February Blues

There are a lot of different topics that come to mind that I wanted to write about this month but I just couldn't settle on one subject. I started writing about love songs, but it was really just an excuse to repeat the lyrics to "Love Stinks". I actually just got two new CDS by Guitar Shorty and the Holmes Brothers - courtesy of Alligator - that I'm going to review. But it is hard to go through February without reconsidering the Station nightclub fire.


Seven years after the fact, I still can't believe it happened. It still seems surreal, unbelievable, unfathomable that so much carnage could happen so fast and so stupidly. A settlement has been reached for $176 million to be divided among the various parties - according to the Providence Journal - which is society's way of saying: "It's not important whose fault it is - take the money and run." Funny how nobody's responsible for anything any more - no one has to apologize or admit or acknowledge guilt. Every time there is a needless tragedy these days, the cause and effect become swallowed up by a tidal wave of empathy. We seem to spend more time absolving ourselves than being accountable.


To me, someone needs to be accountable for the 100 lives that were snuffed out, one of them being Mike Gonsalves, better known as "Gonzo" , renowned for his sense of humor, his zest for life , his willingness to help others, and - of course - his addiction to "metal" music. If you've read previous posts, you know that I hired Gonzo as an intern from Rhode Island College at WHJY. I guess the only way to rationalize his too short existence is to say that he died doing what he loved best. That doesn't excuse the laid-back mentality that allowed Great White's "crew" to think that they somehow had permission to fire off explosives directly into flammable material in a closed space, the slipshod chain of communication supposedly conveying permission from club management.


As with most Great American Tragedies, the media initially milks it for all it's worth, wringing out every graphic ounce of flesh, squeezing blood from every pore until the next horrific nightmare commands its attention, the newest calamity hopefully topping the last one. Seven years later, all that's left for the Station victims/survivors is a lot of sleepless nights, pain, suffering and eventually, once the lawyers skim off the fees, a little cash. The attention has been diverted from the fact that devastating fires, shootings and riots still occur routinely in cramped, windowless , crowded clubs around the world, making me wonder how many other Station - type disasters are simply waiting to happen.