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

Best Laid Plans

I looked down at my silver, glittery wristband.

The one that we got by waking up at 4:15 am, then standing in line for four hours at the grand opening of the Microsoft store in Boston, feeling like a Democrat who'd crashed the Republican convention. (I'm an Apple girl, a'ight?) The one, as the first 100 peeps in line, not only got us four free seats, to the Lenny Kravitz show, but entrance into his post-concert meet and greet.

The one that convinced my girlfriend Kristine to fly to Providence from New Orleans with a hurricane on the horizon. The one that had our pal Rhodes, researching his options on the best way to take a much needed break from the 24/7 care of his mom suffering from full blown dementia, to meet us out for some music and fun.

I didn't know quite how it would all work out yet.

But I knew it would.

The troops? Not quite mobilized. Kristine? In Boston. In line. She took the train from Providence earlier in the morning, leaving absolutely nothing to chance. Smart girl. Rhodes? His job was, apparently, making sure Kristine got into the pavilion. His wristband was safely tucked in my purse and currently accompanying Andre and I on a slow, painful tour of Route 1 North in Walpole, MA.

Tire shopping. Of course. Here's what I learned along the way:

My husband, as mature and financially secure as he may get, will always view a slow leak the same way he did when he was twenty and broke. Don't investigate. Just watch and wait.

Convenience stores do sell fix-a-flat in Massachusetts, even with tighter environmental standards, but those free air pumps are hard to come by.

When Town Faire Tire in Walpole, MA (shout out to the service manager at 75 Providence Highway) says they're closing at 4pm on a Saturday, they mean it. Even if you've got a whole half hour to spare. They will, however, provide enough air, to not only get you out of the parking lot, but five miles down the street to their competition. And if the store they recommended closed at noon, well, that's just on you.

Starbucks has clean bathrooms in a pinch.

AAA apparently does contract non-uniformed drivers, in unmarked pick-up trucks, for simple tire changes. Or, maybe, we were just had by a hired hit man trying to kill us by putting our donut on the front, instead of rotating it to the back, where control, and stopping, may have not been an issue.

Our car came off the lot with an outstanding set of performance tires. That are not sold standard. Anywhere. Not even at the place that ignored Andre for a full five minutes before he lost it on the clerk. Sorry, fella. Just an acknowledgement would have got you a whole different experience.
 
Good, honest, kind people, and mechanical angels, work at the PepBoys in Walpole. And if there's no traffic, you can make it from here to the Bank of America Pavilion in half an hour.

Rhodes would be able to charm a wristband off Lenny Kravitz himself. In fact, he may have. See.

Two friends could save two front row center tickets for two hours. Two friends like these will.

And maybe even get you on the big screen. See.

Lenny Kravitz puts on a hell of a show. And takes a hell of a picture. See.

Everything might not always go exactly as planned, but it always works out.

Somehow.

Guest Post: Lenny Kravitz -- The Man I Wish I Never Met

Plain and simple. You don't want to mess with a writer.

Writers are observers. Writers are communicators.

We. Speak. Up.

It would probably be best if you stopped underestimating our powers.

Meet my friend (and first guest poster) Ester. She's from the Netherlands. She's a writer. And, quite frankly, she rocks. (In more ways than one.)

Ester is also a  H-U-G-E Lenny Kravitz fan. She had the opportunity to meet him recently. Here's what went down:

Lenny Kravitz -The Man I Wish I Never Met

by Ester Bos

A friend blessed me with a meet and greet with Lenny Kravitz. Of course I would travel over 1200 kilometers for that. I wish I hadn't.

Oh, he was everything I dreamed he would be. Kind, polite, humble, thankful. His body in balance with grace, beauty and strength.

I think I saw his spirit shine. Shine with love. So yes, he was able to live up to my expectations.

I thanked him for spreading such a positive message. He seemed eager to hear what I had to say. Our hands accidentally touching. He turned so he would face me. Looked into my eyes while he thanked me. He told me that it really meant a lot to him.

Magic!

I'm this small town girl. He is this big star. I knew I wasn't going to be his new best friend. But he does fulfill my every desire. You know, musically speaking.

What I didn't know was that the only way to meet him was to have my picture taken with him. I tried to tell his tour manager that I had no need for this sort of trophy. I wanted to make good use of the little time that I had with him. I wanted to talk to him. She didn't understand. This was the way it had to be done.

I know I'm the odd one out.

So when they had me standing next to him, I did not look at the camera. I spoke. He seemed surprised that anyone was even talking to him.

How is it Lenny, to be treated as this precious thing in the rare objects cabinet? To be such a phenomenon that people want proof they met you? And that the proof is more important than the actual interaction with you? My heart bleeds for you.

You know how the universe always gives you what you ask for? That photo? I still haven't got it.

My meet and greet with Lenny Kravitz, the whole 30 seconds, all happened while the band was already playing 'Come On Get It'. So after the camera clicked, he had to leave. And left me craving for something that can never be.

Now for the first time in the 18 years that I've been his fan, I can't bring myself to listen to his music. It hurts too much. I don't think that Lenny Kravitz wanted this for me.

I know he is probably doing it all to himself. But I think he deserves much much better. And so does my friend who payed thousands of dollars for this 'amazing opportunity'.

Where can you get more Ester? Well, right here, of course:
http://mymindtoyourmind.wordpress.com

Adios SoundSession: A Fan Says Good-Bye

I sent this to the Providence Journal last week as an Op Ed piece. But the good thing about having your own platform is you never have to wait for someone else to print your words...

Providence Journal Op Ed

Adios SoundSession:  A fan says good-bye

by Dawn Keable

I never thought I'd be having this conversation.

"Hey, did you just come from SoundSession?" asked the woman in a fedora.

My eleven-year-old niece and I were downtown Saturday night, waiting for the light at the corner of Weybosset and Chestnut streets, when the woman and her party approached from the opposite direction. They were buzzing with excitement.

Their giddy anticipation? Something I understood perfectly. For the past eight summers, I also looked forward to SoundSession. What was not to love? This incredible celebration of music from around the world, described as Providence's own Mardi Gras, had introduced me to some damn fine musicians: Trombone Shorty, Plena Libra, the Youngblood Brass Band.

SoundSession had been a highlight on our July calendar since, 2004, when my husband Andre and I wandered into the inaugural festival. Granted, the crowd was a bit sparse that first year, it was drizzling, after all, but even with the spotty attendance and sprinkles, there was still a unique energy in the air. We understood we were witnessing the birth of something truly special--something that our small city had been long overdue in receiving.

And as we sipped mojitos, bought from one of the fold-up tables lining the street, I remember feeling sad that so few people were there to experience this with us.

I didn't feel a bit of sadness--for another eight years.

"Yeah," I answered, without any enthusiasm in my voice.

"And you're leaving?" she asked clearly puzzled. "Why? 'Cause you got a kid?"

"No. No. It's not that," I said, trying to choose my words carefully. "It's just not the same. No one's there."

"Oh. But it's still early," she said, still trying to make sense of the situation. The reality, I began to piece together for her? Clearly, it was something that she did not want to believe. And I didn't blame her. But the truth was, while it was technically early in the evening, I was doubtful that the passing of time would greatly impact the size of the crowd.

I could tell she too was a SoundSession veteran. And was familiar with the vibe that magically transformed Westminster Street for a couple of days each summer. I understood that she, like me, desperately wanted to believe that SoundSession, like all of the other tried and true Rhode Island institutions, from the Bristol 4th of July celebration to Del's lemonade, was the same.

But it wasn't. And it will never be again.

The politics of how we got here? The hows and whos and whys? Fans don't know much. We all knew that last year was a transitional year for the festival. That another entity, Roots Cafe, had taken over the reins of SoundSession, from Providence Black Rep, the creative founding vision, who was responsible for the festival's incredible growth.

And, as with any new 'owner', whether it be of a music festival or a house, they were free to put their stamp on what didn't originally start out as their vision. No matter who agreed with them. Or who didn't.

"We're leaving because they canceled the procession," I said.

"Oh. But that's not until later--around ten," she said.

"Yeah. Usually. But this year, they canceled it," I said.

I thought the procession would always be part of SoundSession. It was written up as a highlight of the weekend in the Providence Journal (Music fest SoundSession stays close to its Roots, Providence Journal, July 12, 2012) two days prior to the festival. There were changes: a new route, a new time, but the marchers were the same. Or so it said in the official program. A festival volunteer gave us the bad news, when we inquired about the route, gesturing in the direction of the Hotel Providence, saying that tenants complained.

Canceled?! Wow. Aren't we forgetting that innovators like SoundSession were not only here first, but are a big part of the reason there's life downtown to enjoy.

I could tell that the woman in the fedora understood what this meant.

The procession was, to me, the soul of SoundSession. It lead concert goers from Waterplace Park, where an evening of free music typically kicked off the Saturday night festivities, through the streets of the city, to the heart of the celebration: a block party on Westminster Street, where the evening really started to get magical.

Here, under the white lights strung above the street, folks, of all races, ages and economic means, came together to literally dance in the streets. If you've lived in Providence for any piece of time, or the state of Rhode Island for that matter, you know this does not happen here.

Every year I was in awe of this collective spirit. As well as incredibly proud to be part of it.

But last weekend, something big shifted, because, as Lisa Champagne, of the host venue, The Roots, explained in the same Thursday, July 12th article in the Providence Journal, "the dancing-in-the-street aspect of SoundSession was getting uncontrollable. "

I'm sorry. I thought that was the point.

So streets were blocked off. And admission was charged. And so many people who once came out in droves, stayed home.

"And no one's there," I told the woman in the fedora. "No one wants to pay $7 to get in."

"Oh, but it's still early." I could tell that she was still holding out hope that my assessment was all wrong.

And then her friend pipped up. "There's a great saxophonist on at 9pm."

I knew what they were doing. How they were trying to find the positive in the situation. But I didn't have a bit of brightness to give them.

Then the woman with the fedora, decided we had chatted enough and it was time for them to move on. To see, and judge, the situation for themselves. She said, "Okay, then. Well, you have a blessed day, anyways."

I thanked her, wished her the same, then crossed to the other side of the street where my husband was waiting.

And I wondered. When the women retraced their path later in the evening, what were they feeling? Were they content with how their night played out, or had they decided the same thing as me?

That it was time to thank SoundSession for the memories--and then say good-bye.

The Soundtrack of My Life: The Van Hunt Edition

Van. Hunt.

Not Van Halen.  And, please, for the love of god, not Van Who?

If you haven't had the pleasure yet, Van's the Man. Yeah, there may be rumors that he grew up in Ohio, but the real story? Clearly, Van Hunt is the funky musical love child of Sly Stone, Lenny Kravitz and Jimi Hendrix. Don't even try to deny it. My ears don't lie.

My love affair goes way back to the Summer of 2004. Van and his band, all suited up, yup, even with ties, performed to a packed house at the Black Rep in Providence. My husband Andre and I managed to snag a booth right in front of the stage, where we got down with our pal Rhodes, before he decided to move on out for the bright lights of the Big Apple.

Sure, VH had it going on with his stylized neo-soul sound, layered brass and smooth vocals, on tracks like 'Dust', 'Her December' and my all time favorite, 'What Can I Say'. (Go on, play it live if you must. I'll accept the dedication.) But what really got me hooked was Van's depth of character. Saddled up to the bar after the PVD show, Van Hunt thanked me for buying his album.

Sincere. Modest. Grateful. And you call yourself a rock star? Consider me hooked.

July 2006 brought the celebration to the Middle East in Cambridge. This time, the guest of honor was album number two, On The Jungle Floor. And while we came for Van, we left with two major discoveries: The Brand New Heavies, or more specifically, for Andre, lead singer N'Dea, as well as the eventual crazy realization, that my-not-yet-pal Vickie, was the one grooving stageside in that red hat.

My first visit to Western, MA, in July, 2008? Courtesy of Van. For reasons I still don't quite understand, and he probably doesn't either, he touched down in the R&B bastion of the Northeast--Northampton--because nothing says funk like a historic coffeehouse, serving up hummus platters in the middle of nowhere. Maybe he was looking for a little anonymity, to regroup after two labels foolishly dropped him. And oh, he got that. We passed Van in the scary basement on our way to the rest room--without a bit of recognition. Upstairs, he turned it out. Solo. On a piano. And not for one instance did we feel like he was doing us a favor.

Humility at its finest.

The next chapter? Saturday. March 31, 2012. Fete. Providence. An outstanding new club. A brilliant new album: 'What Were You Hoping For?' A complex psychedelic new sound that's a bit more raw, but features the same brilliant songwriting. Tickets are a crazy $15 in advance.

And, best of all, Van Hunt has given Boston the bypass for us.

So, please, whatever you do, don't leave him hangin'.