Happy New Year

Training camps open today!

Steph has already been in full effect. He's praying for you haters.

Tina Fey Should Debate Sarah Palin

I Come in the Name of Jesus

I've missed my dude (). So a little refresher, just because:

Tired

Both sad and oddly grateful, I direct your attention to Ross Douthat's take on the presidential election right now:

So Barack Obama, who once claimed to embody sweeping, once-in-a-generation change, has ended up running a cautious, negative, and deeply generic Democratic campaign, while John McCain, who's supposedly all about honor and service and aching nobility, has offered a mix of snark, stunts, and manufactured controversies week in and week out. And the pundit class, deeply invested in the notion that the stakes in this election are stunningly, awesomely high, has responded to the fundamental dullness of the race itself with wild hyperventilation, unable to accept that this campaign just hasn't lived up to their round-the-clock hype - and that it may not even turn out to be the most important election of this decade, let alone of a generation or a lifetime.

Amen (save for linking to Podhoretz). As much as I am dismayed by the prospect of know-little John McCain perpetuating the general conservative ideology that has made seemingly everything the U.S. worse over the last eight years, and as infuriating as I find Sarah Palin's ascendancy and the smug assertion that she's qualified for elected office, I am so tired of this election that I just want it to end already. It's enervating. And it's a bleak landscape out there--the coverage is boring and hysterical; most Americans seem to prefer people who aren't that bright to lead them; and the few exchanges of substance now appear to happen in vain because the next President will inherit so many festering problems and such an onerous deficit.

Happy Friday!

Still Rock a Diaper, Though

For about a month, I've been unable to get too far away from Cam. I think it's just my body () recognizing that I've needed a hit (). Yet another definition of Killa Season, perhaps. Anyway, there's now this:

- Cam'ron, "Still the Reason"

Not as simultaneously deranged and manipulative as BotPH, but still, the movement is building up some momentum again.

Hot Isht

When I have some time, I'll write a real post reviewing some music. But until then, enjoy this heat. Your boy has it right about our producer-driven hip-hop era.

- Madlib ft. Defari, "Gamble on Ya Boy"

Watch Out for That Door Making Contact with Your Backside

It's been real. It's been shitty. It's been real shitty. Peace.

Or maybe not? Whatever. It's gonna be a hot summer winter.

Peep Game

New isht: Nonpretentious. It's like a blog portal that is kind of about everything. Lots of interesting content.

Music for a Monday: Busta Rhymes Is an Astute Geopolitical Observer

I'll be honest: I have no idea what it means to get A-rab money, but the best I can glean from this new Busta track is that it involves owning oil wells, chilling in the Green Zone, and asking a personal security detail to ride around on camels. You know, because that's the efficient form of transportation when you're in the desert playing golf and shit.

As someone training to become Jim Jones' preferred kosher lawyer, I have to say that this song feels innately threatening. The paradigm in hip-hop is that kosher-lawyer paper. A-rab cheese challenges the monlithic domination of Jewish stereotypes. Maybe it's because Busta is boasting about nights spent playing Pai Gow with Yasser Arafat.

Best part of this shitty song is that at some point, there will be people in a club pretending to mouth the words to what sounds like a vocoder-enhanced fake Arabic chorus. If that ignorance isn't hip-hop, then what is?

And shouts to Prince Alwaleed!

- Busta Rhymes, "Arab Money"

Mark Cuban Is the Man. Period.

People need to check this out ASAP (HT: Shoals).

Mark Cuban is just incredible. I salute him. He's almost always right.

As for those who insist that racism is not at play in this election, or perhaps not so bad in this country: riiiiight.

The Dumbest Thing on the Internets Right Now

No joke.

This guy is such a fool. When was the last time anyone cared about Diddy? After making so many stupid bands and releasing so much forgettable music, what, exactly, makes him relevant anymore? His best opportunity to exploit tragedy friend died a long time ago and we're more than a decade removed from No Way Out. Who the eff is Puff Daddy these days?

What (fake) respectable businessman supposedly worthy of our admiration uses his latest desperate reinvention to get his fake thug on? Get my gun? Why, so you can have Shyne hold it for you while you cry in the corner and other people go to jail? Because having one is just so awesome?

And this video looks like some bushleague Lloyd Banks shit from a few years ago when people were pretending that the G-Unit was anything other than hot garbage. I am embarrassed for our species.

The Renewed Mind Is the Key

There are no words for how awesome this is. (HT: HR)

Nice Poster

Not sure if I'm late on this, but I like it.

Patriotism Is Overrated

"Howard Reportedly Disrepects Anthem in YouTube Video"

"Dallas Mavericks' Josh Howard Disrespects National Anthem"

"Josh Howard Hates National Anthem, Embarrasses Mavericks"

"Sportswriters and Uptight Bloggers Embarrass Themselves."

That should be another headline. Because this Josh-Howard-hates-America meme is idiotic. Josh Howard is a public-relations disaster. I concede that. But I go no further. He hasn't violated the law (this time), he hasn't contravened some sacrosanct moral imperative. He did something I do all the time: he failed to engage in the largely mindless and generally worthless pre-sports incantation of the national anthem. (Something that only started during World War II while baseball players were abroad and people wanted to both acknowledge the absence and also appear patriotic while carrying on with the games.) And he "disrespected" it by noting that he is black, implying that the national anthem, and America, is not for him.

First, I don't see how Howard's non-participation is any different from instances when people like me go to a basketball game and remain seated while complaining about some of the United States' appalling missteps. It's called free speech. Exercising it is among the most American activities possible. Reciting the anthem before a game is a synthetic sign of national pride and solidarity, so if the concept of "America" is going to be shoved in people's faces, those who would have the anthem sung can't then get upset when others, upon considering the United States, realize that it may not be worthy of reflexive adulation and support.

Second, there's a lot wrong with the United States. For example, it's a racist country. And, sickly, plenty of people are fine with it. That's how you get a leading presidential candidate who feels comfortable releasing racist ads. That's how you get a population that will countenance spending billions of dollars a month to rebuild some other country that we recklessly and needlessly invaded but won't summon the political will to pay teachers more money or take any other meaningful steps to address the societal failings that trap poor people in deadend lives. And, of course, a disproportionate number of those affected by our collective malaise and contempt for the poor are black. Just as I sit here concerned about aspects of our country but no less appreciative that the U.S. provides me with the right to voice this dissent, so, too, could someone like Josh Howard work his way through the system and come out a millionaire without relenquishing the understanding that for most poor blacks, that's a foreclosed possibility. What's unamerican about speaking that truth? What's disrespectful about being real?

This is nonsense.

The Real Goes E-Thuggin'. In Central Park. Kind Of.

Hi, Haterz: The Sarah Palin Mix EP

I take it all back. Anything bad I've ever said about Sarah Palin is formally retracted. Any politician who actually uses the word "haters" is a-ok with me because, well, my personal value system is largely driven by Star and Buc.

And Palin, herself, is a model hater. As Jay Smooth noted, Palin turned the Republican National Convention into a player haters ball the likes of which would have made Buck Nasty proud.

So here is a little mixtape I've made for my sister in hate, Sarah Palin. Take 'em to church, Sarah. It is Sunday.

- Notorious B.I.G., "Playa Hater"

- Maino, "Hi Haters"

- Jermaine Dupri ft. Freeway and Jadakiss, "Hate in Your Blood"

- N.O.R.E., "Grimy"

- b.O.b., "Haterz"

- The Game ft. Nas, "Why You Hate the Game"

- Field Mob, "Haters"

- Jay-Z, "Some People Hate"

- Little Brother, "Hate"

- Cam'ron ft. Juelz Santana, "Hate Music"

- Kanye West ft. PM, "Hater Family"

Michigan Loses to Michigan 35-17

Anyone who thinks that Notre Dame is better than Michigan is either: a) a deluded Fighting Irish fan; b) an idiot.

I'll have more later. Right now, I need to figure out how a team fumbles 6 trillion times in one game.

Republican Economics Theory: From Surpluses to Deficits

Well, if this isn't a clear indictment of how Republicans serve as stewards of the economy, I don't know what is:

Please note: this analysis comes from the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities, a nonpartisan think tank. This isn't politics.

Peep Game: Eclectic Relaxation

There are a lot of great writers in the world. I'm privileged to have gone to school with at least one of them.

Peep game: Eclectic Relaxation

If you're a hip-hop head, you'll want to get up on this. And you likely won't mind some of the more meditative, non-rap writing, either. Dude brings it.

We Missed You, Dun

The central incongruity, the central hypocrisy in my life is that I hate most of that gutterific, destructive, mindless rap music...but I love me some Cam'ron. And, well, today was a big day for me.

There aren't many of my law school colleagues sitting around this law library grinning like idiots as they consolidate notes from Contracts and try to understand what, exactly, motivates and inspires someone to make a song called "Bottom of the Pussy Hole." This is a rare moment when so many of my life's elements have converged. It makes me want to pursue international law so that I can be a Diplomat.

Oh, and he laced another S.A.S. track. Maybe that's where he's been? Moving yay through the UK? Selling rocks in abundance along the streets of London? Making home videos in South Kensington?

Enjoy the return...

- Cam'ron, "Bottom of the Pussy Hole"

- S.A.S. ft. Cam'ron, "Nothing Long" (Remix)

This Was Awesome

Oh, and so was this:

Eternally Reflecting: A Nostalgist Goes to Rock the Bells

Among the best days in my life.

For a certain set of Americans, going to college is compulsory. It's just what you do. It's an extension, if not culmination, of a childhood loaded with mandatory activities, many of which can feel perfunctory. You go to school, you do the extracurriculars, you take the tests, and so forth.

I am one of those Americans. I suppose that had I opted for something else, or had I demonstrated a strong aversion to schooling, my parents would not have made me attend a four-year college. But I wasn't raised in an environment at home, or amidst a sociocultural milieu, in which opting out of "the system" was something that ever emerged as a realistic alternative. I was always going to go to college somewhere.

Now, please make no mistake: I am not complaining. This is not meant to sound bratty. I am fortunate to have grown up with two educated parents who made my own education a priority. Similarly, I am fortunate to have gone to college. I am particularly fortunate to have matriculated at a school that offers the finest higher-education experience available. I feel deeply indebted to my family, my teachers, and the many other people who enabled, propelled, and enriched my experience. But still, college was obligatory, in some ways. And as a result, there was an element of choice absent from the process, even if I did, in fact, take tours and attend information sessions and practice the inexact calculus of applying.

Law school is different. I am compelled by no force other than my own free will. I could have kept working. I could have quit and done nothing (though I quickly would have become impoverished). I could have gotten a new job in a new field. In many ways, embarking down this path--preparing for the LSAT, taking the test, applying, picking a school, moving away from my friends and family--is the most adult-like thing I've ever done, and it is surely the most fully realized manifestation of whatever adult-like abilities I have developed. Moving to Ann Arbor for college was part of a childhood (happily) spent adhering to norms in a system whose choices were always accompanied by boundaries. Living in St. Louis is growing up.

As I reflect upon Rock the Bells in New York, I've been unable to escape this juxtaposition that gains more definition each day because the concert was an event that, in effect, served as a capstone to my childhood experience. It was not only the final thing I did in New York (at least, until I potentially return), and it did not only just capture one of my favorite things about New York living (the hip-hop scene), but the lineup was a microcosm of my youth.

To wit: My entry into rap music was Low End Theory, and A Tribe Called Quest has maintained a sacred position in my universe ever since I copped that first tape at a Tower Records store. Tribe is a collective Zeus in my life's mythology, and for as long as I can recall, I've championed Tribe as the greatest rap act of all time.

Similarly, De La Soul has been a long-time companion, their music providing a soundtrack to vivid memories that span elementary school (listening to Buhloone with a girl who had a crush on me in 7th grade), summer camp (napping in the sun with Stakes Is High coming through my headphones), high school (defending AOI to friends yearning for more Dead), college (delving deeply into Three Feet High following a newspaper feature), and beyond (celebrating Grind Date--during a summer concert tour with stops at Columbia University and some random club in Connecticut--as proof that great hip-hop can still exist ). I am always with De La Soul ().

Further, I cannot begin to calculate how many hours traipsing around New York or keeping it gully in Ann Arbor were spent with Nas, Wu-Tang, and the Pharcyde. I can picture Chambers Street, subway cars, and the sick feeling I'd get before math class any time Illmatic, Bizarre Ride, Ironman, or so many other related record comes on. And, of course, let me not forget my Things Fall Apart-fueled OKP era, a time during college and just afterwards when no Black Star or Roots or Common show could be missed.

Rock the Bells captured all of this emotion. So needless to write, I had a blast. Yet the day was not only about nostalgia because had the music not been accompanied by so much personal history, Rock the Bells still would have delivered on the promise of a standout music festival.

The Sunday when I saw the show began auspiciously with a really good, albeit too short, Murs set. Seeing Murs live feels like an exercise in anachronism. He does his thing with just a DJ; he raps about everyday life, dispensing with phony posturing; he's into sex but doesn't seem hostile toward women; he is up there to have fun, not enhance a marketing strategy or justify the price of an arena-show ticket; and he is ever appreciative of the opportunity to work as an MC. His entire ethos recalls a time before Hip-Hop (capitalized) was the industry that it is today. Or, perhaps, before the Hip-Hop Industry changes an artist into something that doesn't resemble what Murs still is. (But maybe I am just a hater; I am sure that I'll one day come to really appreciate the genius of Young Jeezy.) Regardless, it was a joy to watch him dance around, purposely attempt to make his DJ's records skip, and work to entertain the crowd. None of it would matter were his records wack, but Murs has been making quality records for a minute, so the music was great. "Yesterday" remains a song I could hear every day. Ancillary highlights of the set were the two hippies who started dancing vigorously up toward the front. I guess Murs just really spoke to them.

(A programming note: I'd gone to RtB to see Wale, Jay Electronica, and the Cool Kids, too, but Wale went on so early that I missed most of him; the Cool Kids played the side stage during De La Soul, so that wasn't happening; and Jay Electronica was AWOL, at least by the time I got there, just past noon.)

After Murs, b.O.b. dicked around and sang that "Haterz" song (along with the hot new joint "Club in My Car"). Most of the crowd seemed confused, save for one woman who apparently is a weed carrier and road head (double entendre!) for Robert. She was hollering and dancing like it was Reggae Splash. Oh, and I got into it, too, because I can't stop from being condescending. By the end of that episode, as I was winded and my friends were embarrassed, it was mainstage time. Thankfully.

Kidz in the Hall started things off as the crowd slowly filtered in. I felt bad for Kidz. There were a thousand people spread out over 20,000 seats, Double-O was limping around with his post-fight injuries, and they couldn't get the audio system to work. Plus, with new acts, smaller, indoor venues (not Jones Beach) are preferable because the intimacy () provides a better music showcase and allows the artist to more directly connect with fans. As a result, this was an underwhelming half-hour, which was especially disappointing because The In Crowd remains one of the best records of the year. But so be it; there will be other chances to see Naledge and Double-O.

Feeling good and enthusiastically looking forward to the show's myriad headliners, my friends and I were jarred back toward cynicism by the energy-less dead prez set and the loud, discordant, militant ramblings of Immortal Technique, one of those self-defeating rappers so frowardly intent on doing things his way that people stop paying attention. It was physically unpleasant to sit in the sun and listen to dude go on and on (gutturally) about the secret government and the best way to hide a track on a CD and whatever else nonsense came to mind. I think at one point I actually lost consciousness because my brain hurt so badly as I tried to understand what he was talking about. I also had a sidebar conversation about whether the CIA is actually an active participant in drug dealing. Overall, it was just horrific.

But it mercifully ended, and then real artists came out. De La led things off for the big boys. As is customary, they were fun. That, really, is the only word for a De La show these days. Maseo, Dave, and Pos have such a strong sense of their audience and their catalogue that they, in effect, throw a party for the entire time that they're on stage. They ping pong from hit to hit, they play games to keep the crowd enthused, they exercise an obvious tendency toward showmanship (cutting up records, sampling key tracks, playing with tempos and expectations, and so forth). De La Soul perfectly embodies everything that you might love about rap music--they're smart, they can rhyme so well, they have great ears for music, they exude enthusiasm, and they care so deeply about doing a good job. As is also customary, they brought out Dres, who did his own thing and led the crowd in a rendition of "Choice Is Yours." As is customary.

The ambivalence portion of the show was held down by a reunited Pharcyde. It was great seeing them together, prancing around and reciting the classic material from Bizarre Ride. But it was depressing, too. Depressing like a boxer who doesn't know when to retire; like moving back to your college town to recreate the bygone magic of the undergrad years; like Michael on the Wizards. The Pharcyde's time has come and gone. Tastes have changed; hip-hop's audience has changed. It was a solid set in the same way that a person might enjoy hearing a record he's forgotten about but wouldn't choose over his favorite joint of the moment: the music is appreciated for what it is and what it meant, but it's heard with the melancholy understanding that it is vestigial.

By the way: one problem the Pharcyde encountered was that Booty Brown and Fat Lip did some of their solo music. Like anyone wanted to hear that shit.

*deep breath*

OK. Now. Ghostface and Rae. (And Cappadonna, of course.) I have no idea how to write about these dudes anymore. I could wander past them in twenty years, find them both rolling around in the gutter, destitute and (even more) insane, looking like everyday vagrants, and I would still lose my shit. The idea that I'll even have a chance to see them perform can positively alter my mood for up to a week before a show. They are like my own personal Beatles, had the Beatles been black New Yorkers with a flair for profane crime narratives. Even when they're not great (RtB) I still have an excellent time.

Let's start with the good: they performed the "Rainy Dayz" remix. OH MY GOD. That remains one of the all-time great remixes, not least of all because of the Harold Melvin interpolation that they all sing together. They also performed about 60% of Cuban Linx. They brought out 40 weed carriers. There were at least three toddlers or infants on stage. They did the thing where the crowd raps "Triumph" as they pretend to not remember how that song goes.

BUT:

1) There was no "Necro"--which features what is arguably Ghost's most vile verse of all time--and that was a bummer because, well, it would have been so audaciously obscene and hilarious.

2) Ghost seemed subdued by Ghostface standards. The most logical explanation is that due to the time constraints of a festival set, there is precious little time available for discursive musical-prelude sermons. And also...

3) Ghost and Rae, too, would have benefited from performing at a smaller, indoor venue. The cult of Wu-Tang that persists is a unique phenomenon best enjoyed within a confined space and among like-minded individuals who, even when they know better, can't help but pretend that it's 1997 and there is an enthralling coherence to the Wu mysticism that makes each concert less like a musical performance and more like a religious ceremony. A Wu-Tang crowd packed in tightly () and feeding off a shared energy is the ideal way to experience a Ghost and Rae show. The kind of show with a DJ, not a band, and snippets of canonical and just merely classic Wu-Tang material mixed in with the personality flexing that you usually get from these dudes.

Outdoors, with a mixed crowd, doesn't begin to come close, and the set suffered as a result. Cappadonna didn't even try to steal everyone's attention, a move he's pulled many times before. It was Wu-Tang Lite.

4) With Busta Rhymes sitting backstage, there was no "Heist." (You know that Roc Marciano is just waiting by the phone.)

5) Most heinous crime by far: NO METHOD MAN. The dude is on the same effing tour! That shows you how deep the divisions may be since 8 Diagrams. I think. I mean, I can't otherwise account for how it is that those three (or four with the Cab Driver) didn't do their collective thing. Especially because Ghost and Rae closed with "Ice Cream." I felt like Gob Bluth: "Wait, wait, wait! I've got the perfect thing for this...oh, come on!"

So that was a bummer. But life went on. And in lieu of a Wu-Tang revival, we instead saw a Black Star one.

Mos Def had been listed as a tour participant, but Kweli was a surprise (sort of). And really, his extended stay on stage was fortuitous because prior to his arrival, Mos Def ambled about this massive stage chanting vaguely recognizable songs and subjecting the crowd to some kind of installation-art-like video montage. There was sunshine, and oil wells, and erosion, and water, and some other stuff that was probably created with and best enjoyed while on drugs. Mos didn't perform "Umi Says"; didn't perform "Oh No" (more on this in a second); barely did much from Black on Both Sides; and rendered my friends and I sadly disillusioned as we shook our heads and proclaimed statements like, "Obviously, he has no interest in being a rapper anymore."

Then Kweli walked out...and they performed almost all of the Black Star catalogue that you'd want to hear. "Respiration," "Definition," "Brown Skin Lady," and so forth. They even brought out a special guest, Pharoahe Monch, to do his thing for a little. (So now, back to "Oh No"--where was that? In their defense, I suppose that it wouldn't be the same without Nate Dogg.)

Sort of like the feelings engendered by a Pharcyde set, the Black Star reunion was one that could not escape the shadow of ambivalence. It was fun, and that record remains a great one, but seeing Mos and Kweli together is an odd experience because their shared past taunts their respective present. Black on Both Sides and Reflection Eternal were these engrossing, impressive records, and then both men fell the fuck off. Sure, Quality was solid, and yes, Talib can still drop a hot verse or make the occasional song you actually want to hear and don't merely tolerate or bump due to sympathy, but really, it's been almost a decade since Mos and Kweli were at their apex. That's depressing, man.

There was little time to dwell on that grim reality because the evening's next set, Method Man & Redman, was an hour of partying made even better due to the soft bigotry of low expectations. Going in, I wasn't too excited about Meth and Red. They are kind of cartoons these days and Blackout was mediocre. Further, as titans of the mid-90's hip-hop scene in New York--an era that is scantly invoked by today's popular rap music and marginalized by recollections primarily focused on classic records--a lot of their good-not-great tracks, to say nothing of the collaborations and side projects, are easily overlooked. So again, I wasn't all that enthused by the prospect of an hour spent waiting for "Rockwilder."

But I was way off. First, I undersold just how much fun it is to recall music from Whut and Tical. Second, these dudes have done so many verses with so many other artists that they have a nearly endless supply of material that, when it comes on, the audience can't help but feel excited, dance along, and think, "Damn, I forgot about this joint!" Third, I refer to my second point. There are just so many memorable posse-cut tracks in the annals of Def Jam that featured Meth and Red. So it was only appropriate that dudes like Slick Rick and EPMD came out at Rock the Bells. Meth and Red have a distinct place in rap music that is easily overlooked but quite impressive when you subject it to appropriate scrutiny. Theirs was a great, energetic set.

So was Nas's, and that was a relief.

An interesting narrative to tell about rappers is the quest for identity. (That might just be a universal thing, actually, but for now, let's say that it is easily observed in hip-hop.) So many artists appear to long for something that better defines them. It's something manifest in Common's music, in the Game's music, in Kanye's music. Some rappers, like Mr. West, seem to exercise a greater sense of agency during the process, setting goals and, at times audaciously, almost willing their manifestation. I mean, Kanye became one of the biggest stars in the world by making great music but also by bludgeoning everyone with his pronouncements of how great he is. In some ways, Kanye's ascension was a self-fulfilling prophecy (and that's something I greatly respect. Don't get it twisted.)

But then there are guys like Common and Game, who seem to have a melancholy that lingers around them despite success. Each is a man who often emotes a yearning to belong, a yearning for purpose. Common has openly bounced from one musical svengali to the next throughout his career. It's a process that has left him as one of rap's most interesting figures. And Game, of course, is a studio gangster extraordinaire, but when his posturing is ignored and his stylized defenses are stripped away, you are left with this fanboy who does little more than emulate what he's lionized. They both are disarmingly honest in their own respective ways, and that helps to redeem them.

Somewhere in the middle is Nas, an artist who has serially reinvented himself, rarely with the seductive determination of Kanye West, but also devoid of the frailty expressed by Common and the Game. In many ways, this has been the reputational undoing of Mr. Jones (that and a shitty ear for beats). Who hasn't grown tired of Nas's pronouncements and synthesized moments? Smarten up, Nas! What the fans want is Illmatic, Stillmatic. The internal confusion--Nasty Nas to Esco to Escobar to Nastradamus to Mr. Jones to whatever--meshes well with the usual, albeit tired, story we all know about Nas, though: just how do you follow up a hip-hop masterpiece that remains one of the genre's towering accomplishments? It's an awful lot of pressure, I'd imagine.

Sadly, the pressure has given us the overwrought "Hate Me Now" era; the underwhelming Hip-Hop Is Dead; the faux politics of Untitled. It's given us Braveheart bullshit. It's given us a lot of forgettable, if not regrettable, moments from a career that would not require so many qualifications were it revised for the better. Nas is a conflicting protagonist who falls short of true heroism but nonetheless maintains a very real association with the heroic.

Anticipating a Nas show is to experience one's own winding journey: there is excitement but also a good deal of concern. Will it be the good Nas, the one who just pumps out hits and plays that real shit? Might there be a live band there to rock out with a dope interpolation of "Human Nature" during "It Ain't Hard to Tell"? Or will it be Nas the would-be hip-hop kingpin, aspirationally forcing his way through second-tier music and self-indulgent whimsy? Maybe something in the middle? Oh God, please don't let him act like a fool.

On this day, reason won out, and the worst fears were allayed. Nas fucking killed it. He performed most of Illmatic. He strung together hits from Stillmatic and God's Son and Nastradamus and It Was Written. He brought out Jay-Z. He kept the energy up, he kept the Untitled to a minimum, and he kept the energy going for an hour.

(Quick sidebar: now that Nas and Jay-Z are openly cool and beyond their fake beef, wouldn't it be a fun little parlor trick if they traded dis tracks on stage before doing something like "Black Republicans"? I mean, people do love "Takeover." I would be, um, vocal during a live rendition of "Ether." I'm just saying. Anyway....)

And after all that, it was finally time for me to fulfill my hip-hop destiny and see A Tribe Called Quest together on stage.

Tribe was dope. For all my florid writing, nothing captures it better. Nor is any phrasing more appropriate. The greatest rap act of all time, the dudes who always spit that real hip-hop, the artists who defined a bygone and better era--seeing them live was amazing. Whether it was "Footsteps" or "Buggin' Out" or "Oh My God" or "Find a Way," Tribe's time on stage was this enthusiastic celebration of the music, the group, and the art form.

I lost my voice almost instantly as I belted out Q-Tip's memorable opening from "Excursions" but that didn't matter. I almost fell over as I pogoed up and down during "Scenario" but I kept going. ATCQ offered ninety minutes of the best rap music I've ever heard (still!), and there was nothing to do but reciprocate with as much outward affirmation as I could muster. I think I scared my friends a little.

A hater until I die, I do have one beef: Q-Tip almost fucked the shit up by wasting 20 minutes with "Breathe and Stop," "Vivrant Thing," and some Kamal the Abstract wackness after Nas finished but before we saw Ali, Jarobi, and Phife (who strutted around with a towel over his head and a headband holding said towel in place. It was bizarrely appropriate for a rapper whose music was always saturated with sports references; I can only imagine he'd been watching some NBA tapes on the bus before the show.) Yet even Mr. Davis's self-absorption did not, ultimately, detract from a personal highlight of a life spent with hip-hop. It's hard to stay mad when the horns from "Steve Biko" are blaring.

GOP: Party Like It's 2005!