By Jacob Katel
By Laurie Charles
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Abel Folgar
By Kat Bein
By Jacob Katel
I don't have a problem with the selling of Andrew -- what else could one possibly expect in 1992 America? No problem either with anyone doing something to get any help to every one of South Dade's destructed citizens. I've experienced Tent City in the swelter of a Miami afternoon. But I do have problems, not the least of which is seeing Gloria Estefan more often than I see my wife.
Admittedly, celebrities face a dilemma: If they ignore, say, the star-studded benefit at Joe Robbie Stadium two weeks ago, they're labeled apathetic, uncaring. If they partake, the peg is publicity hound. Either way the label is unfair. But this celeb biz can get mighty complicated. Despite broadcast reports to the contrary, Whoopi Goldberg does have, or at least had, a connection to this community: her father worked anonymously in a VA hospital here, a fact Ms. Goldberg worked hard to conceal. Nobody ever read or heard about the old man, but his daughter shows up for a quickie at Joe Robbie and she's our savior. And what was Val Kilmer, best known for playing Jim Morrison in an Oliver Stone movie, doing feasting on the fondue of cheesy publicity? This famous-name feeding frenzy may have appeared a juicy opportunity for many, but that notion backfired at least once: Weatherman Bryan Norcross received his standing O, but poor Rick Sanchez was literally booed off the stage. Says one backstage observer: "Rick was really broken up. He'd been waiting all week for this, he was even introduced by Andy Garcia, and he couldn't get a word out." Now there's a first.
There were, to be sure, some remarkable moments at the Robbie concert, especially back where the press dogs were chained. The ancient rock band Asia strutted in and announced they were ready to be interviewed. Nobody moved. Ruben Blades, whose leftist politics have made him a pariah in this town, took the same stage as Willie Colon, although they stood as far apart from each other as Castro and Reagan. A TV correspondent in Homestead announced on the air that we were watching a simulcast of Jim Croce on-stage. Jim Croce? Now that's what I call volunteerism. And speaking of being on the same stage: There was Andy Garcia, bravely attempting to play the bongos while in the company of Tito Puente, Ruben Blades, Nestor Torres, and other musicians for whom Garcia is barely qualified to be a roadie.
Despite all glitches, though, the Robbie concert was big news. The TV stations led with it; Channel 7 devoted almost an entire hour to the concert. The Herald's Leonard Pitts, Jr., wrote two reviews of the event. To him, the show was cathartic, absolute salvation in the face of the ol' devastatin' aftermath thang. "The essential truth of Saturday night's show," Pitts wrote, "was that after four bleak weeks in the shadow of Andrew, the communities of South Florida desperately needed a big, stomp-on-the-floor, wake-up-the-neighbors blowout bash. They got one." Actually 53,000 -- probably few of them among the hardest-hurt victims of Andrew -- out of several million got one.
Not that I have any sympathy for anyone who wanted great and disparate music in exchange for tossing a few bucks to The Cause. The night after Gloria came out of the dark, a much smoother, much-much-much more entertaining and worthwhile concert was presented in an effort to raise dough for the neighbors we ignored until their houses got obliterated by a storm. A fully amazing line-up of talent (organized by Noel Tavio and WVUM-FM in conjunction with Washington Square and Stephen Talkhouse) played hard for seven or eight highly enjoyable hours -- and no one lip-synched.
On that Gloria-forsaken Sunday a few dozen people showed up and paid ten bucks each for a grand total of $745, all of which went to We Will Rebuild via Sun Bank and the other banks that are matching the first two million dollars raised. A drop in the bucket, as the cliche goes, but a much better bargain for music lovers. And while Julio Iglesias was being bowed to for flying across the Atlantic to perform at Joe Robbie, nobody in the media took notice of Jay Walsh volunteering to play first at the Talkhouse -- to a crowd of about eight. He didn't kvetch, which is why he isn't famous.
Or at least world famous -- you surely remember Walsh's work with the legendary band Coral Gables. And if you had made it to the Talkhouse that night, you could have heard his new work: the instant-classic "She Don't Know Me" and others bolstered by a backing band consisting of Doug Leibinger (bass), Mike Steigman (drums), and Tony Luschen (trumpet) from the megaband F.O.C.
Where was the national coverage for Falling Corpses when they agreed to play sets at both the Square and the Talkhouse because Quit had to cancel? Quit's Devonaire warehouse was blown away by Andrew, members of the band clutching plastic-wrapped and irreplaceable master tapes to their chests as the winds roared. Quit couldn't play, but they showed up nonetheless. And Falling Corpses revealed that they're among the most-improved bands on the local scene.
Plenty of the acts took advantage of the opportunity to impress, even if no TV crews or major media figures were there to provide the attendant hype, even if the turnout was disappointingly small. From Drive Choir's unique and effective staging (stand-up drums, acoustic guitar, bass) to Dan Whitley's pyro-guitar exhibition to Dore Soul's impossible rendering of Soft Cell's "Tainted Love" (with a touch of Motown thrown in), it was a convincingly professional evening, surely more so than what passed for same at Joe Robbie. And I was only able to catch the Talkhouse bands. God -- and Gloria, if they're not one and the same -- only knows what went down at the Square.
The highlight was a set by Boise and Moss, who stole the show, and were arrested shortly after for doing so. Hal "Boise" Spector is the star of the trio (drummer Spot the dog is the third member) and he wouldn't let anyone forget it for a minute. He also complained, bringing a sense of the Joe Robbie mess to this little brother of a benefit. "Paul Simon didn't have mike cords all over the stage," he proclaimed. "He had Gloria all over, though." Pete "Moss" Moss thought Boise meant Gloria Vanderbilt, but when he mentioned that, Boise told him to shut up. "I'm the star of this show." It was gut-wrenching stuff, twice as funny as Robbie comedian Paul Rodriguez, who was quoted as saying, "Here in Miami we need your help and your dollars." Hah-hah-hah-hah! Stop, Paul, you're killing me.
At the Joe Robbie concert, things had gone to hell by 2:00 a.m., when the last few acts played to an emptying house. At 2:00 a.m. the next morning, F.O.C. raged at Washington Square. If Andy Garcia isn't worthy to be on the same stage as Ruben Blades and Cachao, no one on the bill at Robbie could possibly stand in the same room as F.O.C. This band would provoke critics to spew a long list of comparative adjectivization: Public Enemy meets Talking Heads meets the Memphis Horns meets the Temptations meets Fishbone meets you-name-it. However, there were no critics on hand to do that.
And where was Brickell-area homeowner Madonna through all this? Not at the Talkhouse or Square. Or Joe Robbie Stadium. Rumor has it she and Emilio Estefan had been involved in a nasty pissfight and her presence was not welcome.
Up next: Gloria and Madonna mudwrestle for charity.