Celebrating the 4th of July with Censorship

I have a YouTube channel. If two videos constitute a channel.

It's under an alias. You know, to protect the innocent. Trust, there's no national security breaches going on here. Just outstanding professional quality concert footage, compliments of my husband, his Canon point and shoot and a newly discovered talent for video production. 

I'd rather keep it all on the down low, because I'm not sure how recording artists feel about having their live performances broadcast from unofficial sources. But in my mind, at least, we're doing a service, as are others who share the live experience. It's a chance to share the vibe of an in person experience and promote unsung talent.

To appreciate and celebrate. Period. 

Initially, the love was flowing through to the comment section as well: 'What a song those harmony's so tasteful'. And:  'I'm really in love with whoever posted this video. That show was amazing!!'

But as the views increased, a bit of negativity started to creep in:  'Come on bro, what are you wearing? Still love this song. Very good quality video. plus one-ing'. 

While this made me a bit uncomfortable, bottom line is that I'm a journalist. Supporter of free speech and all that. I don't censor.

Or do I?

I was pretty confident in my stance until this showed up:  'i'm praying that he does not get fat again'. 

Okay, let's review. The artist in question has struggled for the past decade plus, with serious life or death issues: drugs, alcohol, the media, pressures of fame. Real fans should know this, celebrate whatever victories he's rocked out, because in my opinion, there are many and just stop the hate. 

But apparently, there's a whole lot of people who are more than comfortable, under the anonymity of cyberspace, to snowball the negativity, without even showing their own faces. This reply, to the comment in question, came a few days later: 'This damn music industry f's up people's mind! He looks like he's in heaven and hell at the same time.'
 
Indeed. I'm with 'ya. Or I was until the same person followed up with: 'Please lose some weight. You are 5'6 I know it's a lot of pressure to live up to How does it feel video....us sistas need something to look at! Please! We love you too much! Also be free but get a stylist you are so fine when u put it all together.'

Seriously? Hold up a minute girlfriend--it's not wholly the industry's fault. Equal blame lies with the public. With you. Are you listening to yourself? The mere fact that someone chooses to share their talents with the world, and is living in the public eye, does not give you the right to critique their personal struggles. Please. 

I hold no illusions that the artist will even see our video, but stranger things have happened. Plus, I'm all about the positivity and comments like that don't reflect my life philosophy. So adios comment section. I've gone all Communist censor and disabled them, so we can get back to what's important.

The music.

This Way Out

Rhode Island's claim to fame is vast. The good: Coffee syrup, Del's lemonade, miles of coastline, Miss Universe. And the really, really bad:  The Station nightclub fire. February 20, 2003. One hundred lives lost.

While most of the world plays the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, in the smallest state, we could probably do it in two. In other words, it's odd to meet someone whom you don't share any common relationships. Consequently, in times of tragedy, we all hurt.

Last weekend, when the news came about the Brazil blaze, it really hit home, maybe even harder than a tragedy over five thousand miless away from our shores, typically would. That's because the similarities between Saturday's Brazil tragedy and the one in my home state were sickeningly similar. 

John P. Barylick, a trial lawyer at Wistow, Barylick, Sheehan & Loveley PC and author of Killer Show: The Station Nightclub Fire, America's Deadliest Rock Concert, lays it all out in an outstanding essay for USA Today. 

If you're pressed for time, the most important take-away, to me anyway, is this:

"One of the most important lessons I learned from my experience in this case was that we all need to be aware that we cannot count on bands, concert promoters, club owners, bouncers -- or even fire officials -- to ensure our safety. We need to be our own best fire marshals. To be safe, go with your gut. If it feels wrong, or dangerous, leave. No show is worth your life."

After the fire at the Station, this was my mantra. I had a hard time returning to the live music scene at all, and when I did, it certainly wasn't belly up to the bar. I spent the evening two feet from the emergency exit, ready to bust open the escape hatch. I remember thinking: Will I ever be able to just enjoy the experience again?

Thankfully, yes. But, I realized this weekend, as the fear dissipated, so did my vigilance to develop an exit strategy. This, I am not proud of. So, I'm taking the Brazil nightclub incident as my own personal wake-up call. I will, once again be that, some would say, Debbie Downer, pointing out where the closest exit is and designating a meeting space outside, should something go horribly wrong.

 And if anything gets lit inside, beyond a birthday candle on a cake, trust, my crew is out.

I challenge you to do the same.

Your life might depend on it.

Life Behind the Velvet Rope: Featuring Maxwell

November 29, 2012

Dear Maxwell,

I don't think I've written a real fan letter since John Schneider starred in the Dukes of Hazard, so you're in fine company.

Or something like that.

Last weekend, I had the good fortune of attending your Winter Warm-Up Concert at the Foxwoods/MGM Grand Theatre. It was a make-up for me too. Last summer, I scored, (sniff) fifth row (sniff, sniff) tickets to your cancelled shows in New Jersey. Man, was I ready to rock my jumpsuit. An epic weekend for sure.

But then there was that throat surgery.

And my jumpsuit stayed in the closet.

Fast forward to Saturday night. And excuse me if I get a little pissy. My irritation isn't directed towards you. Nope. I'm angry for you. And I guess it's been brewing for a while.

Truth is, I've been a fan since the very beginning. And outside of 'For Lovers Only' (I'm sorry. Any touch of country twang gives me instant hives), you can do no wrong. I am still amazed how every single one of your albums, from start to finish, are going strong in my personal rotation. That's a testament, not only to your perfectionism, but your refusal to cave to outside pressure to release a project until you deem it finished. Even as the world loses patience with your timeline.

With a whole bunch of live shows under my belt, nine and counting, I've also been privy to not only your consummate professionalism, but your extreme humility. I had the privilege of hanging out at the Times Square meet and greet after your last show in June, 2010. And that's where it all started to click for me. The metaphor of life behind the velvet rope that must ring a bit too true.

Straight up: Folks forget there's an actual person powering that voice. Or maybe it's the other way around.

Here's the thing, after a free cosmo, or three, and the urging of my angel husband, I worked my way over to say hello. I couldn't get this close and pass up this opportunity--or worse, take on the negative vibe of the sour ladies a table away, who were incredulous that you weren't working the room.

I got my reward alright. Two unsolicited hugs. That's right. Read it and weep. What's my secret? It wasn't a low cut blouse, red lips or heavy fawning. I think we connected because, newsflash, I treated you like a real person. Listen, that's just what I do, but it became clear to me, through your sweet shyness, this human to human vibe is far from the norm. Especially in this hyped up celebrity hungry world of: "What Have You Done For Me Lately?"

So listen man, because you've proven to me over and over that you are a genuine solid dude, I've got your back with this whole Winter Warm-Up mess. Go ahead and cover your ears because it's going to get ugly; I know you're a lover, not a fighter. But some of this East Coast Maxwell Nation has got it a bit twisted and they need to stand corrected.

Listen, NJ and CT. I so get it. I'm a Northeast girl. You know, AKA the center of the universe. But these two shows that came our way didn't come courtesy of hitting the Maxwell lottery. The low-down: Brooklyn brother, just came off throat surgery. He can rehab all he wants in the privacy of his own Manhattan digs. But eventually, if he wants to keep on performing live, he's going to have to bring those pipes out into the public.

For a test.

Yup. Sorry. You can go on believing that Maxwell really loves us best. (You do, don't you, Max?) But the truth is those two Warm-Up shows could have easily been called: Let's Take To The Stage and See What We've Got. Now would not be the time to tell me you were expecting some sort of full-fledged stadium production. I repeat. Two. Dates.

And, could we just pause for a second and consider the balls it took to come out on stage in the first place? Maxwell doesn't know how his voice is going to hold up over two hours, nevermind two days. And with a cold on top of everything, I'd say all things considered, he worked it out better than fine. He's a man, not a machine.

Yeah, I would have been cool with an more accurate start time, and spending more time in my room, enjoying another bottle of two buck chuck, instead of rushing to try to get to church on time. But how much of that is in Maxwell's personal control and how much lies with the venue and/or promoters? Someone hook me up with a drink next time and we're straight.

Maxwell, you've still got my admiration and respect. And that rendition of 'Symptom Unknown'? Off the chart. I only wish my husband had the sense to illegally video it.

So what the hell is up with the rest of you? Where's the love? The appreciation? Does anyone remember that EIGHT YEAR vacation a certain someone took not too long ago. And wasn't this Thanksgiving weekend after all. Can't we just be grateful the surgery seems to have corrected the problem and no one's dealing with a career ending injury? Stand up in our damn seats and dance in the aisles?

Maxwell, you're still here right? I so get it now. So go on. Poof. Disappear if you must. Book some sort of Caribbean cruise and hide behind your straw fedora and Ray Bans. Apparently absence really does makes the heart grow fonder. Oh, and if you make it to Puerto Rico, can you bring me back some rum?

Until next time, with much respect and appreciation,

Dawn from Providence