Robin Williams R.I.P. 1951-2014: Shining Brilliance

Some people shine so brightly, the planet can’t contain them.

Like brilliant gems, they are the rarest of beings, created under pressure, and sparkling.

I think of Robin Williams as one of those people.

No matter what endeavors they undertake, no matter how successful they may be at those endeavors, and no matter how hard those people may try to be like everyone else, they always shine brighter…whether they want to or not, and whether or not they deep-down believe they even deserve to.

It must be incredibly painful at times…

Especially during those times when, instead of being a brilliant, sparkling gem, maybe they just want to be a pebble and blend in.

Shining brilliance comes with a lot of responsibilities, whether they’re wanted or not.

Shining brilliance is a lot to live up to.

Today I heard a lot of people refer to Robin Williams and his talent as “genius”.

On any other day, I’d agree with them. I’ve said it myself about him many times.

Today, part of me aches when I hear so many people use the word “genius” in reference to him, because I wonder if trying to live up to expectations that come with that word contributed to his pain.

I didn’t know Robin Williams, but he struck me as a gentle spirit.

Maybe, all that shining brilliance was too much to handle. Maybe that shining brilliance was too much for a gentle spirit to grasp, and too much to be contained in one human being, on one small planet.

Robin Williams' death came between last night's Supermoon, and tonight's Perseid Meteor Showers, which seems eerie and strangely fitting.

Maybe, ultimately, all that shining brilliance needed to fly free of the Earthly anchors that  that must have strained to hold his creative spirit enough for average mortals to even barely grasp…

…Especially for him to grasp, because he, too was mortal.

Fly free, and shine brightly, Mr. Williams. May you find peace.    

National Suicide Prevention Hotline

1 800 273 –TALK (8255)

On Lou Reed, From a Non-Fan

"My God is rock’n’roll. It’s an obscure power that can change your life.”--Lou Reed, March 02,1942 – October 27, 2013

It’s an interesting challenge, writing about someone for whom so much has been said and written about over the past couple of days. Suddenly, it seems, everyone is talking about Lou Reed…even people you’d never imagine knew anything about his material. (Hollywood being what it sometimes is, I suspect many of them actually don’t.)

Here’s something you won’t likely read or hear among the accolades today: I wasn’t a fan.

It’s true...Despite his legendary status (and our shared last name), I just couldn’t get into his music, no matter how hard I tried…

…And tried I did, because almost every artist or songwriter I’ve ever liked, respected, or worked with is a huge fan of Lou Reed’s music. (The famous Brian Eno quote that the Velvet Underground's debut album only sold 30,000 copies but "everyone who bought one of those 30,000 copies started a band” is infinitely accurate.) I’m a believer in listening to your influences’ influences, because listening to the music that inspired your favorite artists brings new understanding and dimension to the music you already love. It can also open new doors to your own creativity by making you see things in a different way.

In the case of Lou Reed’s music, his music just wasn’t my thing. His vocal style put me to sleep, and I habitually switched stations whenever the intro to “Walk on the Wild Side” began playing on the radio.

I even—and this is truly a sin—turned down free tickets to a Lou Reed show my former boss produced at an intimate venue. (I know, I know…)

I do get it, though. Lou Reed’s vocal style and subdued delivery truly did fit his lyrics perfectly. He was a brilliant storyteller and lyricist who respected the power of the perfect word. Reading Lou Reed’s lyrics on paper, I always find something—a storyline twist, a turn of phrase, a lyrical smirk—that makes me think, “God, what an incredible writer.”

I just couldn’t stand to listen to the guy!

But I deeply respected him. And the honesty in his lyrics. And the fearlessness he often seemed to have in his interviews, when he chose to give them. (His reluctance to give interviews? I respected that, too.)

Most of all, I respected Lou Reed’s ability to be himself in a business that sometimes tries desperately to have you be anything but. From being an integral part of Andy Warhol’s Factory, to a heroin user who wrote about life in the Bowery, to a sober and devoted practitioner of T'ai Chi, Lou Reed led many lives--yet he seemed to inhabit each of their accompanying skins equally true to himself.

And he was damn cool.

Hey, maybe I’m a Lou Reed fan after all.   



 © 2013 Randi Reed and MusicBizAdvice.com. All rights reserved.



  

New Orleans, the French Quarter, Good Writing Voodoo, and a Hell of a Baked Potato

Greetings,

In honor of what happened a year ago this week, I want tell you about New Orleans.

More specifically, I want to tell you about the effect New Orleans had on my writing.

I came to love New Orleans on a cross country trek from California to Florida in 1992. As they say in all the clichés, it got into my blood and never left, and as a writer, I’ve never been more inspired than during a 2 day period I spent in the French Quarter in August 1992. When we arrived at our destination in FL, what I really longed to do was lock myself away somewhere and write, because ideas kept coming in like never before. We were pressed for time, so I journalled every chance I got…which can be obnoxious to ones’ non-writing travel companions, but I got some pretty good stuff out of it. The feeling lasted for months.

As happens to many people who’ve been inspired there, the stuff I wrote in those ensuing months had a dark, steamy vibe that managed to weave itself through the material without my intending it to be there. I wrote a lot by candlelight (which I’d never done before) and had a newfound understanding of where Anne Rice was coming from (literally). The guy I was going out with wondered what was up. (“Good voodoo” said I.)

The French Quarter, if you’ve never been, heightens your senses like a drug. Take a walk in the daytime, and your eyes are taken by the architecture and antiques, punctuated here and there by Dixieland jazz bands dressed in traditional costumes. Go out before the sun starts to set, and delicious smells fill the air as the restaurants prepare for the dinner hour: a whiff of gumbo in one block. A few doors down, something else. Turn the corner, and it’s the scent of freshly baked bread. Next block, something sweet and buttery coupled with the scent of brewing coffee; must be dessert. Meanwhile, you pass musicians heading out for their gigs, and occasionally hear a faint sound of someone rehearsing or tuning up.

By the time you’ve had a long dinner with friends and maybe a romantic walk along the river, the party’s starting on Bourbon Street, and the music’s in full swing. And the block you were on when you took your walk in the daytime is a whole other place, as if you’ve suddenly stepped into the middle of a circus (barkers and all).

And in the summer, it’s all wrapped up together like a present tied with a big, steamy bow.

The French Quarter isn’t a place you go; it’s a place you feel. And although it’s a little different now, it will come back. It just needs a little help from those who remember.

Go to NOLA, and write!

Meanwhile, as a remembrance of my favorite oyster bar, in our Starving Musician column I’ve posted my version of an incredible smothered baked potato I ate there in 1992.

Go for your dreams!
RR

Randi Reed, Editor in Chief / Founder, MusicBizAdvice.com

Copyright 2006 Randi Reed and MusicBizAdvice.com. All rights reserved.