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Founded by Hill and her husband Tim McGraw, the day-long online benefit is aimed to raise funds for a Nashville, Tennessee-area charity feeding frontline workers and others affected by the coronavirus.
May 15, 2020
AceShowbiz – Brad Paisley, Kenny Chesney, Faith Hill, Tim McGraw and Avril Lavigne are to front an upcoming day-long online benefit to raise funds for a Nashville, Tennessee-area charity feeding frontline workers and others affected by the coronavirus pandemic.
Feed the Front Line Live, which McGraw and Hill co-founded in March, will take place next week, May 20, and also feature performances and appearances from Sheryl Crow, Billy Ray Cyrus, Dustin Lynch, Jon Pardi, Kelsea Ballerini and Rita Wilson, who battled COVID-19 earlier this spring in Australia.
The livestream will air during the three traditional meal times – breakfast (10 A.M. ET), lunch (2 P.M. ET) and dinner (8 P.M. ET) – with different artists appearing in each segment.
Fans can tune in via CMT’s Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/cmt/) and donate at FTFL.org. Proceeds will help pay staff at participating restaurants to cook meals, which are then delivered, free of charge, to area workers and others in need.
“Feed the Front Line is grateful to partner with CMT and country music’s biggest stars in our mission to support restaurants and feed frontline workers and other people most in need during the COVID-19 crisis,” Tim and Faith’s daughter Maggie McGraw, the FTFL Nashville chapter’s vice president, says. “We hope viewers that are able to make a donation will consider doing so to help us bring more food to more people across the country.”

According to TasteofCountry, Feed the Front Line has raised more than $750,000 (£613,000) and delivered almost 50,000 meals.

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The hallowed tradition of kora playing in Sona Jobarteh’s family passed down the male line. One of her teachers dismissed it as “an ethnic thing.” But it has brought her international acclaim.MANCHESTER, England — The ethereal sound of the kora, a centuries-old West African instrument, reverberated as Sona Jobarteh, a virtuoso from one of Gambia’s most celebrated musical families, plucked its strings with her forefingers and thumbs.Under purple stage lights at the Manchester International Festival in July — her first performance since the pandemic began — Ms. Jobarteh added her velvet voice to the crisp sound of the kora, a 21-string instrument that combines the qualities of a lute and a harp. She sings in Mandinka, a language spoken by one of Gambia’s many ethnic groups, and the words descended like rainfall on the audience in northern England.Like her father and relatives stretching back generations, Ms. Jobarteh is a griot — a musician or poet whose tradition is preserved through the family bloodline. And in West Africa the griot fills a far broader role: not just as a kora master, but also as a historian, genealogist, mediator, teacher and guardian of cultural history.“The griot is someone who is a pillar of society, who people go to for guidance, for advice, for wisdom,” said Ms. Jobarteh, who is 37.Until Ms. Jobarteh, kora masters had one other notable characteristic: They were always male. By tradition, the playing of the kora is passed from father to son, but for many years Ms. Jobarteh was her father’s only child. “Whatever I do, it’s always in the awkward box,” she said, laughing.She initially shunned the label of first female kora master, preferring to be appreciated for her abilities rather than her gender. “I hated it with a passion,” she said. “I felt like no one would listen to what I was playing, that all they would do is observe what I am.”But she has come to embrace that status, in part because her achievements have inspired young female students. “It’s much bigger than just being about me,” she said. “It’s about instilling that seed of inspiration in girls.”The kora was also what brought her parents together.The kora, a 21-string instrument, combines the qualities of a lute and a harp.Adama Jalloh for The New York TimesIn 1982, a year before Ms. Jobarteh was born, her mother, Galina Chester, who is English and who had never left Britain, flew to Senegal. She was traveling with Ms. Jobarteh’s half brother, Tunde Jegede, a British-Nigerian who is now a multi-instrumentalist and composer, to connect him with his African heritage.Toting a piece of paper scrawled with the name of a kora master, Ms. Chester drove across the desert to Gambia, where there was no airport at the time, to the house of Amadu Bansang Jobarteh, whose influence was so broad that he served as an adviser to Gambia’s first president.There, she met the kora master’s son and primary student, Sanjally — who would go on to become Ms. Jobarteh’s father. “That’s how she met my father, and how my story began,” Ms. Jobarteh said.Ms. Jobarteh’s childhood straddled two worlds: Britain, where she was born, and Kembujeh, her grandfather’s village in Gambia, where, enveloped by the warmth of her extended family, she found her “cultural grounding.”Griot women are typically taught to sing, but her grandmother Kumunaa encouraged her to sit with her grandfather and listen to the kora.A few years ago, Ms. Jobarteh’s mother shared letters with her daughter in which Kumunaa had predicted that the girl would become a griot and pleaded that her lineage be nurtured.“I just wish she was alive for me to ask her what was in her mind,” Ms. Jobarteh said. “She knew I was a girl. She knew it was not acceptable.”Ms. Jobarteh’s first kora teacher was Mr. Jegede, her half brother, whom she began playing the instrument with at age 3. (Although Mr. Jegede is a virtuoso in his own right, he is not a griot, coming from outside the Jobarteh bloodline.)She later became determined to carve out a path in classical music. At 14, she took composition lessons at the Purcell School for Young Musicians, outside London. Yet her initial instrument remained in her periphery: The school library displayed a kora that Tunde had donated as a student there. Drawn to it, she tuned and played it, and the school eventually gave it to her.A year later, she enrolled in the Royal College of Music, where she learned the cello, harpsichord and piano. But her personal musical legacy wasn’t welcome. One instructor dismissed the kora as an “ethnic thing,” she said, and another said of the instrument, “If you want to succeed, this is not a part of it.”Three years into her education there, Ms. Jobarteh deliberately failed her annual assessment in piano and cello. “I was shaking,” she said. “It felt so wrong, but I just knew, ‘I can’t do this to myself anymore.’”The college declined to comment for this article.Ms. Jobarteh instead asked her father to officially teach her to play the kora, and went on to train with him for several years. He told her, “I have a duty to give you what is mine,” she recalled.Ms. Jobarteh’s 14-year-old son, Sidiki Jobarteh-Codjoe, playing onstage with his mother in Manchester.Adama Jalloh for The New York TimesSome families say the instrument dates to the establishment of the griot tradition in the 13th-century Mandinka empire. The first written account of the kora, by the Scottish explorer Mungo Park, appeared in 1797, according to Lucy Durán, a professor of music at the University of London’s School of Oriental and African Studies. Its popular origin story, Ms. Jobarteh said, is that it was stolen from a jinn, a supernatural being mentioned in Islam.The Mandinkas and griots attracted widespread interest after the writer Alex Haley traced his ancestry to a Gambian village in the Pulitzer Prize-winning book “Roots.” But their ancient melodies had made their way across the Atlantic centuries earlier, aboard ships carrying enslaved Africans, and morphed into the early American blues.The kora, with its improvised, oral tradition, can take decades to master. “You learn with your ears, not with your hands,” Ms. Jobarteh said.For years, she was reluctant to perform in Gambia, where a professional female kora virtuoso had never been seen onstage. But her stage debut with her family, in 2011, was met with adulation.The release of her debut album that year was also a leap of faith, as Ms. Jobarteh sang in Mandinka rather than in English, which could garner more commercial success. “I thought, ‘This is it. I’ve just put my life down the plug hole,’” she recalled.The album propelled Ms. Jobarteh’s music around the world, from the United States to New Zealand. And that brought her something far more meaningful than royalties.Ms. Jobarteh performing in Manchester.Adama Jalloh for The New York Times“It makes Africans feel something, to see that someone is being respected to sing in their own language, dress in their own clothes, play their own music,” she said. “That is a message not just for Gambians — it’s for the whole African continent.”Although preserving her heritage is Ms. Jobarteh’s passion, she says her real purpose is educational reform in Gambia — a broader mission that aligns with her role of griot.In 2015, she opened The Gambia Academy in Kartong, a coastal town, in part to prevent a brain-drain of young people seeking better prospects abroad. “I don’t want the next generation to have to do that,” she said, “where you have to have the privilege of having European connections or titles to be able to succeed in your own society.”With a curriculum that centers on West African traditions, the school now has 32 students, including her 14-year-old son, Sidiki, and 9-year-old daughter, Saadio. That has helped her pass down her family tradition, too, and onstage in Manchester Sidiki played the xylophone-like balafon and Saadio percussion.They are learning the griot repertoire — not from their father, but from their mother, a guardian of seven centuries of tradition. More

One by one, the inmates filed into a chapel at Sing Sing Correctional Facility in Ossining, N.Y. — past a line of security officers, past a sign reading, “Open wide the door to Christ.” Under stained-glass windows, they formed a circle, introducing themselves to a crowd of visitors as composers, rappers, painters and poets. Then they began to sing.The inmates had gathered one recent afternoon for a rehearsal of “Dead Man Walking,” the death-row tale that opened the Metropolitan Opera season last week. Together, they formed a 14-member chorus that would accompany a group of Met singers for a one-night-only performance of the work before an audience of about 150 of their fellow inmates.“I feel like I’m at home,” said a chorus member, Joseph Striplin, 47, who is serving a life sentence for murder, as the men warmed up with scales and stretches. “I feel I’m alive.”Steven Osgood, the conductor, with Sister Helen Prejean. Osgood rehearsed with the inmates for more than five hours, practicing rhythm, diction and dynamics.James Estrin/The New York Times“Dead Man Walking,” based on Sister Helen Prejean’s 1993 memoir about her experience trying to save the soul of a convicted murderer at the Louisiana State Penitentiary in Angola, has been staged more than 75 times around the world since its premiere in 2000.But the opera, with music by Jake Heggie and a libretto by Terrence McNally, had never been performed in a prison until last week at Sing Sing, which is home to more than 1,400 inmates.There were no costumes or props. Chorus members, who were dressed in prison-issued green pants, had to be counted and screened before entering the auditorium, lining up by cell block and building number. Arias were sometimes interrupted by the sound of security officers’ radios.Yet the opera, with its themes of sin and redemption — and of the pain endured by victims’ families — resonated with inmates.Michael Shane Hale, an inmate, with Jake Heggie, the composer of “Dead Man Walking” and DiDonato. Working on the opera, Hale said, “reminds you not to get lost in prison.”James Estrin/The New York TimesMichael Shane Hale, 51, a chorus member serving a sentence of 50 years to life for murder, said that he often thought of himself as a monster. In the 1990s, prosecutors sought the death penalty in his case. (New York suspended the practice in 2004.)Hale said the opera, which portrays the friendship between Sister Helen and Joseph De Rocher, a death-row prisoner, had taught him to see his own humanity.“We feel so powerless; we feel so invisible,” Hale said. “It reminds you not to get lost in prison.”Not everyone at Sing Sing, a maximum-security prison about 30 miles north of New York City, was enamored. Some prisoners declined to take part in the opera because of concerns about its dark themes, including the portrayal of a prisoner’s death by lethal injection. Carnegie Hall, which helped to bring the opera to Sing Sing through the education initiative Musical Connections, said that about half of the 30 inmates in the program did not participate. (Musical Connections, which has offered instruction in performance, music theory and composition to inmates since 2009, is among similar projects nationwide that aim to help prisoners connect with society through culture.)In the prison chapel, Wendy Bryn Harmer (at the keyboard) warms up the inmate participants, including Bartholomew Crawford, front. Crawford said the opera offered hope: “It shows you’re not alone in this world.”James Estrin/The New York TimesBartholomew Crawford, 54, who is serving a sentence of 25 years to life for burglary, said he understood the concerns of his fellow inmates, but that, for him, the opera offered hope.“It shows you’re not alone in this world,” he said. “It shows you that in the darkest hour there’s light somewhere.”The idea for bringing “Dead Man Walking” to Sing Sing emerged several years ago when an inmate promised the renowned singer Joyce DiDonato, who plays Sister Helen in the Met’s production, that the men could sing the chorus parts.“This is not just theater,” said DiDonato, who has been visiting Sing Sing since 2015. “This is a story that has real consequences.”An inmate in the choir at Sing Sing. Some prisoners in the Musical Connections program declined to take part in the opera because of concerns about its dark themes, including the portrayal of a prisoner’s death by lethal injectionJames Estrin/The New York TimesFor months, the men at Sing Sing worked on an abridged version of “Dead Man Walking.” Bryan Wagorn, a Met pianist, coached them via video chat and recorded individual chorus parts for them to study. (It took several weeks for the files to clear security.) He joined Manuel Bagorro, who manages Carnegie’s program, on visits to the prison.Paul Cortez, 43, who is serving a sentence of 25 years to life for murder, worked with Wagorn to learn the score and held Saturday night rehearsals with small groups of prisoners at Sing Sing. Some were initially hesitant, unsure if the opera advanced prisoners’ rights and fearing they “might be exploited,” he said, but eventually more people started showing up.“It was daunting at first,” said Cortez, who majored in theater in college. “I did not know how I was going to get the guys in shape. But they were so diligent. They took it seriously.”From left, Sister Helen; Wilson Chimborazo, an inmate who sings in the chorus; McKinny; Joseph Striplin, another inmate singing in the production; and DiDonato.James Estrin/The New York TimesLast month, DiDonato, joined by Sister Helen, 84, visited the prison to work through the music and to get to know the participants. They discussed life in prison, morality, shame and stigma, as well as Sister Helen’s efforts to abolish the death penalty. Some inmates, saying they were still consumed by guilt about their crimes, asked about seeking forgiveness.DiDonato and Sister Helen returned last week, two days after opening night at the Met, joined by singers and staff from the Met and Carnegie Hall, and by Heggie, who offered guidance on adapting the opera for a smaller stage and reviewed some of the inmates’ Musical Connections compositions.“We’ve got each other’s backs,” DiDonato said to everyone as rehearsal got underway. “This, now, is our circle.”DiDonato, who has been visiting Sing Sing since 2015, rehearsing in the chapel with inmates. “This is not just theater,” she said. “This is a story that has real consequences.”James Estrin/The New York TimesThe Met singers introduced themselves, taking pains to remind the inmates that they were only pretending to be prison guards and police officers. (“Clemency!” a prisoner shouted, after the bass Raymond Aceto announced he was playing the role of a warden.)Sister Helen, standing among the inmates, said that there was love and trust in the room.“This is a sacred gathering,” she added. “There is no place on earth at this time that I’d rather be. We’re going to create beauty today, and you’re going to feel it.”For more than five hours, the men worked with the Met artists, under the conductor Steven Osgood, practicing rhythm, diction and dynamics in three sections that feature the chorus.They stomped their feet and clapped their hands in “He Will Gather Us Around,” a spiritual that opens the opera, which is typically performed by women and children. And they sang with fiery intensity as De Rocher confesses his murder, shortly before his execution.The Met singers and Sister Helen after the performance. Susan Graham, third from left, told the inmates that she had not fully understood the meaning of the opera until that day.James Estrin/The New York TimesThe bass-baritone Ryan McKinny, who sings the role of De Rocher, offered encouragement, telling the inmates, “This is your moment to shine.” The soprano Latonia Moore, who performs as Sister Rose, complimented the speed with which they had learned a contemporary opera. “Bravo to you,” she said.And Susan Graham, the mezzo-soprano who plays De Rocher’s mother at the Met and originated the role of Sister Helen at the premiere of “Dead Man Walking” in 2000, told the inmates that she had not fully understood the meaning of the opera until that day.Then, around 6:30 p.m., an audience of inmates and corrections officials took their seats in the auditorium, adjacent to the chapel.“The most beautiful thing in the world is a human being that does something and is transformed,” Sister Helen said in introducing the opera. “Everybody’s worth more than the worst thing they ever did.”“How you lifted your voices tonight — that spirits stays here,” DiDonato told the inmates after the performance. “It is embedded in my heart.”James Estrin/The New York TimesThe prisoners watched intensely, tapping their toes on the concrete floor and gasping when an irate De Rocher tells Sister Helen: “You’re not a nun. You’re the angel of death.” One man stood up to applaud a scene near the end when De Rocher and Sister Helen tell each other, “I love you,” shortly before he is killed. After the final rendition of “He Will Gather Us Around,” the audience offered a standing ovation.Chorus members were moved too, including Hale, who said that De Rocher’s confession “blew me away.” He hoped that the opera would inspire inmates to take responsibility for their crimes.“We have to deal with the life we have left and move forward,” he said. “That’s what we’re doing here. You have murderers singing this piece at Sing Sing.”A guard watches over the production. “You have murderers singing this piece at Sing Sing,” said the inmate Michael Shane Hale.James Estrin/The New York TimesDiDonato told the chorus members that they had created something indelible.“How you lifted your voices tonight — that spirits stays here,” she said. “It is embedded in my heart.”In their few remaining minutes together in the chapel, the prisoners and artists embraced and signed programs. Security officers wandered the pews, reminding the inmates that it was time to go back to their cells.As a guard motioned toward an exit, Cortez thanked DiDonato and the other artists, telling them, “I will never forget this moment.”Then he headed for the door. “Now,” he said, “back to reality.” More

Ahora con 86 años, el productor reflexiona sobre su tiempo en la Fania Records, su tempestuosa relación creativa con Eddie Palmieri y su salida de la industria que ama.Harvey Averne comienza casi todos los días con un bialy, un panecillo polaco, y una ensalada de pescado blanco. Ve Morning Joe, juega con su gato, Coco Baby, y recibe llamadas de leyendas de la música latina como Joe Bataan en su ecléctico pero ordenado apartamento de Woodhaven, Queens.Un día bastante húmedo de mediados de marzo, se aconsejaban mutuamente sobre medicamentos recetados. Pero un vistazo al vestíbulo de Averne (decorado con premios, carteles de conciertos, recortes de periódico enmarcados y fotos, entre ellas una con Celia Cruz en un lugar destacado) cuenta una historia muy distinta a la de sus habituales tribulaciones cotidianas a los 86 años. Averne es uno de los últimos gigantes de la música latina: un chico judío del este de Nueva York que participó en el desarrollo de la música latina, desde los borscht belt, los populares centros turísticos de los judíos cercanos a Nueva York donde se tocaba música, hasta el bugalú y la salsa.“Me gusta el ritmo, me gusta el compás”, explica Averne. “No entendía ni una palabra de lo que decían, pero no importa: en la ópera no se entiende ni una palabra”.Como productor, mánager y músico, Averne tiene una larga trayectoria entre bastidores en algunos de los sellos de música latina más importantes de Nueva York. Fue el director de operaciones de la crucial Fania Records, donde produjo o supervisó discos de Willie Colón, Larry Harlow, Ralfi Pagan y Ray Barretto. En su propia discográfica, Coco Records, que producía discos de jazz latino y salsa, el trabajo de Averne con el pianista Eddie Palmieri le valió los dos primeros premios Grammy para la música latina.“Era de esas personas que siempre tienen ideas”, afirma Bataan, amigo desde hace mucho tiempo y artista de Fania. “Siempre estaba activo; siempre ha sido ese tipo: el Phil Spector de la música latina”.Nacido en 1936, hijo de primera generación de padres polacos, Averne era el bufón del salón y un buscapleitos cuyos profesores solían mandar a Linden Boulevard a ver crecer las plantas en vez de interrumpir la clase. Lo único que le llamaba la atención era la música.Averne dijo que le encantaba el R&B, pero se dio cuenta de que “cada hotel y cada club tenía una banda latina”. No quería trabajar en una fábrica como su padre; además, en la música, “había muchas chicas”.A los 14 años, Averne dirigía una banda en el hotel Catskills cuando vio a otro empleado tocar la guitarra y cantar en español. Se sintió “hipnotizado”, recordó, y le pidió que le enseñara la canción. Se inspiró tanto que decidió cambió el nombre de su grupo llamado Harvey Averne Trio por el de Arvito and His Latin Rhythms y dio el salto de los escenarios de Catskills al Palladium, donde el grupo de adolescentes actuó como telonero de estrellas como Tito Puente, Machito y Tito Rodríguez.Antes de formar parte del negocio de la música, Averne “hacía mandados para los mafiosos del barrio”, dijo, trabajó en un servicio de pañales y en la venta de fotos familiares y tuvo un exitoso negocio propio de reparaciones domésticas. El astuto olfato para los negocios que desarrolló a lo largo de los años, incluso como director de orquesta adolescente, lo mantuvo a la vanguardia de la creciente y siempre diversificada escena de la música latina.“Harvey es uno de los mejores vendedores que he conocido”, dijo Andy Harlow, quien era un “chico de la banda” para el grupo de adolescentes de Averne, que llevaba los vibráfonos y otros equipos de Harvey a los conciertos y ensayos. “Era muy profesional; a todos siempre les pagaron”.Aunque él mismo no hizo un disco hasta los 30 años, Averne también dejó una marca con sus propias grabaciones y como músico de acordeón y vibráfono. Su sencillo de 1968 “Never Learned to Dance”, con la voz de Kenny Seymour Sr. (anteriormente de Little Anthony and the Imperials), es una gema codiciada que se vende por un promedio de 1300 dólares en el mercado de la música Discogs. “Nunca sentí competencia entre mis discos y los demás”, dijo Averne.Averne llegó a la Fania en 1966, cuando otro judío salsero, Larry Harlow, se lo presentó a Jerry Masucci —un abogado que acababa de fundar el sello discográfico— y los dos compaginaron al instante. Averne recuerda que llegó a la primera reunión en su Cadillac Seville con chofer, y vestido de manera impecable. Masucci no dudó en pedirle que dirigiera su empresa incipiente.El impacto de la Fania en la música latina a mediados de los sesenta es innegable. “Lo volamos todo”, afirmó Averne. El sello fue pionero en el soul latino y el bugalú, una fusión de estilos musicales latinos tradicionales con el R&B y el soul contemporáneos. Una de las producciones favoritas de Averne durante ese periodo fue el LP de bugalú de Barretto de 1968, Acid.“Ray fue uno de los primeros que en verdad vio mi potencial”, dijo Averne del percusionista. “Produje Acid, pero Ray Barretto produjo a Harvey Averne. Fue el artista más preparado con el que trabajé”.Aunque Averne no había trabajado nunca en un sello discográfico, comercializó con dinamismo (y éxito) a sus artistas utilizando las tácticas de venta que perfeccionó en su adolescencia y cuando tenía veintitantos, lo que amplió el atractivo de los miembros de la Fania y de la música latina más allá de la zona triestatal. Bobby Marín, compositor, productor e intérprete que trabajó con la Fania, afirma: “Era un gran portavoz de todos aquellos con los que decidía trabajar”.Averne hizo sonar “Gypsy Woman” de Bataan en WWRL en Nueva York (“cuando no estaba de moda tener música latina en una estación negra”, señaló Bataan) después de un encuentro casual con un DJ en una zapatería italiana, eventualmente desarrollando una relación con el director musical de la estación. Mientras manejaba al cantante Ralfi Pagan, cuya versión de 1971 de “Make It With You” fue un éxito cruzado para la Fania, Averne convenció a Don Cornelius de contratar a Pagan como el raro cuarto acto de Soul Train, convirtiéndolo en uno de los primeros artistas latinos en participar en el programa.Averne dice que rompió con la Fania alrededor de 1970 debido, en parte, a que Pagan firmó un contrato de gestión con Masucci, y no perdió tiempo en planear sus próximos movimientos. Fue nombrado gerente general y vicepresidente ejecutivo de la división de música latina de United Artists —“Donde realmente aprendí a dirigir una verdadera compañía discográfica”, dijo— contratando artistas y desarrollando una distribución más amplia. Durante el mismo período, se convirtió en el líder de gira de la banda Chakachas, un grupo de estudio belga cuyo “Jungle Fever” vendió más de un millón de copias en EE. UU.En 1972, Arverne fundó Coco Records y su primer artista fue Palmieri, un pionero del jazz latino que continúa presentándose en todo el mundo. Sus dos discos más importantes —The Sun of Latin Music y Unfinished Masterpiece— constituyeron un paso monumental para alejarse de la música latina de baile y ampliaron aún más el sonido de la música latina popular.Aunque su colaboración fue un éxito profesional y de crítica, ambos discreparon sobre el sonido, los contratos y los pagos, según Averne. “Unfinished Masterpiece fue una guerra entre Eddie y yo”, dijo Averne. Palmieri, que ahora tiene 86 años, no quiso hacer comentarios.En 1976, cada uno tomó su rumbo y Averne se dedicó a los álbumes de Eydie Gormé y Machito, así como a los discos con Cortijo y Su Combo Original. Sin embargo, para finales de esa década, el sello Coco estaba en la ruina, según Averne, por problemas financieros.Su última incursión en el negocio discográfico fue como socio de la discográfica Prism Records (precursora del sello de hip hop Cold Chillin’ Records), durante la cual conoció a una joven Madonna (dice que aún conserva algunas de sus primeras maquetas).A principios de los ochenta, cuando se terminó su carrera en los sellos discográficos, Averne cayó en un periodo oscuro.“Todo se vino abajo”, dijo. “Durante un par de años ni siquiera contesté el teléfono”.Cuando Carlos Vera, un DJ y entusiasta del bugalú que ha colaborado de cerca con Averne en los últimos años, lo conoció en la década de 2010, “no se estaba cuidando”, dijo, y el joven viajaba desde su casa en el Upper West Side hasta el apartamento de Averne en Queens varios días a la semana. Lo ayudó a renovar su apartamento, organizó sus artículos de época y le ayudó a tener acceso a internet. “Lo presioné para que comiera bien y se cuidara más. Tardé mucho en convencerlo”.Ahora, Averne está de mejor ánimo. “Sigo ganando dinero con la música”, dice. “Sigo teniendo mi propia disquera y he escrito más de 50 canciones”. Pero, sobre todo, está retirado. “Tenía esta sensación de: ‘Harvey, lo lograste. Te lo demostraste a ti mismo’”.Y aunque la mayoría de sus amigos ya no están (entre ellos Larry Harlow que murió en 2021 y el locutor de radio salsero Polito Vega este marzo), Averne dice: “Nunca me he sentido solo. Cuando tenía mucha gente alrededor, no era porque los necesitara. Era porque así lo quería”.“Estoy relajado. Estoy tranquilo”, añadió. Pero “si llegara el proyecto musical adecuado e interesante para mí, lo haría sin dudarlo”. More

The country star’s list of must-haves mixes heartstring-yanking shows, sports video games and powerhouse musicians known for shaking up the culture.The country singer Kane Brown will not lie: He has not developed any new skills during the pandemic. He’s spent a lot of time with his wife and daughter. He’s spent a lot of time in the gym. He oversaw construction on his house, and almost looked into whether he could try building his own home in the future. (That did not pan out.)But for the most part, he’s been waiting to get back on the road. Calling from Indianapolis, on the first day of the second leg of his Blessed & Free tour, he said it was “crazy” to be performing again, and observed that the feeling stretches to the audience. “The fans don’t know what to think; they don’t know what to do,” he said. “I don’t really have answers for them, or explanations. But we get to play the show.”Tour life in the time of Covid-19 is different than it used to be. One constant is video games: Brown plays just about all the available sports games, with some “Call of Duty” thrown in for good measure. He doesn’t take much care to hide his identity, which makes for some fun interactions. “I got a big microphone above my head, so a lot of people think I’m a rapper,” he said. “One time, we had these kids convinced I was Lil Baby. But if you click on my profile, it says my name, so then I’ll get a lot of messages like, ‘Man, I’m a big fan.’”Brown is on tour for the next two months, so those fans will have plenty of time to catch him in the digital sphere. Before the Indianapolis show, we spoke about 10 of his beloved cultural necessities. These are edited excerpts from the conversation.1. The Madden N.F.L. series One of my favorite memories was Madden 2004, when Michael Vick was on the cover. I got my first PlayStation 2, and I remember sitting down in the basement, just beating my stepdad. The game is really mechanical, but I kind of learned how to play football like I play Madden — just run and get a touchdown. You know, don’t play by the rules; don’t get hit; just run. That’s what I did in real life football, and I guess that’s why I’m sitting on my tour bus today.2. Elvis Presley Elvis was just his own thing, man. My nana was a huge Elvis fan; I remember she used to have this crazy bedazzled Elvis purse she would take everywhere, that was just his face blown up on a purse. As I got older, I started listening to his music, and if you really listen, he’s not scared to do anything. I find myself trying to sound like him all the time, on “Blue Christmas” or “Hound Dog.” However long this world goes on, he’ll still be talked about.3. “Ted Lasso” Jason Sudeikis is one of my favorite actors; I just love his dry sense of humor. I see a lot of myself in Ted. I wish I could be more like him, but I love how he’s so optimistic. No matter how much bad news is given to him, he always tries to turn it positive. The team is looking at him as a weird dude that doesn’t know anything about soccer, and he just goes in there and shows everybody his heart. It’s just amazing to me.4. Steph Curry I remember Curry coming to UTC, a college in my hometown of Chattanooga, and he hit a half-court buzzer beater. I remember everybody saying he was small and overrated, and he was just killing us. To see him go to the league, just destroying the competition, is insane. I did a podcast with him, and I think my favorite part was he brought his daughters in. I asked what they would listen to every day going to school, and they said my song “What Ifs.” It just hit a spot in my heart.5. H.E.R. I didn’t really know much about her until I met my wife, who was a huge fan. Our first dance at our wedding was “Best Part,” her song with Daniel Caesar. She’s just an amazingly talented vocal artist, and she can play that incredible guitar. She’s one of my favorite collaborators that I’ve got to work with; I feel like she’s another artist that’s going to be around for a while.6. “Click” I’m a huge Adam Sandler fan, and I actually showed this movie to my security guard last night. The angel of death gives him a universal remote that controls everything, but also controls his life. Every time he uses it, it just keeps fast forwarding. He ends up going past 20 years of his life — he loses his wife, his kids are grown, he ends up getting cancer. He fast forwarded past all the boring parts of his life, and now his life is gone. It literally brings me to tears every time I watch it. If you’re sitting on the couch like, “Oh, I’m bored,” that’s precious time you could be spending with your family. After I watched it last night, I called my wife; my security guard even called his wife. We just said, “We love you.”7. “Sesame Street”When I was a kid, Elmo and Cookie Monster were the main two characters for me. I didn’t expect to ever meet or film with them, but I got to do it last year. It was cool to see how they did it; they really make you feel like the characters are alive. I got to watch it with my little girl Kingsley, and you know, she just looks up to me and she loves Elmo. So for her to see her daddy with Elmo, it was one for the books.8. “Yellowstone”I fell in love with the TV show “Yellowstone” so much that my wife told me I need to go outside and do something. So I bought full cowboy gear and went to Lowe’s to buy some wood to build a treehouse. [Laughs] The story’s amazing; the music’s amazing. My nana always took me to rodeos, growing up. I used to mutton bust, and I used to chase the cows and try to get the ribbons off their tails. She also took me to a lot of pow wows, so to see the Native American culture that’s also in there — it’s just another part of my life that I really like watching.9. His first home in Mount Juliet, Tenn. I never really grew up in a steady home; I was always moving around, moving in with friends or different apartments with my mom. I was always grateful to have a roof over my head, but we never knew if we were going to stay there long, or what was going to happen. Before this house was built, we kept going there, and being like, “This is our new home.” Thinking about what we were going to put in there, I really felt like an adult. It was a huge, life-changing moment for me. Fast forward, we have a new home that we’re expanding on because I just had another kid. It’s amazing to give them things I never had growing up.10. Madison Square Garden The first time I went there, I watched the Knicks play Boston. The next night I was playing the Hulu Theater, so I didn’t actually get to play Madison Square Garden, but my dream was always to go to the big arena across the street. We actually get to do it this year; I think we’re even shooting a documentary. When you think about all the names that have gone through there, it’s just like: “I’m a nobody artist from Fort Oglethorpe, Ga., and I’m actually going to be headlining the arena that they’re all talking about.” It’s mind blowing. I can’t even think about the jitters; I just know it’s going to be a good show. More