By Mark T. Gould
As I watched the initial moments of the video from the Station, the first thing I noticed was all the raised hands in the air, some thrusting beer bottles aloft, others with fists clenched, yet all clapping and cheering, celebrating the righteousness of rock and roll. For a split second, I was reminded of all those powerful times, right at the beginning of rock shows, when the band hits the stage, the lights come up, the crowd comes to its feet cheering, and we are empowered again by the uplifting power, faith, spirit, and majesty of our music; the good, positive atmosphere it creates, and the possibilities that make us explore it, night after night.
And then I remembered that, in the unspeakable hell of the next few seconds, 96 people, as of this writing, lost their lives, scores were severely burned, and I wondered just how, in the wake of this tragedy, we can explain or make some sense of that powerful, special feeling to those lost, those lying injured, and to their families. Yet, somehow, in trying to answer that, I still keep coming back to those raised, outstretched hands, knowing that, in some way, they justify the perseverance and satisfaction of our shared musical journey. Maybe, just maybe, we can use that memory to make some sense, any sense, out of this tragedy right now.
For many of us in the New England area, and probably elsewhere, our feelings about live music may never be the same again. Yet, it must be the same, or better, if we are to understand, or come to grips with, what these people, our friends, our families, our neighbors, were doing just before their lives were irrevocably changed that terrible night. They say that Rhode Island's a small state, that everyone knows everyone there. The same could be said for rock and roll fans. We know each other and we know who we are. And, we know where we want to be.
We should be talking about the power of live rock and roll and having a good time. Instead, we reel from the terrible specter and horror of death; many, many deaths, and somehow, some way, we try to make some sense of the illogical, the inconceivable. How do you explain, indeed, how do you justify, carrying on that musical spirit, to proudly raise your hands again, to someone who lost a loved one, a brother, a friend, anyone, in that catastrophe?
We should be talking about how great the show was that night, how much fun everyone had, how pumped the crowd was, like just about any other night in live rock and roll, when the synchronicity of the band, the audience and the atmosphere works its magic on us. Instead, we're talking about the inferno of death, inside a rock music club, brought about by some horrendous combination of the night.
There's no way to make sense of it, but, in a way, there has to be.
Blame? Sure, they'll be blame, probably more than enough to go around. As a fulltime, practicing personal injury lawyer, I know that blame, fault, liability, whatever you want to call it, must be sorted out. There has to be a reason, or reasons, why. Insurance companies will get involved and fingers will be pointed. Grand juries will convene and lawsuits will be filed. Ultimately, culpability will be established.
Then, changes will be made. Fire officials in our towns and cities will reinspect our clubs, as they should. "Where's the exit" will replace "where's the bar?" as the big question when we enter these facilities from now on. The locations of fire extinguishers and sprinkler systems will become more prominent and important to concertgoers, rather than the best sight lines, when we go into these establishments.
Yet, when you somehow get passed all that, it's still that spirit, those raised hands, that really matters, that affects us all, and, as we try to make sense of this, that must prevail. Because all of us who love the power and the strength of live rock and roll died just a little bit that night, as well, and we've got to figure a way out of it, to reconcile with it. And, somehow, some way, it's that magic, that power, that sense of being right in the moment that must sustain everyone connected to this tragic event.
To everybody who was there and thankfully got out, and to those who didn't, and to their families and their loved ones, here's one man's hope that you keep that rocking spirit, that joy of those raised hands, some how alive.
Somehow, someway, we have to keep the faith.
Mark T. Gould writes the monthly "Music Notes" column for Sound Waves Magazine. He grew up in Mystic and has spent a great deal of time in many clubs in Rhode Island. He currently practices law with a specialty in personal injury and wrongful death cases.