High Tide is the sound of a self‑taught Honolulu kid who refused to follow anyone else’s script finally bottling his own idea of Hawaii. Born on October 4, 1929, Eddie Suzuki learned music the hard way and the honest way: shining shoes in 1940s Honolulu until he had enough to pay for piano lessons, leading a big band of 16 - and sometimes up to 40 - players while still in high school, then opening a piano shop that he would eventually pivot into the city’s top guitar store. That blend of hustle, curiosity and stubborn independence runs right through High Tide, the 1973 album he cut with his group New Hawaii after years spent performing and quietly stockpiling songs.
When High Tide first appeared, local critic Wayne Harada nailed its stance with a single line: this was “not a rock‑out” but “one man’s vision - and version - of the now Hawaii.” Rather than chase chart trends, Suzuki builds his own small universe where psych‑tinted keyboards, lilting island rhythms and unpretentious pop hooks coexist without strain. The record feels at once deeply place‑specific - steeped in the sights, sounds and soft humidity of the islands - and gently out of time, as if it’s beaming a private fantasy of Hawaii back onto the real one. Hammond organ and Arp synthesizer glow at the centre of the arrangements, bathing everything in a sun‑dazed warmth, while the songwriting favours open‑hearted melodies and structures that move with the unhurried confidence of someone who’s been playing for people, not markets.
New Hawaii are crucial to that feel. Guitarist Laurence Harada, bassist John Schulmeister and drummer Gary Fittro give Suzuki’s tunes an easy, lived‑in pulse that can tilt from mellow lounge sway to subtly psychedelic drift without ever breaking the spell. Vocalist Nani Kuaiwa adds an extra layer of human presence, her lines weaving around Suzuki’s own vocals in a way that underlines the album’s communal spirit. Across the record, you can hear the band treating genre as something porous: a touch of surf here, a hint of soft rock there, Hawaiian phrasing and harmony throughout, all anchored by Suzuki’s fondness for saturated organ tones and space‑age synth colour. It’s music that invites you to picture the shoreline at golden hour, but also isn’t afraid to let a bit of cosmic haze creep into the frame.
Part of High Tide’s aura comes from its rarity and the personal story behind its return. Pressed in tiny numbers, the LP quietly slipped into the realm of near‑myth, whispered about by collectors as one of those local‑only masterpieces that almost vanished with their maker. When reissue producer Roger Bong went searching for Suzuki to license the album, he reached out just one week too late; Eddie had died the week before his first call. It would take years, and a conversation with Suzuki’s son, before the music could be brought back into circulation. That bittersweet timing casts an extra glow over the record: you hear not just a “lost classic” being rescued, but a life’s worth of DIY vision, finally given the chance to travel far beyond the island circuits where it was first conceived.
