That was you and that was me in that club. You know it. How many times in our lives have we hung out at rock shows like the one last Thursday, a beer in hand, a bemused look on our face, enjoying the ride, feeling the noise? How many times have you been there? How many?

Throughout the course of this week, as names of the dead drip out like intravenous fluid, we inch closer to understanding what this horrible incident means. In time, there will be a more tangible shape to the emptiness we feel in our hearts. We'll see more pictures of the people who died, faces of the rock fans who didn't make it out of the Station that night. We'll read more vignettes about their lives to accompany the grief-stricken statements by family members on camera and begin to understand that they were more than fingerprints and teeth. They were rock fans and people like you and me. Just like us. Us. But there is already an impenetrably dark and heavy feeling around here, especially among those of us who make a living off the music business, and those of us who enjoy rock 'n' roll so damn much.

Still, it feels like someone punched us in the heart with a sledgehammer while our arms were spread wide. Why? Because in Rhode Island it is not six degrees of separation. It's not three or even two degrees. In our small state, one degree separates most of us. If you don't know someone who was at the Station that night, you most likely know someone who knew someone. Our state, our towns, our neighborhoods are small, intimate communal places. If you've been around more than a couple of years and you call Rhode Island your home, you know people -- who they are, where they work, what they're like. And they know you.

In West Warwick, just down the street from the Station, you know Gloria who makes pizza the way you like it, and she gives lollipops to your kids on the way out. You know Ed, the guy who owns the CD shop. He'll save you a copy of the new U2 album on the day of its release because he knows you like the band. You know the guy who sells you the newspaper at the Cumberland Farms. The girl who makes your coffee at the Dunkin' Donuts knows it's extra sugar. The waitress at the Station gave you a smile, not because you're a big tipper, but because she's served you before, several times. In Rhode Island, people make your business their own, and it doesn't bother you at all. In fact, it feels good to know that we live in a place where someone actually has your back.

In that way, it's hard to imagine the personal trauma the fire has inflicted on the people you deal with every day. If you didn't know someone there that night, and you're not freaked out about how easily that could have been you at the bottom of that blackened pile, then you're sharing the pain of those who did, those moms and dads and siblings and children who now have to cope with unimaginable loss. Fan out the loss of each of those 97 people across the fabric of our state. Diagram the network of family and friends of each of the dead, and watch it spread out like a web touching the friends and family of the dead from Westerly to Woonsocket, Newport to Chepachet. Thousands and thousands are directly affected.

And then there are those images that have been seared on our brains as if by the very fire that surged through the club. For a few hours last Thursday night, it was hell on earth. Warwick's own Inferno. Satan himself couldn't have set a better trap. Those unspeakable images hit us in the same vulnerable place as the incessantly replayed images from 9/11. It was an everyday situation twisted into the ultimate torture chamber for innocents. In that way, like 9/11, you will never be able to understand why this all happened. There is no reason. There is no explanation. In place of reason, there is pain. In place of an explanation, there is merely an abyss of grief.

And, as much as you feel like the situation warrants it, there is no villain here. Though the legal system will officially tag blame on one or more of the parties the way a kid pins the tail on a donkey, there is really no clear culpable person. There is no one to blame. You want to blame the band? Go ahead. They were stupid to employ those sparklers.

You want to blame the club owners? Yeah, you can probably do that, too. There were probably too many people in the club that night. But how many times have you been in overcrowded clubs and the only problem you had was being able to get an unobstructed view of the band? Or how about let's blame the promoters or the management company? There was obviously a lax and inconsistent treatment of the contracts utilized for this tour. But do you mean to say that every contract in the touring business has every "i" dotted and every "t" crossed? C'mon. This is rock 'n' roll.

But still, you can blame them, blame them all. It's part of our collective consciousness, especially in this hawkish, sadistically cruel era, to find the culprit and hang 'em high. The legal system will chase parties in an attempt to settle lucrative civil suits. As if attaching the potential guilty parties' personal assets will provide balm to the savage deaths of family members. Correct me if I'm wrong, but that seems like small comfort to those who must contend with such a horrible loss. Vengeance is the last thing we need here. It will only help to infect the wound.

Lastly, let's think for a minute about what this epic tragedy has done to our music community. Think about the shows that you've been to lately, and recall how many musicians you ran into. We don't know for sure at this time, but you can safely assume that there were many, many musicians in the Station on Thursday. And many who didn't get out. So without even knowing names right now, you can be sure that local music will be irretrievably affected by this loss. That fire didn't just gut the Station, it ripped vital organs out of Rhode Island's music scene. That damage, like the charred rubble of the club itself, has yet to be assessed.

One thing that is certain, with common pursuits like flying, going to work, and hitting a nightclub now considered life-threatening activities, it's getting harder and harder to be alive and well in America, circa 2003.

If you know of any musicians that perished in the fire, please e-mail me big.daddy1@cox.net. I'd like to do a few remembrances in this column.

Issue Date: February 28 - March 6, 2003