The Emerald Theatre, Detroit, Michigan.
Legends. Icons. Pure Harmonies. Amazing musicians who still know how to perform live.
Most artists have forgotten what it is like to be at a live music show and actually perform “Music.” Live shows are now all about the damned fireworks, the caged animals, the effects, the outfits and 9 times out of ten crappy, crappy singing. Why do you call it live when the music is all pre-recorded and all the artist does is say “Helloooooo (insert name of place here)… Are you reaaaaaaaaaadddyyyy ???? ”
Ready for what? Watch my money go down the drain, for an hour or two of listening to the same track I have on itunes while you dance around on stage in the equivalent of a Paper Napkin. Bah.
But then there are still artists like Extreme. These guys know music. And I don’t mean know in a “This is what I am playing and therefore what you plebians will listen to” kind of way. I mean that they know music in a “You listen to this and it will eat through the humdrum and head straight to your soul” way. And it did.
I believed in Hole-Hearted. I could see Cupid’s dead body lying right there on stage. Right there in front of Nuno’ beautiful beautiful fingers weaving hypnotic magic that made everyone in there want to know how it felt to stage-dive. Maybe I exaggerate, but at least I sure as hell wanted to know what it felt like to dive off a raised platform and expect drunk, headbanging strangers to catch me before I hit concrete.
But all in all, it was music, it was actual singing, not some studio edited crap being back-played. It was real harmonizing, something I think artists today have forgotten. I sound like an old fogey griping about “Kids these days…” when I am just a regular (at least I think so) 23 year old who just wishes people remembered what it was like to hear something that sounds like real music.
We sang along to “More Than Words” and bought tickets on the “Midnight Express” and we did all of it standing ten feet away from Nuno himself… We headbanged alongside people twice our age who have obviously been fans since long before we were born. One of them looked at us singing along to almost every song word for word and nodded appreciatively. He later shook my hand and said “Good to see not all kids your age have forgotten what real music is.” That made me think. Have we realllly forgotten? Or do we just need a reminder now and then?
Friday, March 5, 2010
Detroit - The Museum of Black History
What is it like to be a slave? To be a living breathing person and yet be treated as nothing more than an asset on paper. A tool. A part of someone’s estate. Something instead of someone.
I asked myself these questions on the way to the museum of Black History in Detroit, Michigan. It was an hour long drive and no matter what I thought, it didn’t prepare me for the emotions that hit me when I saw the exhibits. The walk traces the history of slavery right from when trade relations were established between the ‘white nations’ and the countries that then made up Africa. It explains how most of those nations were cheated out of their own birthrights in the form of their natural homes and how those homes were plundered and their basic rights to a peaceful existence were wiped out by men with no scruples or regard for human life. They were sold into slavery and made into virtual robots, taking no notice of the families that were torn apart, the lives that were destroyed. How many of those children grew up not knowing their families? How many of those husbands watched their wives being led away from them to be ensconced in homes that promised nothing but abuse and torture until merciful death claimed them. How many of those wives watched their husbands being led away to be worked to death in the mines or fields? How many of them watched parents, children, what was left of their families, disappear forever?
As I walked through most of this exhibit, I had to stop at the display that accurately depicted the transportation of the slaves to the biggest slave market at the time “America” and her colonies. The number of people crammed into holds for journeys that took weeks, sometimes months. All chained side-ways to save place. This is when tears came to my eyes and I had to take a step outside to just breathe. The unfairness of it all seemed a little too overwhelming for me to take in at a time.
For anyone visiting the Big D, I would definitely suggest a walk through this museum. The plans that led to escapes, the manhunts that ensued and the punishments meted out for the unlucky few who were caught… and the tremendous strength of those who tried multiple times. The contributions made by the emancipated slaves in the fields of politics, education, music and culture are immeasurable. Where would the US of A be today without icons to look back on, like Martin Luther King Jr, Fats Domino, BB King, Ray Charles and so many others that I would have to find another blog to write about all their achievements. It was not just what they did. It was what they did to inspire so so so many others. In an interview with many TV Stations and Newspapers, Elvis Presley was asked how it felt to be the “King,” his reply was to point to the back of the room and simply state “That ain’t me, there’s the king of rock and roll right there.” He was pointing to BB King.
For those of you who read my blog for my usual sarcasm and annoyed outlook, I apologize and I love you for sticking with me so far. But this post was more about how much I wish people would realize that the color of your skin means nothing compared to what you are worth beneath it.
I asked myself these questions on the way to the museum of Black History in Detroit, Michigan. It was an hour long drive and no matter what I thought, it didn’t prepare me for the emotions that hit me when I saw the exhibits. The walk traces the history of slavery right from when trade relations were established between the ‘white nations’ and the countries that then made up Africa. It explains how most of those nations were cheated out of their own birthrights in the form of their natural homes and how those homes were plundered and their basic rights to a peaceful existence were wiped out by men with no scruples or regard for human life. They were sold into slavery and made into virtual robots, taking no notice of the families that were torn apart, the lives that were destroyed. How many of those children grew up not knowing their families? How many of those husbands watched their wives being led away from them to be ensconced in homes that promised nothing but abuse and torture until merciful death claimed them. How many of those wives watched their husbands being led away to be worked to death in the mines or fields? How many of them watched parents, children, what was left of their families, disappear forever?
As I walked through most of this exhibit, I had to stop at the display that accurately depicted the transportation of the slaves to the biggest slave market at the time “America” and her colonies. The number of people crammed into holds for journeys that took weeks, sometimes months. All chained side-ways to save place. This is when tears came to my eyes and I had to take a step outside to just breathe. The unfairness of it all seemed a little too overwhelming for me to take in at a time.
For anyone visiting the Big D, I would definitely suggest a walk through this museum. The plans that led to escapes, the manhunts that ensued and the punishments meted out for the unlucky few who were caught… and the tremendous strength of those who tried multiple times. The contributions made by the emancipated slaves in the fields of politics, education, music and culture are immeasurable. Where would the US of A be today without icons to look back on, like Martin Luther King Jr, Fats Domino, BB King, Ray Charles and so many others that I would have to find another blog to write about all their achievements. It was not just what they did. It was what they did to inspire so so so many others. In an interview with many TV Stations and Newspapers, Elvis Presley was asked how it felt to be the “King,” his reply was to point to the back of the room and simply state “That ain’t me, there’s the king of rock and roll right there.” He was pointing to BB King.
For those of you who read my blog for my usual sarcasm and annoyed outlook, I apologize and I love you for sticking with me so far. But this post was more about how much I wish people would realize that the color of your skin means nothing compared to what you are worth beneath it.
Baseball at the Big D
BOOOOOORRRINGGGGG !!!
This sums up my feeling for the game. From now on I swear to keep my viewing of this game to the bare minimum. If I have to deal with a few minutes of it in a movie or a series I watch, then yes, I might decide to not yawn, but otherwise, Dear GOD !!! the beer was the only reason I sat through (read as survived) this horrendous form of torture. After two mega glasses, the absolute senselessness of this game and its little quirks, took a left at “I don’t know whats going on and I don’t care” and kept going right past “what makes any one of you think I care” and ended at “Can we go home now ????” FINALLLLLLLLY someone said it was over and I cheered like a Maniac. At least it was over, not like I cared who won.
Now don’t get me wrong, I think Baseball is an integral part of the American experience, like a Hot Dog from Gray’s Papaya in NY, or the Grand Canyon. I just wish they had found a way to simply put it into a half hour or something. Then I could have spent the rest of the time looking for something better to waste my time with. My entertainment throughout this game was the 2 little people in front of us who would turn around every 3 minutes to give us a near toothless grin. They were at the age when you have more gum than tooth and silver dollars for every tooth fairy visit. This is apparently the same age when the only time you are interested in Baseball is when you can play on your Little league team, not watch big stinky men play instead.
They were still at the point when it was alllll about the game and not the money, not the endorsements, and definitely not the politics. I envied them for a moment, their pure innocence in the game. A game that bored me to tears, but still, a game they loved.
And then there was the funny looking old man who followed us from the stadium, while talking about how he was such a huge supporter or some team or the other, and then tried to convince us to let him onto the train station, however, he didn’t have a ticket and a friend told us that this was a common scam.
It was commonly scary though. Nothing else. All I wanted to do was to get back to Tom’s car and get home. Home then was Signature Blvd and the microwave that would give me beautiful coffee. Funny how home to me for the past 3 years has been my suitcase, more than a place.
This sums up my feeling for the game. From now on I swear to keep my viewing of this game to the bare minimum. If I have to deal with a few minutes of it in a movie or a series I watch, then yes, I might decide to not yawn, but otherwise, Dear GOD !!! the beer was the only reason I sat through (read as survived) this horrendous form of torture. After two mega glasses, the absolute senselessness of this game and its little quirks, took a left at “I don’t know whats going on and I don’t care” and kept going right past “what makes any one of you think I care” and ended at “Can we go home now ????” FINALLLLLLLLY someone said it was over and I cheered like a Maniac. At least it was over, not like I cared who won.
Now don’t get me wrong, I think Baseball is an integral part of the American experience, like a Hot Dog from Gray’s Papaya in NY, or the Grand Canyon. I just wish they had found a way to simply put it into a half hour or something. Then I could have spent the rest of the time looking for something better to waste my time with. My entertainment throughout this game was the 2 little people in front of us who would turn around every 3 minutes to give us a near toothless grin. They were at the age when you have more gum than tooth and silver dollars for every tooth fairy visit. This is apparently the same age when the only time you are interested in Baseball is when you can play on your Little league team, not watch big stinky men play instead.
They were still at the point when it was alllll about the game and not the money, not the endorsements, and definitely not the politics. I envied them for a moment, their pure innocence in the game. A game that bored me to tears, but still, a game they loved.
And then there was the funny looking old man who followed us from the stadium, while talking about how he was such a huge supporter or some team or the other, and then tried to convince us to let him onto the train station, however, he didn’t have a ticket and a friend told us that this was a common scam.
It was commonly scary though. Nothing else. All I wanted to do was to get back to Tom’s car and get home. Home then was Signature Blvd and the microwave that would give me beautiful coffee. Funny how home to me for the past 3 years has been my suitcase, more than a place.
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