For Myself & Others: In the Company of a Legend
By Bomani Jones, AOL BlackVoices columnist
It's hard not to be cynical about music now. Unlike any other era, today's music scene is as much about the enterprise behind the music as the music itself. Fans can detail how many units each CD has sold, who's been a bust at the record store, and many could sketch the organizational chart of Interscope Records on a McDonald's napkin. I find much of that to be interesting, but that's only because I'm an economist by training. But by upbringing and exposure, I'm a fan, one who finds music to be exhilarating at its best and, at its worst, worth a listen.
It was with that background that I wound up at a hip-hop exhibit at the University of North Carolina. These sorts of events are often a drag, displays of the four elements of hip-hop that are typically for the enrichment of those who tend to view the culture from afar with extra-strength binoculars. As informative as a trip to the zoo, these sorts of events allow fans and voyeurs (and I must admit that I'm not sure where one group ends and the other begins) to ogle break dancers, emcees and DJs with a curiosity reserved for museums, botanical gardens and zoological facilities.
I attended this event for three reasons -- it was free, it took place on a lazy weekday evening, and Grandmaster Flash was the headliner. To claim to love hip-hop but to miss a chance to see Flash spin goes past being contradictory; it would be absolutely disrespectful. Flash's place as the marquee star of the group that gave the world the '80s most revolutionary single, 'The Message,' carries enough weight to get me to off my couch.
Flash took his time, though, which meant he also took my time. Set to appear after a break-dance battle (which was off the chain), I got the vibe that folks were stretching things along while waiting for Flash. The break dancers almost ran out of moves as their set was continually extended. Perhaps that was the plan, but my money says that Flash was being rather fashionable with his lateness.
But my admirations for an artist dwindles with each passing minute when I'm kept waiting for the person to take the stage. If a headliner hits the stage half an hour after they were supposed to, my excitement plummets; Luther Vandross can turn into Mario after 30 minutes of standing still. So by the time Flash finally hit the stage, I was no longer hype. Visions of Melle Mel were no longer dancing through my head. It was like someone shone a light into the DJ booth at the club, for all I cared.
And I played it hard for as long as I could. His pinpoint scratches boomed through the speakers like gunshots, but I pretended not to be impressed. He adjusted the levels on Phil Collins' 'In the Air Tonight' to make it even spookier and brooding, but I acted as though I didn't notice. He flawlessly mixed AC/DC's 'Back in Black' with Boogie Down Production's 'Dope Beat,' and I fronted like it was nothing. For real, I don't dig tardiness.
Now, while I knew that Flash was a helluva DJ, I didn't know he was a psychic. At one point, he moved from behind the turntables, got on the mic, and he told the room that any (12-letter expletive) with "too cool-itis" needed to leave the room and all others should put their hands up. I coolly put one hand up, leaving it inches from the stage (I was at the front of the stage on top of being tall with long arms). It was at that moment that Flash looked at me, dapped me up, and said, "Black man you better ..."
I don't think he finished that sentence, though it's possible that he did. All I could think about was the fact that I just got dapped up by Grandmaster Flash. My hands touched those that helped revolutionize music, hands so legendary that the man that controls them has his own model of Technics turntables. I felt like the kid catching Mean Joe Greene's jersey in that Coke commercial.
There was no cynicism left in my body. My concerns about the crowd, my time, and anything else were gone. Not once did I think about what Flash did or did not sell. I didn't get nostalgic because no previous day had a moment like that. For that minute, the exhilaration was back. Feelings about music I once thought were eroded came rushing back.
And what makes hip-hop so beautiful became clear -- it remains the surefire cure for too cool-itis.
Jan. 28, 2005