The Nappy Diatribe

Robin Thicke plays The NorVa: A "Don't Take Your Lady" Concert Review

Posted 03/20/2007 at 9:30 PM  |  8 comment/s

Even though my predisposition for constant snacking and well timed similes destined me to be a chubby wordsmith who effortlessly rides tracks like trolley cars, in my heart of hearts I always wanted to be able to melt the defenses of women everywhere with my sexy baritone crooning. Granted, ex-girlfriends have told me that my vocal stylings sound like cries from constipated turkeys, or similar to what a baboon's mating call might sound like. But I always knew that the quickest way to a woman's heart is outright shameless serenading. Sure, back when I had the gift of gab and felt that I was a pro at writing prose, I'd construct some hacky poem expressing my love for a woman, something that came across like I spent the better part of the last decade eagerly masturbating to Love Jones in my spare time. But that sort of sentiment only works on coffeeshop chicks, sarong wearers, women who have a closet full of head-wraps and incense, ladies who might try to sell you some "Black Soap" or some organic toothpaste right after making love to an India.Arie tune. Most women claim that they want a man to be thoughtful enough to write them poetry, but they're all lying their collective asses off. Your well crafted feelings on paper will soon become comic fodder when she shows her friends and says, "Hey y'all, look how bad I got this fool whipped!!!" That's why I always wished that I had the talent to express my feelings in song: there's no paper trail to indict you, and my 45 rhymes about my penis would go over so much better if I lovingly sang them in my mate's ear while holding some utterly romantic box of wine.

That's exactly what I thought about as I played some Robin Thicke songs in preparation for his show that I was about to cover: how many more chicks would have let me see their Lane Bryants if I had any singing prowess. For the first time in my life I wanted to be Marvin Gaye more than I wanted to be Rakim. (Minus the "shot in the chest by my father" thing.) Before I even start this review in the proper fashion that Vibe wants me to, just let me state for the record that I had some serious reservations about even going within a square mile of Mr. Thicke's performance. Here were a few:
1. Doesn't it feel weird when the world embraces an artist five years after you gave them your stamp of approval? I had a similar feeling when people acted like they had discovered Jill Scott 5 months after I had purchased her CD, when people started singing the praises of Res a whole year after I was rocking her CD, or the Fugees' "The Score" album that people swore by only after "Killing them softly" was released as a single. Maybe it's just the elitist in me, but standing amongst people of that ilk seemed akin to letting someone ride in your life-raft even though they refused to help you build it.

2. Even though that concert would be a single guy's dream - a virtual sea of ladies that I could see myself sexually disappointing some time in the future - the chances that they would go home with a chubby black guy with no discernible talent after watching a white guy who moistened undergarments off the strength of his vocal range, was slim to none.

3. Lastly, one of the most egregious of offenses, the fact that Robin Thicke allowed Lil Wayne to desecrate his song "Oh Shooter" was reason enough to miss this show altogether. I always promised myself that if I ever had Mr Thicke's ear, even for a moment, that I would give him some lengthy fatherly lecture on how wack Lil Wayne was. (But that's neither here nor there.)

Despite all that, I went equipped with a pen, pad, a free ticket from my homegirl Rachel who works at a local radio station, and a desire to get a few drinks into my system, a desire that I tried to desperately ignore during The Roots show I covered two weeks ago. When I walked in and saw that the crowd was equally divided between white women and black women, standing amongst each other in perfect harmony, it was a blind unity for fellow Americans that I hadn't felt since the days surrounding 9/11. Matter of fact, if there was ever a nasty civil war between black and white broads for some reason, it is this writer's belief that Robin Thicke is the only human being who could broker the best peace agreement between each warring faction. So after talking to some people that I know, speaking with a Spanish accent every time some random tryst decided she wanted to chat me up, and speaking to my homeboy Malcolm who writes for my local newspaper, that's when the show began.

As fast as a collegiate track coach can point out who the weak link on his 4x100 relay team is, I'm pretty good at pointing out who the dead weight is when watching any band play, but I have to say that Robin Thicke's band is as cohesive a unit as you will see. The bassist, the hard-hitting drummer, the keyboard player with his own singing chops, and the axe-man on the six-string who was a force to be reckoned with as well, I openly wondered if Robin Thicke had the ability to perform amongst such a incomparable supporting cast. As soon he belted out the uber-soulful "To The Sky," it was like he read my mind and was annoyed with my internal question and that was his way of answering it - he is one of the few singers who has the rare distinction of outperforming their records. I must say, you can't put him in that "Justin Timberlake" category, a guy who seems to have stolen Michael Jackson's playbook like it was "The Waterboy" and shit. Robin Thicke's influences haven't dictated what kind of an artist he's become. All of this was apparent as I watched him perform "Cocaine" and "When I Get you Alone" - sometimes coming off as a Motown-era crooner who preys on the pent-up sexual frustrations of the ladies in the audience, and sometimes coming across like an MC at heart who never got the chance to spit at the Apollo. For a guy who feels that most artists are so corny that they crap ethanol, I found Mr. Thicke quite the genuine article.

In an age where insecure guys view over-complimenting other males as "jocking" and other passive-aggressive ways to admit that they want to be penetrated in the most deviant ways possible, I felt no shame in publicly nodding my head to songs that were meant for female ears. "Complicated," "Teach U A Lesson," and "Would That Make You Love Me" would have pleased the roughest M.O.P. fan, because all men can relate to wanting to reach a woman's small intestines, feeling the pain of heartbreak, and jumping through hoops just to be served cheese eggs in an apartment that isn't yours. Besides the camaraderie that the band had with one another, the drummer and the keyboard player playing catch with a drumstick in the middle of a song, Robin Thicke's rapport with the audience was quite impressive as well. So impressive, in fact, that him having the audacity to recite Lil Wayne's hideous verse during an otherwise thrilling performance of "Oh Shooter" almost got past me - almost. (I really have to talk to him about the lyrically challenged company that he surrounds himself with, that is if I get a chance to holler at him and all.)

He covered damn near every song in his arsenal. The song "Angels" had the entire crowd lifting up their cellphones as if they were virtual lighters. He played "Ask Myself," "Got 2 Be Down" minus Faith "better singer than Mary J Blige" Evans, the theme song for men "Stupid Things," "I'm 'A Be Alright," a song called "All Night Long" that inspired me to say "Lil Wayne again - I'm about to strangle an innocent bystander!!" and a slew of other tracks that slight inebriation sort of erased from my memory. But there were a couple of highlights that malted hops and Beefeater Gin couldn't alter, a very rude lesbian who kept shoving me and me openly thinking, "Would mushing her in the face be wrong, she wants to be a man anyways, maybe I should give her a refresher course!", and a truly dynamic version of Al Green's "Let's Stay Together" that he sang when he came back on stage for an encore.

After the show was over and people had cleared out, the theater floor looking like a new millennium version of a wild west canvas, with empty plastic cups and other random trash doubling as tumble-weeds and spent six-shooter cases, my friend Rachel offered me the opportunity to chat it up with Robin Thicke if I liked. I agreed, not only because I wanted to give him a well respected pound and to let him know how great his set was, I figured that me going the extra mile would impress the folks at Vibe, thus rescuing me out of this blogging purgatory and letting me show my journalistic ass between Sean John advertisements and an interviews with a snap-music artists that I secretly want to bury in a desert somewhere. As I talked with him for a few fleeting moments it became abundantly clear that I was speaking to a truly humble guy, but as I blabbed on I kept trying to remember what I really wanted to tell him. As I learned that his favorite MC is Biggie, his favorite rock & roll front-man is Jimi Hendrix, the old school dance that he breaks out at the most inopportune moments is "The Wop," and that his favorite Stevie Wonder tune is "All I Do," I just knew that my bad memory was squandering an opportunity of a lifetime.

After giving him an exiting handshake and making my way down a flight of stairs out the building, I reflected on the good music and great performance that I had witnessed a mere half hour before. It wasn't until the door had closed behind me, the clanging sound letting me know that it locked automatically, that I finally remembered what I was going to talk to Robin Thicke about. To no avail, even though I was pounding on the door begging the good staff at "The Norva" to let me in, they ignored me as I yelled "Let me back in, I have to lecture him on how phenomenally wack Lil Wayne is!! Do you people have no sense of decency!!"

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