Simply put, the best live hip-hop show I have ever seen. I have only been witness to five, but hey, one of those was the mighty Wu-Tang Clan.
Patrick picked me up after work; the drive to Olney was blastmastered by Criminal Minded. As the car eased down the surface-immaculate suburb to the house Patrick calls home, a nearby middle school eased out a casual exodus of students. From the passenger seat I glanced over to the sidewalk and caught sight of a young girl obviously thrilled that it was Friday: as she walked towards home, she broke out into this hesitant-by-design pop-lock. This visual, combined with the loping piano of notorious borough-bitchslap "The Bridge Is Over" snaring my ears, was simply hilarities.
"I don't even think she has an iPod or anything", I told Patrick. "She's just dancing to her own ineffable Awesome."
"Wow. Works great with the beat."
Pad Thai was munched and ESPN was watched. Seeing media talking heads try and sell people on why the NBA Finals should be acknowledged this year if the dirtier-than-Pigpen San Antonio Spurs beat the Phoenix Suns in Game 6 of their series started Patrick off on "dynastyism" in the NBA, the tendency of a few teams to monopolize the championship. As we expected, the NHL playoffs got 15 seconds airtime. Still hurts, huh, Worldwide Leader?
Whether we go to the Black Cat or 9:30 Club for shows, Georgia Avenue must be driven down. While many in the "nicer" surroundings would only be found there if knocked unconscious outside their fine homes and dragged to, say, the Wings N Things, it is a fun road to observe from one's passenger side window. "Omni-restaurants" abound: look, here's a place that serves subs/chicken/pizza, there's a joint that serves Chinese/seafood/pizza/burgers, oh shit, look at that--subs/chicken/pizza/burgers/seafood/Chinese/ice cream! The undisputed king of the "omnis" is Wonder Chicken. Not only does it serve as a marker indicating we are close to Howard University and thus ready to make our turn to the club...it's called Wonder Chicken, for God's sake.
Patrick and I almost always attend shows together. Mothers Day last week, however, he saw To Live and Shave in LA solo. I had wanted to go, but...my mom. Ya know? I promised I'd be with her. I take that serious as my father's cancer.
"So," I asked Patrick as we stopped at one in a series of interminable red lights. "When you were talkin' to Frank, Rat Bastard, AKA...did you ask him about ATP?"
Pause.
"Oh shit! I totally forgot that we saw him there! Ah, shit!"
"See, I knew I shoulda gone with you. Even though with my mom, I just knew. Without me, you forget the crucial shit. You remember Noise Against Fascism, but you forget ATP. Unbelievable."
"Oh my GOD." Patrick can hardly believe his oversight.
Parking only took a half hour. We ended up parking in front of a school, unsure of the legalness of it all. Fortunately, a cop was parked opposite us. However, he was not 100% sure if we would be ticketed or not. Wow, that Blue Curtain is some serious business.
We chilled in the bar for a couple hours until we were let upstairs; the crowd was ample and a real sample--white, black, Asian, Hispanic, fellas, ladies. Everyone loves Blastmaster!
"Man", I told 'Trick. "This almost seems unreal. KRS is a legend in hip hop. He's playing the Black Cat. This is what, 500, 600 tops? It's like Paul McCartney playing the Sonar."
It took quite a bit for the first openers to take the stage. Time was passed by the two average white fans up front with talk of music and sports.
Emon I Fela was the first opening act, a teenage (!) girl with the sass of Salt and or Pepa, but the effervescent rhyming skills of old-school MC Lyte and empathetic intelligence of Lauryn Hill at her least-insane. A quintet of musicians backed her (2 on synth, one on bass, a guitarist, and drummer) while a stool-bound man provided soulful adlibs and choruses. Emon is from DC, apparently, and stood out with not only her songs but her overall presence, decked out in bright bagging clothing, with custom Nikes and oversize eyeglasses. While the crowd was hungry for knowledge reigns supreme, Emon got a great reception and deserved it.
A thorough-ass DJ set from a DC hip hop radio jock followed, going from "The Message" to "Cher Chez Le Ghost" in terms of timeline. The DJ set pre-headliner is less a chance to show off on the 1s and 2s and more an opportunity to let the concertgoers show and prove. Hence, there was no shortage of hearty recitations when any number of classics made their appearance over the PA: "Top Billin'", a medley of Eric B. and Rakim, "La Di Da Di", Wu-Tang, "Time 4 Sum Askshun", a stunning string of A Tribe Called Quest songs ("Scenario Remix" had everyone in the place going hoarse), before chilling with "Umi Says" by Mos Def. I was by this time sweating like a sweaty thing, and had to remove my jacket, baring my grey Snoopy shirt for all to see.
There was one more opener, a solo MC/poet from DC. His name I can't remember, lamentably. His initial look grabbed me as a militant Freeway, with his expansive goatee and bald head underneath Muslim headgear, but his lyricism was quite different. He delivered politically, racially charged rhymes with a fiery voice and never doubted his control for a nanosecond. He told a story about appearing on Def Poetry Jam and reciting a poem that warranted FBI at his apartment the next day. It began, "I am not angry/I am anger/I am not dangerous/I am danger". The power of words!
During his brief set, a problem arose on the other side of the audience. Whether it was a fight, or just an impatient fan starting shit, we never found out.
Then finally...after what seemed like 95 hours in 119 degrees...
Yeah, KRS-One wears a shirt with his face on it.
As far as a chronological set list...SNOOPY, PLEASE! The whole scene was far too drenched with sweat, arms, hands, cameras and beats.
Speaking of cameras, it didn't take long for Patrick to tell me: "He is the hardest performer to get pictures of ever. He moves so much!"
"THE REAL HIP HOP IS OVER HERE!"
KRS-One has a long-standing reputation as a rare beast: the entertaining live rapper. His action on stage, his delivery, and choice of songs are all impeccable and should set a template for the brave to follow. He threw us classics ("Criminal Minded", "South Bronx", "Outta Here", "Love's Gonna Getcha", "Self-Destruction") and tracks off his upcoming collabo album with producer Marley Marl "Hip Hop Lives". For the newer songs, KRS implored his DJ to turn the beat low so we in the audience could really hear what he was saying.
"Hip means to know, it's a form of intelligence
To be hip is to be update and relevant
Hop is a form of movement
You can't just observe a hop, you gotta hop up and do it"
And here is the chorus of the year:
"You wanna get away with murder?
Kill a rapper"
As is almost par for the culture's course, there was an especially buoyant white dude up front who knows all the lyrics. Don't take that as some snide insult, by the by. I noted that in addition to him, there were a few black guys, a few black girls, and my white gal ass. Truly a diverse front row in this day and age of hip hop performances.
In addition to straightforward renditions of some hits, he gave us such treats as legendary verses over different beats ("My Philosophy", "You Must Learn") and fresh freestyles over classical pieces. (Kris over Vivaldi? Why the hell not!)
MCing is only one element of hip hop, so KRS invited any b-boys and/or b-girls in the audience to take the stage and show off. DC represented for the ladies lovely; indeed, of approximately 8 or 9 folks who got up there to pop, lock and break, only one possessed testicles. He was okay, and a couple of the girls were just half-assing, but the rest of them, oh my hell. Insane, crazed moves. Rhythm for days and nights. "This is braaave", KRS reminded us as they did their thing. "This takes COURAGE."
Kris loves DC. "I go back to Go-Go with y'all. I don't think you understand, I go back to Trouble Funk with y'all!"
In classical guerrilla promo style, KRS and his peeps handed out posters for the new album and KRS took about 10 minutes in between songs blessing those of us lucky enough to get hold of a poster with his signature, wielding the mic and the Sharpie with equal adroitness. Very hilariously, he signed the plain white back of a few of them, including mine.
"Which side are you gonna hang up?" Patrick half-joked.
"White people only get the white part signed", I cracked back.
As drenched with perspiration as we all were, no one was dripping the beads like the man on stage. At one point, he even told the club to kill the air conditioning. Whoa.
His hype man, Channel Live, was stoned and onpoint throughout, a rare and welcome combo. When KRS let him take center stage to drop a few hot verses (calling out 50 Cent for bigging up George Bush was a real treat, and so called-for) until a perturbed Teacha finally took over again and told Channel Live, "People like you don't need a microphone!" Ah haha.
How'd it all end? The fuck you mean, is the Bridge fuckin' over? He only did up till the "Queens keeps on fakin' it" line, which was more than enough. I was bellowing his lyrics back to him (as was everyone else up front) and got inadvertently punched in the head a few times from an appropriately-zealous, wildly pumping fist. Really, did I expect differently? No bothers, brothers and sisters.
Before he exited stage "holy shit", KRS handed out "dap". If you don't know, lemme explain. "Dap" is a form of hand gesture wherein one person slaps their hand into the proffered outstretched hand of another person and grasps it for anywhere from a half second to two seconds (anything longer may be considered "weird"). Well, when KRS-One gave me some dap, I thought I fuckin' owed him money. I will likely never receive a sweatier, stronger dap in my life, and he held that grip for like 3 or 4 seconds until we both relented. I think it actually took me a couple seconds to grip back where he was happy that this was an equal give'n'take dapping. Fucking wow, I'm telling you.
"We should get some more posters", I advised Patrick. "They might be selling them."
"Okay, but water first." Parched, we headed to the bar where the 'tender generously gave us a couple glasses of glorious H2O. Patrick's eagle eye caught a folded KRS and Marley poster by the far right of the floor and we snatched it with weary surreptitiousness. By the soundman's post in the middle of the floor, we found another one! That made two for me (one signed) and one for my man. Unbelievable luck. Or stupid people. How could you just abandon those posters? The real hip hop is not on the floor!
Black Cat DC KRS-One
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