Soundtrack of My Life: The Lenny Kravitz Edition

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The day Let Love Rule was released, September 1, 1989, was the day before I turned eighteen.

I spent it moving into a cinderblock dorm room at the University of Rhode Island, roughly 500 square feet that I'd share with two complete strangers, along with their even stranger boyfriends. I'm sure someone on campus was more than diggin' the first album by Lenny Kravitz, but I was far to busy adapting to my current hell to notice.

Besides, my zippered nylon cassette case was at capacity--filled to the brim with 1980's teenage angst: The Cure, Depeche Mode, Tracy Chapman, Indigo Girls, and, yes, Milli Vanilli, you know, in case things happened to get too dark. (Snicker if you must, but Rob Pilatus, lip syncher or not, was amazingly beautiful.)

Years past, before I gave LK a second glance. I'm guessing I heard 'Fly Away' on the radio, which led me to the sheer perfection that is the album 5. And once again, Lenny shows up on the scene on one of the biggest days of my life. My first LK concert was in May, 1999 on the day I gave my two weeks notice to a job that I hated, so I could start freelance writing full time. Three weeks after that I got married.

Good vibes indeed.

I wish I could say that I became a better LK fan from there. Oh, I tried. But stuff got in the way. Like too many neo-soul artists to count. And that cover of Baptism. Straightened hair and bloody bathtub at the same time? Too much. But with his ninth studio album, Black and White America, Lenny Kravitz had me at hello.

Well sort of. He had me at this:

"In 1963, my father married (a black woman)
And when they walked the streets they were in danger (look what 'cha done)
But they just kept on walking forward hand in hand."

For me, this is where it gets personal. Not because of my parents--two blondes, 1967--but because of me. You'd think that after twenty solid years with my husband André, an outstanding chap, who just happens to be black, the color of our skin, together or separate, would be a non-issue. But for the times that it's not, Lenny's outstandingly beautiful sentiment of 'they just kept on walking forward hand in hand' touches my heart.

Onto another milestone, and yes, more Lenny. On September 2, 2011, my 40th birthday, I was fortunate enough to welcome LK back onto the musical scene, thanks to one very generous friend and fellow Virgo, Kristine, who invited me to his celebration on the Today Show. Or as I like to think of it, Lenny showed up as a special invited guest to my nationally televised birthday party.


Regardless, last Friday night, it just seemed fitting that André and I would be belly up to the stage in Boston, as Lenny Kravitz kicked off the US leg of his Black and White America tour. And in between the intense sound of tracks like 'Come On Get It', 'Always On the Run' and 'Mr. Cab Driver', I wondered why I hadn't come here more often.

Not literally here, of course. This particular experience, within the 'DNA zone' as André called it, where droplets of Lenny's saliva, sweat or a combination of the two flowed freely in the air, directly above my head, cannot be replicated.

(Don't worry, sir, no apology necessary. These things surely happen within that level of exertion.)

I mean here, as in a place of both true awe and thankfulness for the outrageous talent of Lenny and his crew, including Mr. Craig Ross, who should be a household name. LK performed with such an intense showmanship, passion, energy and clear love for his craft, you'd have no inkling that the US crowds are a whole lot smaller than what he's used to.

Newsflash: LK sells out stadiums in Europe. And France? They bestowed the Legion of Honor on him.

Hello! What is up with us, America?!

I wish I knew how to change this. But I don't. So all I can say is thank you, Lenny Kravitz, for not seeing boundaries, musical or otherwise. For successfully creating your magical, one of a kind version of funk, with layered rock riffs, keys, horns, drums, and that voice, which just continues to get more powerful.

But above all, thank you for making no apologies for who you are.

Until next time: Let Love Rule, baby. Let Love Rule.

Rock This Dick Clark!

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Sometimes, Rhode Island, you really surprise me.

I'm a die hard fan. Obviously. I've stuck around, while so many of my nearest and dearest have bolted for seemingly greener pastures. My secret? Appreciating your quirks, while keeping your faults in perspective. Sort of like any good relationship. (Plus I've seen what a thousand dollars will get you for a rental in New York City, and there's no way--no way--I can do that.)

But New Year's Eve in Rhode Island. You've continued to be a problem.

I've always thought that for any new year to unfold properly, you need to bring it in on the dance floor. This undoubtedly goes way back to my childhood, as I partied in my pj's with the glamorous peeps of Dick Clark's Rockin' Eve. This became my goal--until I discovered it was a cast, taped production and no one over age 35 was welcome. All my dreams? Crushed.  

Locally, our choices were sad and predictable: Stay home. (Loser.) House party. (I'd rather be asleep.)  Pay an overinflated cover charge at a club. (And try not to spend the rest of the evening calculating how much money you'd save if you came back manana.) Head out of town. (Yeah, I think I can see the ball drop. See, Andre. Can't you see the reflection off of that skyscraper?)  

Believe me, we've done it all, while still holding out hope that someone, anyone, would host a festive celebration to do Dick Clark proud. Enter World Party Entertainment. This year, the promoters held the 2nd Annual New Year's Eve Masquerade Ball at the Convention Center.

And with a half price Groupon, we were in.

Admittedly, initially, I was a bit skeptical, even with the promise of free cupcakes. Will we be the only ones there? Will we be the only ones dressed up? Will we be the only ones dancing?

Hell no.

Granted, the congregation of bodies provided a perfect opportunity for a whole lot of marketing. Personally, I thought it was a small price to pay. (Or maybe a big price. I'm now jonesin' for an Alex and Ani bangle bracelet. Or two. Or three.)

Our night on the whole? Fabulous. Even with Andre's sinus infection. Because while it may have elevated him to designated driver, it didn't prevent us from salsa-ing to Rhode Island's own Santa Mamba. Or his execution of a left turn. In public. (Huge. We've been practicing for months.)  

We had the pleasure of hearing the extreme talent of local teen guitarist Noah Andrade. (Watch out for this cat!) We felt the groove of the Colour of London, fronted by Jimmie Allen formerly of American Idol. And we counted down to 2012 with spokesmodel Claudia Jordan, model number 1 on Deal or No Deal, who, of course, is my best friend's cousin. It is Rhode Island after all.

And at midnight? We were on the dance floor getting down to Pitbull and Ne-Yo's Give Me Everything, as balloons dropped around us.

So welcome 2012. I've got a good feeling about you.

(Photo by Al B Photography)

Forty is NOT the new twenty--Part I

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Now hear this. Forty is NOT the new twenty.

It was my birthday sign, created by my husband (and resident artist) André that caught the woman's attention in the Today Show plaza.

"Well," she said, giving me a slightly sympathetic look, "Forty is the new twenty."

Um, do I look sad? A bit tired maybe, but I had been up since 2am.

I'm sure that she was trying to be kind, but I sort of felt bad for her. I mean, she was way past forty herself, and instead of saying, 'Amen girlfriend. It only gets better from here', she went the backhanded compliment route--along the same lines of telling the bride that rain on her wedding day means good luck.

The facts: I turned twenty on September 2, 1991.

That was literally half a lifetime ago. And I don't want to go back.

At twenty, I was a junior at the University of Rhode Island, living with my cousin Lynne in a beach cottage literally a block from the ocean and partying on weekends with my friend, the dollar Rolling Rock.

And life was hard. Seriously.

When I was twenty, I was trying to figure out who I was, what I stood for and who I wanted to be in this world, all while listening to, or opting not to, those voices of judgment that always think you're going about things all wrong. I was working to feel completely comfortable in my own skin. To recognize that I do know best, even though sometimes it's a lonely place to stand.

The truth is, if I were twenty, I wouldn't have even been here, in New York City, literally feet (and sometimes inches) away from rocker Lenny Kravitz, getting a birthday hug from Ann Curry, talking to Matt Lauer about Wes' Rib House or being interviewed on air by Al Roker, with these beautiful birthday signs, in the first place.

When I was twenty, I didn't talk to strangers. What good ever comes of that? You know who you know. Who else do you need to know?

When I was twenty, I would have never, ever butted into a conversation about H&M inside a bar overlooking Times Square, while André went to refill our drinks. (In fact, when I was twenty, I probably wouldn't have even been sitting alone in the first place.) When I was twenty, I would have never chatted up my New Orleans girl, fellow Virgo and kindred music spirit Kristine, who graciously invited André and I to come along on this most fabulous birthday adventure ever, after assessing our character over a couple of cosmos the year before.

Indeed. Forty is not the new twenty.

And please, please, please, don't tell me otherwise.

Singin' In The Rain

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Rain or Shine.

Maybe I'm just highly optimistic--or actively in denial--but I've never given much thought to the fine print of say, a Newport Jazz Festival ticket. I mean, I guess it could rain. But that would never happen in my reality where the sun is reflecting off the crystal blue waters of the bay--as well as the asphalt, my husband Andre's sunglasses and my can of iced tea, with live jazz providing the soundtrack in real time, to my death by heatstroke.

So you'd think that I'd be psyched about this year's predicted monsoon conditions. No worries about sunscreen re-application. No concerns about rehydration. Nah. Not so much. Being soaked for eight hours seems like it comes with its own set of challenges. I was actually resigned to take the financial hit and maybe sleep all day, until André innocently said, "Before I became a responsible adult, I would have never considered not going."

Say what?!

First part: completely true. We are responsible adults. Very responsible. Our mortgage and bills are paid on time and in full. We go to work. We work hard. We do not cheat on our taxes, each other or even our diets. It was the second part that, well, made my skin crawl; the implication that, somehow, all of these adult responsibilities, and the pious maturity that is supposed to come with them, were preventing us from heading over to the wild side--in this case, singin' in the rain.

The last time I was frivolously caught in a downpour at an outdoor stage was in the early '90's at Rocky Point. It was a Fourth of July celebration with headliners John Cafferty and the Beaver Brown Band. My date:  my brother Rob. Were we prepared for the elements? You bettcha, because he didn't go anywhere without his volunteer fireman's jacket in the backseat of his Jeep.

You know, in case of emergency.

And indeed, this was. Not exactly standard issue, but after the show, I took off my wet clothes (discreetly) and wore the flannel-lined coat home. Naturally, Rob was hungry, so brother (now shirtless) and sister (now buckled into twenty pounds of flame-resistant goodness) hit the Burger King drive-through. This remains one of my all time favorite memories, from the visuals alone. And know what? I didn't give one thought as to what would happen if we got into a accident.

So, what's different now, besides the addition of a couple of years? Outside of the lack of firegear at our disposal, nada. Sure, André and I could subscribe to those popular, age-related guidelines and expiration dates that put a whole lot of unnecessary restrictions on life, and only make people feel depressed, washed-up and way past their prime, but that's not how we roll.

Too responsible to dance in the rain? Never. And if you can do it in a bright blue vinyl poncho, from the tenth row as Trombone Shorty and Orleans Avenue close out the weekend, even better.