Scott Stapp: Feeling the Music

The skeletons in Scott Stapp’s closet started rattling in 2002 when his drinking and drug use contributed to the breakup of his platinum-selling band, Creed. By Thanksgiving 2005, they’d broken down the door and sauntered out in a succession of events that mocked his then futile attempts to stay sober: the fight with members of punk rock outfit 311; the drunken appearance on Spike TV’s Casino Cinemadays later; getting arrested at Los Angeles International Airport the day after his wedding to Miss New York 2004, Jaclyn Nesheiwat; and a 1999 sex tape that distributors threatened to release.

They are things Stapp could have easily said he wouldn’t discuss, but tour publicist Chuck Randall says Stapp is anything but tight-lipped. “You shouldn’t have any problem once he gets going,” he says. “He can talk.”

Originally published in Risen magazine. Full story available upon request.

Sanz Sound Deafening in Big Arena

Alejandro Sanz’s 1998 live album, Basico, displays a simple but telling photo of the Spanish performer sitting in the spotlight in front of a microphone, guitar on his knee. The unadorned shot captures the essence of what made Sanz popular to begin with: superb guitar skills and a gravelly, flamenco-styled tenor. Fans and music writers often refer to Sanz as a musical poet whose intimate, intense lyrics, covering everything from love to politics, cut much deeper than the shallow, manufactured pop anthems of his contemporaries.

Unfortunately, that intimacy was nowhere to be found on Saturday night at Miami’s AmericanAirlines Arena, the first stop on the American leg of his No Es Lo Mismo (It’s Not The Same) tour. The location wasn’t a good fit for his live blend of flamenco, pop and hip-hop. Even though Sanz and his 13-piece band gave stellar performances, it was unnerving to hear music described as poetic sounding more like an attack on the eardrums.

After a thunderous medley/intro of his older hits, Sanz, clad in a sleeveless shirt, jeans and his ever-present mischievous grin, offered a new song from No Es Lo Mismo, also the title of his most recent album. The track, 12 por 8 (12 by 8), garnered a lukewarm reception and immediately distinguished the diehard fans from the casual ones only familiar with his radio hits.

It wasn’t until Labana, a song about the plight of Cubans exiled from their homeland, that the crowd of more than 7,000 fans got to their feet. The floor-level seating area became an impromptu salsa club (over the protests of security) and Sanz himself shyly cut the rug on stage. The song received one of the evening’s numerous standing ovations and featured an amazing trumpet solo by Cuban producer-musician Lulo Perez.

The highlight of the evening was when Sanz played fragments of songs written by a man he described as a philosopher from his hometown of Cadiz, Spain. Sitting on an extension of the stage that placed him closer to the audience, Sanz accompanied his raspy voice on the keyboard, sounding better live than on his studio recordings. Sadly though, the high-pitched shrieks of “Alejandro, !te quiero!” every six seconds, ricocheting off the arena walls, cheapened it.

The raps on Try to Save Your S’ong were nearly unintelligible without the liner notes and the cavernous arena made horn solos sound like car alarms. More than a few fans covered their ears during the electric guitar solos.

While the show had its spectacular moments, thanks to smart arrangements and tight production, the sound problems bring up the dilemma that arena acts must always grapple with: Quantity, or quality? The Latin Grammy-winning success of Sanz’s 2001 MTV Unplugged, recorded at the University of Miami’s 600-seat Gusman Hall, suggests an answer. In March, Sanz did an eight-day stint at Mexico City’s National Auditorium, whose seating capacity is about half that of AmericanAirlines Arena. It would have been nice if he’d done something similar in South Florida.

Originally published in the South Florida Sun Sentinel (Fort Lauderdale, FL) 
April 27, 2004 Tuesday Broward Metro Edition
SECTION: LIFESTYLE; Pg. 3E

The Last Son in Miami: A Personal Remembrance of Celia Cruz

On the day Celia Cruz died, I tried to explain her significance to a gringo friend over dinner. It goes without saying that he wasn’t getting it.

“I know she’s famous, but all I see is a old woman who dresses like a drag queen and looks like she should of retired years ago,” he said. “What so great about that?”

A long pause followed as I eyed him carefully, washing down my plantain chips with coconut water. I told him I felt like he’d just insulted my mother.

Of course, he found the comparison obsessive, but I wasn’t alone in feeling it.  To the Cuban exile community in my new home, Miami, Celia Cruz’s death was like losing the closest of family members. The entire city seemed to be in shock. A few coworkers called in sick the following day. A hip-hop radio station and an alt-rock station played her songs in tribute. The Spanish-language stations suspended regular programming to field phone calls from fans expressing their grief.

Her passing would have been deeply felt if it had only represented simply than the loss of a consummate entertainer, but this grief was also about the vanishing of a dream. Celia’s music is reminiscent of a Cuba that existed before Fidel Castro’s dictatorship and now exists only in memories. Her rich voice and charisma made her fans forget — at least temporarily — the burden of exile and cultural separation.

Perhaps even more important for me, Celia celebrated her Afro-Cuban roots with a simple inner pride characteristic of that bygone era, before a singer’s looks always mattered as much as her sound. Like Puerto Rico’s Ismael Rivera and Peru’s Susana Baca, she gave a voice to the Afro-Latin experience through her music.

The voice came first from the beginning. Born in Havana on October 21, 1925, Cruz first attracted the attention of neighbors who passed by the window of a room where she lulled her brothers and sisters to sleep. At age 14 she began studying music at Cuba’s National Conservatory, and in 1949, after singing and dancing her way through Mexico and Venezuela with the dance troupe Mulatas de Fuego, she took over as the lead female singer of the legendary Sonora Matancera, Cuba’s most popular orchestra.

With her operatic abilities, and the band with the most tumbao (swing) backing her up, Cruz established herself as the leading pioneer and popularizer of the son, an Afro-Cuban rhythm that is the foundation for modern salsa music. Sporting perfectly manicured nails, elegant dresses and nine-inch heels that would make Imelda Marcos cry for mercy, she embodied the look of the golden age of Afro-Cuban music, too, yet her powerful voice, not her looks, were always the focus of her career.

After defecting from Cuba in 1960 following Castro’s takeover, she resided in Mexico for awhile before finally making a permanent move to New York. Two years after leaving her native country, she experienced what she would later describe as “one of the most difficult days of my life.”

A few hours before going on stage in Manhattan, Celia received the news that her mother had died in Cuba. Most artists would have canceled the show. Celia instead decided to go onstage, singing and crying her way through the performance in tribute to her mother. She tried to attend her mother’s funeral, but Castro branded her a traitor, forbidding her to return. She carried the pain of that event throughout her life, expressing it in hits such as “Cuando Salí De Cuba” (When I Left Cuba) and  “Si No Regreso” (If I Don’t Return).

For me, Cruz’s pain reflected my own strained link to my past, and her music became a symbol of the Cuban grandmother I never knew. My parents are Jamaican, but my father’s family is originally from Cuba. My grandmother, who was a teacher, existed in stories passed down to me by my Dad and an uncle. By explaining the tangled web of my family’s Cuban history my uncle cemented in me an appreciation of my diverse Caribbean culture that wasn’t always there.

As I grew up on Cleveland’s East Side, my house was filled with the sounds from a variety of Caribbean, gospel and country records, but I preferred sneaking to my room to listen to Slick Rick instead of the Sonora Matancera or my mother’s beloved Harry Belafonte. It wasn’t until my early teens when I developed an interest in my family’s history that I began to listen to Jamaican and Latin music, mainly Bob Marley and Celia Cruz. I wore out the cassette of her 1992 release Azucar so badly that I had to buy it twice.

Amazingly, my dream of meeting Celia came true in the late ’90s while I was living in Mexico City and working as an entertainment reporter. I’d written a feature her manager in Mexico, Alejandro Zuarth. He knew I was a fan so whenver Celia was in town, he let me tag along.

Over breakfasts, late-night video shoots and backstage converations I gained a small glimpse into the life of an artist who seemed as humble in person as she was on stage. She was a stickler for punctuality and always let you know what was on her mind, but her firmness went hand in hand with her natural sweetness: with Celia, what you saw was what you got. The only time I saw her upset was when I’d ask about Cuban politics and Fidel Castro, to which she responded that she wouldn’t return to Cuba until Castro was out of power.

If she ever minded the attention from fans, she never showed it, graciously signing autographs and posing for photos whenever it was requested. I think it was this class, perseverance and abundance of energy that impressed me more than anything else about her. During a video shoot in Mexico City’s historic barrio chino she was up cracking jokes with dancers at 3:30 a.m. while I stood dozing against a wall. I was 24, and she was 73 at the time.

On stage, she commanded a crowd like few artists can. As Nat Chediak, a music critic in Miami, told the South Florida Sun Sentinel, “No one sounds like her. She spawned a veritable rag-tag army of second-rate imitators but there’s nothing like the original, and it cannot be confused.”

There was no need for an encore when she performed because the crowd wouldn’t let her leave the stage. Actually, Celia had a hard time leaving herself. During one Mexico City show, she sung her infectious hit “La Vida Es Un Carnaval” twice at the audience’s request.

Her songs were as reliable and addictive as a Caribbean mother’s home-cooked dishes — you knew you would like them even before you tried them, no second-guessing. And there was always that extra-added sprinkle of “azucar,” Celia’s trademark phrase her songs that kept her from ever flagging. Her last Sony Discos recording, Regalo del Alma (Gift from the Soul), features a variety of danceable rhythms from reggae to salsa to hip-hop, demonstrating her willingness to adopt new styles while keeping her heels firmly planted in salsa, son and guaguanco. The disc’s first single was already climbing the charts before she died.

But it wasn’t until her death that those unfamiliar with her music, like my friend, began to sense the magnitude of her significance (remember the bewilderment of outsiders over the death of Kurt Cobain?). The expression of grief from the thousands of devoted fans who lined the streets of New York and Miami were the ultimate testament. Here in Miami, a friend waited in line for six hours under the sweltering sun, his 89-year-old grandmother dressed in suit and heels by his side. Some cried as they passed her coffin, other danced in front of it, singing a final song to their beloved queen.

Celia Cruz may have lost her battle to cancer, but she left a legacy of music and culture that has inspired generations, despite one government’s notorious efforts to deny it. News of her death was limited to small, two-paragraph story on Page 6 of a Cuban newspaper, which focused on her supposed “counterrevolutionary activities.”

Her music has long been banned on the island of her birth, though she was arguably the island’s greatest cultural ambassador, proving that some voices can’t be silenced by exile. Or even by death. As long as Cuba exists, so will Celia Cruz.

Azucar!

Originally published in UrbanDialect

LIFEbeat and the Latin VMAs

Welcome to Miami: home to hip hangouts, flashy awards shows and the second-highest rate of HIV infection in the nation, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

With such an alarming statistic, one might assume that a collaboration involving Miami-based Latin record labels, executives and local AIDS service organizations would seem like a no-brainer.

Not really, according to Bruno del Granado, the Miami liaison for Lifebeat — the Music Industry Fights AIDS. The yearlong process was as frustrating as trying to get into an exclusive South Beach club.

“Things operate differently in Miami,” said del Granado. “It’s the waiting. You have to chase and chase and keep your eye the ball. The answer’s always, ‘Yes, we want to do stuff with you,’ but then we have to call five times to get a phone call returned. You have to devote so much more time and resources just to get to point A.”

Del Granado’s persistence has finally paid off. Tonight, MTV Networks Latin America presents A Lifebeat Benefit for HIV and AIDS Awareness at I/O club in Miami. The event, featuring Mexican rockers Kinky and newcomer JD Natasha, marks a renewed effort between Lifebeat, MTV and the Miami-based United Foundation for AIDS, or UFA, to reach Miami-Dade County’s at-risk youth.

Lifebeat is a nonprofit AIDS awareness organization run by an A-list of music executives, artists and activists. They mobilize the resources of the music industry to reach youth with HIV prevention messages and education. The South Florida push began two years ago when executive director John Cannelli, a senior VP of music and talent at MTV for 12 years, expressed his concern about the area’s grim statistics.

According to the Department of Health, most of the state’s new HIV infections occur in Miami-Dade and Broward counties. While Hispanics make up 17 percent of Florida’s population, in 2003, the rate of AIDS cases among Hispanics was more than double the rate among whites. The situation is even worse for blacks ages 25 to 45, for whom AIDS is the leading cause of death.

Cannelli called on the experience and connections of Latin music veteran del Granado to jumpstart Lifebeat activities in South Florida. Del Granado is a Latin music veteran who also works as a CNN World Beat correspondent and heads Maverick Musica, the Latin label founded by Madonna.

Activity was minimal, with Lifebeat volunteers centering mostly on concerts, passing out safer-sex literature and condoms. Cannelli and del Granado say they will increase outreach and education efforts by partnering with the UFA’s workers to focus on bars, clubs and social events as well.

“It’s very complicated when you mix alcohol and other drugs into an evening out in a town,” Cannelli said on the phone from New York last week. “But you can make information and condoms available. At the very least you’re putting information in their hands and they’ll read it later on. It’s the best you can do in a nightclub environment. If you have an artist or DJ who can say things to the crowd and find the lighter side, people are more receptive of the [prevention] messages. Clubs could be doing more. We have done work with clubs in Miami and we’ll continue because [DJs and artists] are willing to engage and keep after [clubgoers ].”

UFA was selected for the collaboration because of its all-inclusive approach to HIV prevention and education.

“They’re very concerned with everybody, not just a certain demographic,” del Granado said. “They have events that benefit children, Haitians, Hispanics, the gay community. They have a broad-brush approach to reach everyone.”

UFA president Marc Cohen is especially excited about the impact the collaboration will have on black and Latino communities. He believes it will improve the agency’s Urban Soul Squad, an outreach program that targets minority men who have sex with men (MSMs) and their sex partners. He also hopes it will reach a men on the down low, a term used to describe MSMs who also have girlfriends or wives, living a double life for fear of discrimination or abandonment.

“Collaboration is the only way to break through to higher ground in this epidemic,” Cohen said. “Lifebeat will expand our inroads into the music and entertainment community, an area popular among our target audiences. Our outreach workers have worked together and this brings much more to the community here both in raising funds and furthering awareness.”

While hip-hop, pop and rock artists have been supportive of Lifebeat since its inception, Cannelli said it’s time for the Latin music industry to step up. He’ll be at tonight’s benefit recruiting artists and chatting up label executives.

“I’m hoping to get the Latin labels based in Miami,” he said. “Labels in L.A. and New York have been supportive from the beginning. It’s always a challenge to find time in an artist’s schedule to do stuff, but I’m optimistic that the Latin music community is going to step up and do the best to get the word out to their fans.”

Enter MTV Latin America.

The network was the top fund-raiser in this year’s AIDS Walk Miami and will give away a Gibson guitar at tonight’s event.

“This is a way for local musicians to come together on this issue,” said Jose Tillan, MTV Latin America’s vice-president of music and artist relations. “AIDS has killed lots of people in this industry and the event targets the youth market we’re trying to reach.”

Del Granado agrees.

“A lot of our staff members are also MTV staffers so the synergies have always been there. We’ll be doing more events here in Miami with the Latin and African-American communities, especially for World AIDS Day.”

Originally published in the South Florida Sun Sentinel. October 20, 2004 Wednesday Broward Metro Edition SECTION: LIFESTYLE; Pg. 1E

Roots and Resurrection

Pop quiz: What is Steel Pulse? A. A name for a steel pan drum. B. A tool you can buy at Home Depot. C. A has-been reggae band.If your answer was C, congratulations, pat yourself on the back and go buy yourself a Red Stripe to celebrate.

But if you’re David Hinds, lead singer of Steel Pulse, you know that most people will choose option A or B, and that doesn’t sit well. The band that once motivated a generation in the United Kingdom with its powerful protest reggae has been relegated to has-been status and is nearly unknown among dancehall fans, despite a recent Grammy nomination for best reggae album.

“If you walk the streets of Birmingham right now and you say ‘Steel Pulse,’ somebody would say, ‘Hang on, are they still together?’” Hinds said in a recent phone interview from his London digs. “After a recent TV documentary, people were gob-smacked that we were still together. We’re not that popular here.”

But Steel Pulse’s roots-reggae beats haven’t weakened a bit in the past 30 years. In a market where dancehall rhythms monopolize the airwaves, the band has managed to remain relevant with older listeners and is slowly gaining a new audience with progressive younger fans returning to reggae acts of their parents’ generation.

Originally published in the South Florida Sun-Sentinel. Full version available upon request.

Charity

As I wind my way through New York City’s Soho neighborhood toward photojournalist Scott Harrison’s apartment, my thoughts turn inward as I replay the disconcerting scene from the night before. A private screening of Harrison’s work at the Holasek Weir Projects art space, included heartbreaking video footage of a 34 year-old man named Harris with a basketball-sized tumor protruding from his face. A stunned crowd of over 300 watched in awe as he demonstrated how he eats with the pinkish mass that is slowly suffocating him. Harris is one of the one billion people—over 15 percent of the world’s population—that lives on less than $1 per day. Soho is a long, long way from Harris’ home of Liberia, where Harrison just finished a second tour of duty with Mercy Ships, a floating hospital fleet serving Africa and the Americas.

Originally published in Risen magazine. Full story available upon request.

Progressive Christians are using the music of U2 to illustrate spiritual teachings.

As a teenager, Rick Hunter, 35, secretly listened to Van Halen and the Scorpions. His brother, however, openly blasted music deemed more appropriate for their household — Christian singers Amy Grant and Sandi Patti. When he played U2’s Under a Blood Red Sky, his brother argued it wasn’t explicitly spiritual. It was around this time Hunter began to consider how his faith and fandom intersected.

For his friend Jonathan Gundlach, a book about U2’s spiritual journey helped him re-evaluate his perspective on faith. 

Gundlach, 30, had become a civil rights lawyer arguing freedom-of-religion cases, and most of his time was spent in or related to church. But he began to realize he didn’t know how his faith and life coalesced. To sort out his spiritual crisis, Gundlach entered the seminary to get a deeper understanding of his faith. 

Around that time in 2002, he read a book called Walk On: The Spiritual Journey of U2 by Steve Stockman, a chaplain at Queen’s University in Belfast. The book chronicles the rock band’s expression of faith from their beginnings in a Bible study group at the now famed Mount Temple School. 

“I was making some decisions about where I was going and that book was enough to push me over the edge,” Gundlach says. “It nailed it. The book is about U2, but it’s more about the problems with standard evangelical Christianity and its close-mindedness.”

Through a mutual friend, Gundlach and Hunter met and discovered they had a lot more in common than their love for U2. They also had a desire start a church that would engage culture in a way that seemed normal and natural, not churchy, says Hunter, who eventually entered the seminary as well.

Last year, Hunter began the process of forming CityChurch Fort Lauderdale with a close-knit group of family and friends who shared his vision. Preview services began in September at the church’s rented digs at the Fort Lauderdale Historical Society’s New River Inn. The church’s official launch is Jan. 8. He describes it as place where people who are searching for something spiritual can go without getting talked down to. 

Hunter says his plans for CityChurch include incorporating arts and popular culture into worship and activities. He isn’t worried about drawing lines between music or art that’s explicitly labeled Christian or secular. 

“Many artists create good art the church would frown at, like Nine Inch Nails,” he says. “Christians need to learn to distinguish between good art and bad art, but so often we differentiate between explicit art and abstract art. I think U2 fits into that abstract art camp.”

Originally published in the South Florida Sun Sentinel. Full version available upon request.