something intelligent to say”.
Everything about him delights me. First, it was his playing that uncovered the limitlessness of the ukulele’s potential for me. In his hands, it’s not just a cute little kitschy sound box, it’s a freaking majestic orchestra. Just quit reading now and go listen to this:
Beyond all that, he’s adorable, humble, and kind to his fans, and gives every impression of a man in love with, and grateful to have, his job. I have a ticket in my hot little hand right now for his July 29th concert in Cleveland Heights. That’s just about 318 hours from now, and I reckon I’ll need about all of those to come up with anything marginally sensible to say if I get the chance to shake his hand after the concert.
Luckily for me, I’ll have a copy of Uke Tide with me that I’m planning to give him, so I can always resort to grunting and pointing.