F**k-a-B***h T-Shirts

I’ll never understand hip-hop culture. Because in my experience, the movement is embodied by 19 to 25 year-old males who reek of marijuana, speak with pseudo-inner city accents, live in their parent’s basements and incessantly bum cigarettes off whoever might oblige. KRS-One is rolling in his grave. (KRS is indeed dead in the hearts and minds of the people and has been for some time.) I begrudgingly tolerate the company of these young men when I attend to hip-hop events. And when I was invited to see Raekwon perform at Boss Night Club, I went through the usual series of mental exercises I do in preparation for being amongst them. But I was still not ready for what I encountered.

This ain’t Rolling Stone magazine. We here at R2AK are lucky to get complimentary tickets to a show AND get our camera past the frisking guy. So, when my friend who works for a local liquor distributor asked me along to the “Hennessey Presents The Chef, Raekwon” I eagerly anticipated some special treatment. To be sure, the velvet rope was unhooked before we had even gotten out of the cab, the manager of the club cleared us a path and a table, and a bottle of Hennessey was promptly placed in front of us. A short gentleman in a balaclava had just gotten a hold of the microphone and was running down a list of important people that were in the house. As the tom-tom saturated drums rolled in, he took inventory of the regions and groups he represented. Then, three other gentlemen appeared on stage and joined the man in the mask. These young men, all in Gucci-style wraparounds, promptly re-examined the people and places being represented. When this ridiculous opening act actually started to rap, I found it interesting that my fellow concert-goers all sang along – that they knew the words. It suddenly occurred to me, these people were all wearing Gucci-style wraparounds too… and they were all drinking Heinekens… and their jeans, bedazzled… and shitty tattoos… and Nike Shox… and… HAS THAT GUY GOT HIS BLUETOOTH IN?!?!

I was in a room full of douchebags, all here for what could only be described as douche-hop: an abhorrent blend of Vancouver’s suburbanite culture and gangster rap. And all around me were cocaine commandos giving gun salutes, “brrrrrRAP!” On stage, the colloquialisms were being ground out like hamburger meat, and the meat heads were satisfied and mouthed along, “sharper than a steak knife… heard it through the grape vine.” I searched around frantically. Why wasn’t anyone asking me for a smoke? Why weren’t there two guys in the corner, one freestyling directly info the other’s ear? Why couldn’t I smell weed? The performers broke into their hit single Fuck A Bitch (Get Money) and the crowd broke into a round of hysterical automatic weapons fire. I broke down and wept for my city.

My comrades and I managed to endure until Raekwon took the stage. But our resolve was lost as The Chef himself was unimpressive. Like so many aging hip-hop acts, Rae’s stage show was based on memorable songs and not a memorable performance.  After three songs – including abridged versions of C.R.E.A.M. and Ice Cream – we left. On our swim back to the exit, we came up for air near the merch booth. They were selling genuine Fuck-A-Bitch t-shirts. Needless to say, I passed.

– A. Vice