The Nappy Diatribe

The Roots Play the Norva: A Very Sober Concert Review

Posted 03/09/2007 at 10:47 PM  |  6 comment/s

I always knew that I was somewhat of a dreamer. A great deal of my High School career was spent staring off into space. But I never knew how intense my mid-day mind-wandering was until I started blogging a couple of years ago. As I posted each entry and the words flowing from my brain to my sticky keyboard became easier, my imagination elevated my future writing career into the thing of absolute legend. I imagined myself as an urban version of Craig Stecyk, the famous skateboard photographer and writer who captivated millions with his unique writing style that inspired a generation of kids to carve swimming pools with skinny wooden boards as their choice of weapon in that concrete jungle. I even imagined myself as a Hip Hop version of famous Rolling Stone writer Lester Bangs, exhibiting my own unique ranting style while being nothing short of combative with a multitude of sub-par Hip Hop artists that I'd be forced to interview.

But those visions were always cut shorter than circumcisions because my blog was more of a personal diary, and I thought that an entire site dedicated to music reviews and self-congratulatory writing would bore the piss out of people, especially me.

But now that the good people of Vibe have been kind enough to let me - a brother who grew up chubby and with a slight speech impediment - write for this site, the images swirling inside my head could resurrect Hunter S. Thompson only so he'd be able to piss himself profusely. Now I don't fashion myself after anyone, my future writing endeavors have me blazing my own trail, one day breaking out of this blogging purgatory, to have my words read between advertisements and profiles of rappers that I absolutely loathe. On top of that, I'm certain that in the years to come every writer in the Western Hemisphere will try their best to smear me, purposely leaving me off their "best writers" list, only to use my articles and my tantalizing wordplay as their secretive masturbatory material during those lonely winter nights when Internet porn just isn't enough.

Delusions of Grandeur aside, that's why I was so excited to cover "The Roots" as they came to my town this past Wednesday. Attempting to provide people with a peephole into my own concert experience seemed like a challenge that I was willing to unflinchingly accept like a Kamikaze pilot who accepted his fate a long time ago. But I had to enjoy the show sober. This might not sound like the toughest thing in the world for all you responsible drinkers out there, but for a guy who has treated live shows over the past 12 years as the background music for his inebriation, I get the sneaking suspicion as I type this that I might have an issue with alcohol. That being said, I went to the venue that The Roots were playing at (The Norva) equipped a pen, a notepad, a sudden desire for a Jack and Coke, and my friend named Jason who I befriended this time last year.

The sight of a chubby guy with extremely long dreadlocks standing besides a skinny white guy ten years his junior with earrings embedded inside his earlobe must have been quite odd. People must have thought that we were the stars of a new buddy cop movie or the strangest gay couple in the history of gay couples - but the both of us waited patiently in line as we braved the blistering, 37-degree weather. (Quite chilly for Virginia.) When we got inside, Lupe Fiasco, who was the opening act, was already halfway through his set. I'm not the biggest Lupe Fiasco fan, I can admit that, but as I pulled out my pen and pad during the Chicago native's performance, I promised myself that I'd be fair, in the same way that a black judge has to be when residing over a neo-Nazi defendant. After he played a couple of recognizable songs like "Kick Push" and "Daydreaming," I decided that under any other circumstance I'd give him a glowing review - but a man who rocks a D.A.T machine before a Roots performance automatically gets points taken off. He was alright, but I wanted to see the group that brings the house down every time I've seen them perform. Not to pile on Mr. Fiasco, but watching his performance was like having to endure pedestrian foreplay of the kissing variety from a girl equipped with a massive ass and breasts that could feed a small nation. I guess I'm saying that The Roots were the voluptuous chick in this scenario.

After Lupe finished his set, Jason and I decided to burn a few in the smoking area outside in the patio area, amongst about 30 other people who were on the fast track to ruining their lungs. Between shivering my ass off just to get my nicotine fix, I looked at all the people around me and was reminded of the fact that the crew from "Illadelph" has one of the hugest cross-sections of loyal admirers - a "United Nations" of Hip Hop fans at a Roots show. I mean, fans are fans regardless what their particular shade might be, but since I've noticed that the white fans of The Roots tend to be the savviest of the bunch, I naturally felt like I was amongst friends. It wasn't just the difference in people's skin color that was a thing of note - it was the different types of people altogether. One dude looked like he'd usually be getting wasted at a "Grateful Dead" show; another well dressed gentleman looked like he just came back from a Gerald Levert tribute concert; a few white girls looked like they were the only people on the planet that purchased Paris Hilton's album.

As soon as all of us slaves to the tobacco industry heard the crowd noise only muffled by two thick walls and a 20-foot hallway, everyone rushed to the door like we were 8th graders just hearing the final bell to go home. By the time I reached the area where I desired to watch the show, the entire band emerged from the back of the venue in a single file-line. With Questlove beating a couple of drumsticks together, Black Thought yelling out commands, and the horn section playing beautifully as they made their way to the stage, it reminded me of those funeral processions that you see in New Orleans. Only this time it didn't feel like a ceremony to mourn the passing of a loved one - it felt like a ceremony to resurrect Hip Hop.

Black Thought emerged wearing a jean jacket, a Yankees cap, and an intensity behind a microphone so great that it would melt the embryos of future MC's within a 50-mile radius. When he started his set I quietly felt reassured in my feeling that Tariq Trotter was by far the most underrated MC ever. While the self-described "Bad lieutenant" performed the song "Game Theory," rattling off Malik B's verse as if he wrote it, dealing with an incompetent soundman and a faulty microphone, an extremely intoxicated gentlemen kept violently bumping into me like he had lost his natural mind. I knew he was drunk, but I laughed to myself as I thought, "I'm actually going to have to beat someone's ass at a "Roots" concert!!" - a hell-worthy trespass akin to impure thoughts about nuns and sodomizing your neighbor's wife.

While they masterfully breezed through "Don't Feel Right," "In the Music" and "Be Cool", as a fan I peeped certain things that I hadn't noticed before. I mean, being sober is great, because I saw how certain people hung on every word that came out of Black Thought's mouth like their lives depended on it, the seriousness with which Leonard Hubbard (bassist) takes his craft, and the quirky way in which Questlove moves his Afro-pick throughout his hair between drum-strokes. True Hip Hop heads got a treat, as they did Eric B and Rakim's classic "I Ain't No Joke", a funky James Brown tribute, "Love of My Life," their version of Nas' "Hip Hop is Dead," and the break-dancers' wet dream that is "The Mexican." Man, I couldn't have been happier if you locked me in a room full of hookers and a year's supply of delicious snacks.

That's when trouble erupted. Sorta.

My young friend Jason, now visibly two sheets to the wind, had some sort of altercation with a shorter-looking version of "DJ Qualls." I didn't know what it was about - I really didn't care because Leonard Hubbard was in the middle of a mind-altering bass solo - until that guy's friend, who looked like King Sun in his prime, tried to push Jason. At that point, I even said out loud, "I'm really going to have to beat someone's ass at a Roots show!! What's this world coming to?" So I got in front of the gentleman, told him to "chill the fuck out" because he just pushed my young friend that I felt oddly responsible for, and I immediately recognized the sweet vaginal aroma coming off him as he continued to stare Jason down (a dude half his size) while not addressing the rather sober, portly gentleman right in front of him. Even though Jason kept wanting to approach the two continuously to "state his case" (whatever the fuck that means), cooler heads prevailed and I was able to put my full attention back on the show. I'm just glad I didn't have to knock a dude out at a Roots show - what a crime against humanity that would be.

Like receiving a spirited lap dance from a scantily clad woman, the minutes flew by. The Roots did a rendition of Jay-Z's "Lost Ones," Biz Markie's "Just a Friend," Snoop's "That's That," Talib's "Get By," Nas' "Made You Look," Tribe's "Award Tour," and other classics that Hip Hop fans the world over have cemented in their collective iPods. Now, I didn't have a problem with the band playing current radio-friendly tunes, but when they performed MIMS' "This is Why I'm Hot", "Throw Some D's", and a few other Southern favorites of the day, I noticed that the crowd gave a louder response for those tunes then they did any Roots song thus far. I suddenly felt that the cross-section of fans that I praised earlier for their "savvy" didn't apply to Norfolk Virginia any more.

The Roots were only 75% of the way through their set, but I had seen enough. They'd already put on a stellar show in my eyes - any more was just delicious seasoning on the entree served to all the miserable miscreants who ever purchased a Jim Jones album. From Kirk Douglas' guitar solo where he played behind his back and with finger twisting dexterity, the horn section getting their well deserved shine, through a fabulous rendition of "Jungle Boogie" and their classic "The Next Movement," I was having the proverbial time of my life - when I got tapped on the shoulder by the gentleman I almost chin-checked earlier.

He said in a very accommodating way, "You seem like a nice guy, I just wanted to make sure we were cool." I responded, "Yeah man, no big deal!" and we gave each other a formal handshake. Then he tried to slip a morsel of slick shit in there and said, "Besides, I wouldn't want to have to defend my boy by beating your friend's ass!!" To which I rapidly replied, "And I wouldn't have wanted to defend my boy by causing you to bleed out on this theater floor!" The tension had gotten to the level that I had tried to avoid, me clenching my fists and this time actually saying, "I'm actually going to have to beat someone's ass at a Roots show for Christ's sake!!! Jesus!" Finally, sticking the landing on what would be considered the "bitch move" of the night, the man in question retorted me by pointing to his Filipino friend and saying, "Yeah, if you would have fought me, my boy would have had to jump in!!" I'm usually not racist, but desperate times call for desperate measures, so I gave the Filipino gentleman the once over and said, "Hmm, I would have beaten the Pansit and Lumpia out of that motherfucker!! Don't let your mouth get Imelda Marcos here fucked up!!" Both men looked at each other like they had run out of things to say. Nothing happened and they walked away, but my brief bravado was immediately humbled by a tiny black woman tapping me on the wrist so she could whisper in my ear, "I can't believe you were about to fight someone at a Roots show. Do you have no home training?" That being said, only that Philadelphia collective had the sounds necessary to calm this savage asshole.

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