Dear bestest buds,
Lots has happened since I last wrote. It was my birthday and my friends had a party and played pin the firecrotch on Lauren. More on that in another post. And because they’re mad crafty, they also made T-shirts in my honor. Also more on that in another post. And I got some prezzies. And I kicked ass at yoga. And I went foraging for ramps with a 10-year-old. And my head popped off. I also went to see Talib Kweli at Higher Ground. That was my birthday prezzie to myself.
This is Talib and me after the show.
It’s been a while since I went to a hip-hop show. I forgot that as a dorky white girl with minimal rhythm, I sort of stand out at hip-hop shows. People are like “Um, the Celine Dion show is next Wednesday.” But really, I know my Tribe from my Talib, my Mos Def from my MC Hammer. And what a better way to ring in your 31st birthday than watching an off the chain turntablist spinning mad beats on the wheels of steel while a bomb-ass MC spits sick rhymes. Yeah, I’ve got the lingo down, b*tches.
Anyway, I grabbed some of my other vanilla friends and headed to the show. We figured if we rolled in about 45 minutes after it was supposed to start, the bargain-basement openers would have finished their set and we’d just have to wait a bit for Talib to finish his Henny and smoke some blunts. That’s what rappers do, right?. It turns out that the openers went on an hour late, much to the distress of all the translucent dredhead college kids in the audience. “Um, dudes, I have like a paper for expository writing due tomorrow morning. I’m so gonna have to, like, pull an all-nighter. Dang bro, that’s so whack.”
My crew for the night- Bikel and Squatch- and me were not at all impressed with having to wait to see Talib Kweli. Especially since we thought we had timed it just right to miss amateur hour. Sadly, we did not. Let me give you a taste of what the opening act (we’ll call them Sleuce and Pill) was like- bros, bitches, drinks, automatics, homies, cliques, clubs, haters. Now just put some recycled beats behind that and you’ve got their entire set. Minus bringing their crew up on stage to rep. And by rep I mean stand there with dumbface, bounce to the music and every so often yell “Yeah, yeah, yeah, boy.”
These two MCs did their best to rally the crowd, which was much too interested in congratulating itself for being so hip and urban to pay attention, to no avail. They rapped about their cliques and their automatics (what, like their cars?) and they kept asking “Where Money at?” I don’t know, but if you figure it out, son, let me know. The smell of Magic Marker permeated the air thanks to the overwhelming number of under-18 fans in the house. Yeah, where my adolescents at?
The crowd jumped to attention when the duo brought out their white buddy, Chris, for a little hip-hop/R&B combo platter. Floppy-haired Chris, overdressed in a collared shirt and corduroy blazer, made the college girls swoon as he sang about trying to holla at them. Um, ladies, I’m not sure who you think you are, but Chris wasn’t talking to you. He was obvs talking to me. Gawd. Chris, txt me.
These jokers continued with their best 50-Cent impersonation, minus the nine gunshot wounds and the homosexual tendencies. Finally, after about 25 barely sufferable minutes, they wound down with a song whose refrain went “Wave at the haters.” All of the sudden the entire club turned to me and waved. It was awkward, mostly because all that Magic Marker scent waving around made me woozie. See photo below.
This is me hopped up on Magic Marker.
This is a real rapper.
Talib, if you’re reading this, thank you for a great show. Thank you for being gracious despite the shite sound system and the obnoxious white kids. Thank you for being foxy. If you need a new bestie, I’m you’re girl.
I too have been wondering “where money at?” After some extensive research, I’ve determined it is located in one of two mysteriously-named locations: either the “LBC” or the “ATL.”