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The PLAYBACK:stl Archive Vault
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Home  Archive Carrie Lindsey: In Memoriam: Pt. 2
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Carrie Lindsey: In Memoriam: Pt. 2 |
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Written by Kevin Renick
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Friday, 16 December 2005 |
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Two years after the paper had
started, the owner and publisher of NP decided she just couldn’t do it
anymore, and despite offers from elsewhere to continue the name, she
wanted to stop.
Publishing an alternative paper in a largely conservative city like St.
Louis was no easy task, though. The second year was plagued by growing
difficulties, and both Carrie and I began to feel the strain of the
operation. Bryan and I would attend late-night proofreading sessions at
Carrie’s house each month. Daughter Emily would interrupt Carrie
regularly, often offering unsolicited suggestions of her own for what
should be in the magazine. Her rambunctious rabbit could constantly be
heard scurrying across their wooden floor, causing Bryan and I to look
at each other and laugh at the sheer surrealism of it all. Bryan
nicknamed the bunny “Bun-zilla.” Everyone got tired and kranky at
times. And the paper developed a habit of coming out late or
erratically, something that didn’t help our cause.
There was
also plenty of heated discussion on Noisemakers, the Internet
discussion group Carrie had started as a complement to the publication.
We had to develop thicker and thicker skins to deal with commentary
from various scenesters about what the paper should or shouldn’t be
doing. As with any endeavor, everyone has an opinion about your work,
some more constructive than others. But we persevered, and kept
covering the music, film, and events that we deemed worthy. The Yahoo!
group began to attract an amazing number of movers and shakers in the
music community: musicians, record store employees, writers, club
owners, and fans all came aboard to discuss the ups and downs of the
St. Louis cultural scene. So did the occasional troll—the Internet term
for someone who enjoys stirring up trouble on listservs. Noisemakers
eventually bogged down in scurrilous debates and pointless
one-upmanship, a state of affairs Carrie probably couldn’t have
predicted and which didn’t sit well with her. So eventually there was a
parting of the ways, with Carrie’s group remaining primarily an
informational one for bands and event planners, and a splinter group
called Nonoise taking with it the folks who enjoyed rancorous debates
and as little moderation as possible.
Meanwhile, the
monetary situation worsened for NoisyPaper, and Carrie and I found
ourselves butting heads over some things. Two years after the paper had
started, the owner and publisher of NP decided she just couldn’t do it
anymore, and despite offers from elsewhere to continue the name, she
wanted to stop. In the stressful period that followed, hurtful things
were said by a number of people. There came a point where Carrie and I
had a clear choice: were we going to stubbornly stick to our own points
of view, and risk losing our long-time friendship? Or could we,
somehow, find our way out of the quagmire and remember where we had
come from, and all we’d been through?
In one of those
powerful exchanges that I’ll never forget, Carrie and I elected to do
the latter. I apologized for something I said, and told her how
grateful I was to her for creating the publication, giving me the
opportunity to do it with her, and putting so much effort into an
essentially thankless operation. Carrie apologized for some things,
too, and we let out all that tension and all the emotions that
circumstances had caused us to suppress. It was like a huge sigh of
relief. Friendship was more important than being right or wrong. And
friendship was certainly more important than the ego strokes or lack
thereof from outsiders constantly critiquing your efforts. Carrie and I
had spent an enormous amount of time together; she even joked,
regularly, that we were like a married couple in many ways. She and
Mike had been separated for a while, and during that time I was most
likely the male who logged the most hours at her house. I got to know
Emily, I got to know the condition of Carrie’s refrigerator quite well,
and I saw for myself the strain that trying to be a publisher, a
full-time employee, and the mother of a feisty little girl took on
Carrie. It wasn’t hard to be empathetic towards her plight, and to
eventually understand why NoisyPaper was just too much for her.
The paper published its final issue in August 2001, but Carrie and I
kept in touch through e-mail and occasional phone calls. We met for
lunch downtown when she was working at the May Company and I was
temporarily working at an office a few blocks away. We just chatted
about our lives, and barely talked about the wacky world of alternative
publications or the volatile Yahoo! group. By this time, Mike Shelton,
one of the most distinguished musical hobnobbers St. Louis has ever
known, had moved back with Carrie, and it was clear she was happy about
it. It made things easier with Emily, and Carrie was glad to have her
family together again. And though she still took an interest in the
music scene, her attention was elsewhere. She just wanted a calmer
life. After working a full shift at a downtown firm, who would want to
come home and have to deal with deadlines for a publication? For
Carrie, time had simply become too precious.
In one of my
last conversations with her, she said “I am so glad not to be doing
that stuff anymore. It’s just too exhausting.” I would occasionally
e-mail her little updates, or ask her for advice. I saved a few of her
e-mails to me, which are unbearably poignant to me now. In one, Carrie
wrote, “I’m still knee-deep in the middle of home repair and haven’t
had the chance to respond to your last letter. But please hang in
there. There are lots of things you can do for yourself by finding
peace within yourself. That’s the most important thing. Find peace in
yourself. Not always an easy task, but worth the work.”
In my
final bits of communication with Carrie, she had taken her own advice
and found some peace. Her job was getting better, and most importantly,
her family situation was stable. She had more time with Emily, who was
entering her teen years, and more time to see friends. I was happy for
her. Meanwhile, part of her legacy continued when the ambitious team of
Laura Hamlett and Jim Dunn launched Playback St. Louis in early 2002.
Carrie had established the framework for such publishing ventures,
showing what was possible—and what obstacles needed to be overcome. A
book could be written about the lessons she taught many of us. Her
legacy is a considerable one. Because of Carrie, scores of people in
the artistic community here got to know each other and become friends.
Because of Carrie, numerous writers gained professional-looking pieces
to add to their portfolios. Because of Carrie, unsung artists
throughout the St. Louis music scene and in some cases beyond, gained
exposure and acquired clippings to add to their press kits.
And because of Carrie, among so many important things that were to
change in my life, I personally learned lessons about collaboration and
compromise that continue to this day. I learned that communication is a
crucial thing, something to be respected, maintained, and nurtured. And
I learned that no ego-related issue, no creative difference, is worth
sacrificing a friendship for. Publications come and go, deadlines pass.
But our friends and our loved ones are what endure and make the boldest
headlines in our lives. They’re the ones who make up our personal
community.
The concept of community is perhaps Carrie
Lindsey’s greatest and most enduring legacy. Carrie was a sociable
person. And she envisioned a community that could become a dynamic part
of the culture. She envisioned a community of writers, musicians,
photographers, artists, club owners, and advertisers who would
collaborate on revitalizing and promoting the local scene, hopefully to
inspire curiosity and excitement where all too often, there was merely
apathy. And she was an inclusive person. The welcome mat was always out
at Carrie’s house in Webster, whether for a casual visit or a
high-falutin organizational meeting to plan an event or brainstorm for
a new issue. Carrie wanted to hear your ideas. She was never
indifferent. Things mattered to her very much. And even if she was
short on time, she was seldom short on patience. I admired that about
her very much.
In the end, Carrie’s need for community became
singularly focused on the community closest to her—her family. Mike was
her partner again, Emily was a teenager developing her own talents,
many of which were strongly influenced by her mother, and Carrie found
a level of stability she hadn’t experienced for years. Her interest in
art and music endured, but her priorities had shifted, and that was
okay. As she told me, finding peace within yourself was the most
important thing. And it appeared Carrie had found that very peace. I
dearly wish I could call Carrie up and talk to her again. I wish I
could laugh with her about some of the trivialities we used to get
worked up about, ask her what music she’s listening to now, and find
out about Emily’s latest projects. I wish I could just hear the warmth
in her voice again, and say thank you, one more time, for all the
things she brought about in my life. But the random tragedy on I-55 has
now made that impossible. Carrie, old friend, I will never forget you.
May you, Mike and Emily rest in peace. And we’ll make sure the beat
goes on, okay? Farewell.
If anyone wishes to share their
thoughts/remembrances of Carrie, Mike, or Emily, please feel free to
e-mail them directly to the author at
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would like your words or photos to be a part of Playback’s online
tribute, e-mail them to
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