South Florida gets windfall with Formula 1 Miami Grand Prix, Fort Lauderdale Air Show on same weekend
Both Miami-Dade and Broward Counties are enjoying a windfall this weekend.
That's thanks to the Miami Grand Prix in Miami Gardens and the Air Show in Fort Lauderdale. CBS News Miami shows you how big of a bang these events are for South Florida.
High-octane entertainment on the streets and in the skies
Andrew Austin's wife's birthday lands on the same weekend as the Fort Lauderdale Air Show.
"It's her birthday month. So this kicks off the month," he said.
Austin goes to the Fort Lauderdale Air Show every year because everything he wants to see is on the beach and in the sky.
"Tent, food, beer. It's all covered," he said.
Chris Dirato with the air show said tens of thousands of people are expected to flock to the shores to see the show in the sky.
"People come from far and wide, they're spending money at restaurants, so they're obviously spending money at the hotels, there's obviously a big economic impact," he said.
South Florida got a two-fer: If you like speed in the air, you went to Fort Lauderdale beach for the air show. And, if you like speed in the streets, there was the Miami Grand Prix in Miami Gardens.
The Miami Convention and Visitors Bureau estimates that around a quarter of a million people come to Miami Gardens for the event.
Victor Jimenez came here from Arizona for the Formula 1 races. Jimenez said the fast cars were fun, but he added that next time, he won't stay in Miami Beach and will pick a hotel closer to the track.
"It took me two hours to come over here," Jimenez said. "I left at 10 a.m. By the time I was here, it was noon."
Back at the beach, Fort Lauderdale Ocean Rescue said they're expecting spring break-level crowds, so they'll be doubling and tripling their resources on certain blocks. They're warning that it may be dangerous to watch the show in the ocean due to rip currents.
Austin said it's definitely a beach day, just not a swimming day.
"It is a sitting day and watching," Austin said.
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In a couple of hours, families will go ice fishing on a frozen lake surrounded by epic, sky-grazing trees. But for now, Ken Nowell seems to have the world to himself. He's worked as an accountant in Torrington for decades, but this morning, he's poring over a unique set of numbers. His eyes are glued to his work computer, where Blue Smiley plays on a loop every day, Monday through Saturday. Ken knows the precise day the band hit its all-time listener mark, and when the numbers fluctuate, his mood sours, prompting a call from Slavin to try and cheer him up. 'The day Brian passed, I think 83 people listened to Blue Smiley,' he says, combing through his notes. Now, their top song is 'Flower': a one-minute-and-15-second showcase of the band's grunge leanings. It has over 30 million streams, a number that astounds the stoic Ken. But that's not the number he keeps coming back to. 'Usually, right around my son's birthday, 80,000 people will listen on that day,' he says. 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'There was something sort of mysterious about how his time ended, but his music lives on, and that's his legacy.' Now, Pashley says, you could say the same thing about Brian. He was 'straight-edge' for years, friends say. But eventually drugs and alcohol became a regular part of his life. In 2017, the night before he died, Brian had dinner with his parents. He told them about plans for a Blue Smiley tour that would hit several cities throughout the country, then Ken and his wife dropped him off at a party at Drexel University. The next morning, they got a call from the police in Lansdowne, a suburb of Philly. Ken knew what it was. 'If he had just gotten himself hurt, it would've been a call from the hospital,' he says. 'If he had gotten arrested, he probably wouldn't have called us.' He pauses while recounting this story. He leans back in his office chair, and runs a hand through the thin tufts of silver hair on either side of his head. 'I wouldn't wish that on anyone,' he says. It's difficult to explain why Blue Smiley became popular years after playing their final show or releasing any music. But the people interviewed for this story float several theories. First, the band was unknowingly ahead of its time by making all of their songs under three minutes, perfect for easy streaming and short attention spans. There's also the morbid curiosity about Brian's death. However, many fans are still unaware of the band's backstory. Just as you can go on YouTube, TikTok, and Reddit and find people describing Brian as 'an icon,' 'a genius,' 'a legend,' you can find plenty of people with no clue about Brian's death, wondering when Blue Smiley will make more music. There's also a shoegaze revival happening, thanks in part to TikTok. Aided by algorithms, young fans are discovering music from the 90s, 2000s, and 2010s, some of which never attained a mass audience until now. But the truth behind Blue Smiley's seemingly random success may be simple: They're good. 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Slavin knows he's lucky, but once he, Ken, and Corso started hunting for their royalties, they realized they were in for an uphill battle. Music royalties are maddeningly convoluted, and artists and music attorneys interviewed for this story admitted that even they struggle to understand the finer details. For Blue Smiley, the search boiled down to recording royalties, performance royalties, and something called mechanical licensing royalties, which are paid to writers based on the number of streams on Spotify and other services. Here's where it starts to get difficult. Whenever a Blue Smiley fan or new listener used Spotify to stream the band's music, both performance royalties and mechanical licensing royalties were being accumulated. However, in the U.S., only the Mechanical Licensing Collective (MLC) can pay the latter type of royalty when they're accrued through streamers like Spotify, and the MLC didn't exist when Blue Smiley was a band. Blue Smiley relied on cassette tapes (which they mostly gave away for free) and Bandcamp to publish their music, making them, as Slavin jokingly says, 'independent to a fault.' That said, Brian had also uploaded their music to Spotify via a British distribution service called RouteNote. Ken remembers his son getting $40 or so a month while he was alive. ('Just enough for a tank of gas every now and then,' he says.) Since Brian's PayPal account was eventually deactivated due to inactivity, RouteNote had no way of paying the thousands of dollars Blue Smiley started accruing as streams accumulated. So, for the first of many times, the band presented their frontman's death certificate to access money that eventually came in fits and starts. 'They took several months to get caught up with us, only depositing about six months' worth at a time, then four months, then two months as the monthly payments got larger,' recalls Ken. (RouteNote did not respond to multiple requests for comment.) Though Slavin hated the red tape and the cold formality of submitting his friend's death certificate — a step he says 'retraumatized' him — seeing that certificate also brought him some small measure of clarity. 'To be totally honest, for years, I was really mad at Brian for dying,' he says. 'That was a lot of what my grief felt like, and so it was really hard for me to approach the music or even the conversation with a lot of people.' Old Philly friends would tell him 'Blue Smiley was the best,' and inside, he'd think, 'Well, it's fucking bullshit. It's worthless now.' Then, when he saw the certificate, it confirmed Brian's death was an accidental overdose. The anger melted away, eventually giving way to a dogged passion for getting the music in front of more listeners. The band formed an LLC, signed up with a record label for the first time, and released some merch and vinyl. As they saw it, the final hurdle was the MLC — and they thought it'd be an easy one. One day, during a lull in his nine-to-five job last year, Slavin created an MLC account and tried to register Blue Smiley's songs. He discovered that someone else had already done so, back in 2021. It wasn't their publisher or anyone else affiliated with the band. Apparently, it was an impostor. This isn't the first time a bad actor has used the MLC to claim work that's not their own. Stephen Carlisle, a copyright attorney, told Rolling Stone someone claimed credit for music belonging to his client, who, like Brian, had passed away. In Carlisle's case, when the impostor was called out, they 'rolled over' and relinquished the claim right away. For Blue Smiley, it was much more complex. The band engaged in a monthslong dispute with Simon, who did not respond to multiple requests for comment from Rolling Stone. It wasn't until February of this year that the MLC shared in writing that Simon hadn't, in fact, collected any royalties. (The MLC told Rolling Stone it had already flagged irregularities and suspended the royalties before Blue Smiley reached out, though the band says they were never made aware of that action.) That hasn't stopped Simon from claiming credit for other artists' music. Via the MLC's database, Simon has claimed credit for 33 other tracks by multiple artists, including a song by the Orlando-based artist Suissidee. 'They had no part in working on that song,' Suissidee tells Rolling Stone. 'It was just me and my friend.' Simon has also claimed credit for many songs by the artist Nuvfr, who told Rolling Stone, 'I don't know who Eldde Simon is.' This apparent imposter isn't the first person to try to game the music industry. Last year, the U.S. Justice Department indicted a North Carolina man named Michael Smith for using AI to create hundreds of thousands of songs, then employing bots to stream the songs billions of times. This scheme netted Smith over $10 million in royalties before he was caught. While these stories underscore how the music industry is ripe for fraud, experts say the bigger issue is the extreme level of difficulty facing indie musicians. Without lawyers, managers or in-depth technical knowledge, indie artists must navigate labyrinthine processes to claim their music and hope they can get some money in a timely fashion. 'In our case, the choice is either pay a lot out of pocket to collect an undetermined amount, or give someone who has nothing to do with the music partial ownership over a percentage of our music,' Slavin says. 'To me, this is the crux of the problem. The goal is to keep full ownership for the integrity of the work and memory of Brian and not bankrupt ourselves in the process.' Jeff Price, a music industry veteran who has worked with Metallica, Bob Dylan, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and many others, put a finer point on it. 'The whole system is set up to require an intense knowledge of copyright law in the United States, along with technical capabilities and an ungodly amount of persistence with constant auditing,' he says. Price argues that the issue facing Blue Smiley and an untold number of other musicians dates back to before the creation of the MLC, when Spotify 'flipped the business model' by launching its platform without licenses in place for every song. At the time, songs were streamed without the proper mechanical licenses, which was especially harmful for independent artists. Then the same law that led to the formation of the MLC gave Spotify and other services a blanket license to stream music. As Price puts it, this method is akin to starting a streaming service that's home to every movie in the world, then only paying Disney if they ask for their money. He's had clients with much larger followings than Blue Smiley who wait months, even years, to receive the money they're owed. Other experts and attorneys defend the MLC, citing the hundreds of educational webinars they've offered to reach artists, as well as the fact that royalties — and the music business at large — were set up to benefit the biggest players long before the MLC came around. In fact, the MLC is trying to stand up for artists, they say. One example: The MLC recently sued Spotify, alleging that the streaming service is attempting to reduce mechanical royalty payments by using 'premium' plans to bundle audiobooks and music. When the lawsuit was announced, MLC CEO Kris Ahrend noted that the MLC, 'is the only entity with the statutory mandate to collect and distribute blanket license royalties and take legal action to enforce royalty payment obligations.' In late January, a judge ruled in favor of Spotify. To Slavin, it's clear indie or self-published musicians are simply not valued within the current ecosystem. 'It feels like they want you to have a publisher that you have to pay your own money to,' he says. 'They really don't want you to be fully independent, even though there's all these claims that they do.' Corso, meanwhile, doesn't want people to read this and think he and his friends are about to get a windfall. (It's not 'quit-your-job money,' Slavin says.) Rather, he sees this as an opportunity to reclaim a bit of their friend's legacy. Brian wouldn't have cared about the money, Corso points out. But he wouldn't have wanted someone else to be credited for him and his friends' work, and he'd want more people to discover what they did together. 'I feel antiquated,' says the 37-year-old Corso. 'I feel past the expiration date in many ways. I'm not connected to this anymore, you know? This is the past. When we were a band, we were just a small-time band. I don't understand the modern era.' For him, the music can sometimes feel like a relic from a lost era: a time when Philly was both vibrant and affordable. Rent was well under $1,000; you could make a living as an artist. Royalties didn't matter, because gigs were enough. Now he's living in Connecticut, not far from Torrington. He's started playing more classical guitar, and he finds himself 'playing around with Brian's style: 'His right-hand picking was relentless, and he had a unique vocabulary of chords in the left hand.' 'I'm trying to sort it out,' Corso adds. 'I still have a shred of hope.' Ken agrees with his son's former bandmates that Brian wouldn't have cared all that much about the money. But he's glad they're pursuing the royalties, and once they finally get paid (which they hope happens soon, now that the dispute is resolved), Ken says they'll be donating some of the money to arts nonprofits in Philly and New Haven, as well as homelessness outreach organizations (another passionate cause of Brian's). Ken explains all of this while cycling through Spotify numbers in his office, though he eventually moves over to one of many Reddit threads discussing Blue Smiley. Someone commented, 'Who?'; Ken downvotes the comment. 'This guy says 'Awesome sauce,'' he says, pointing out another comment. He upvotes that one, along with another that begins, 'One of my favorite bands of all time.' Then he keeps scrolling, while Blue Smiley plays in the background. Best of Rolling Stone The 50 Greatest Eminem Songs All 274 of Taylor Swift's Songs, Ranked The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time
