“Open sesame and let down the main gate / Before you scream EPMD you should wait…”
[And now, some words from overly-dramatic-early-1900’s-Vincent-Price-Nuv]
The disobedient crowd paid no mind to Erick Sermon’s warning. There was no way to leash the pack of wild dogs that filled Fortune Sound Club this Tuesday past. Rabid, foaming at the mouth, chomping at the bit, they were screaming the name for weeks, in anticipation of this night. Howling it at the moon. Shrieking it to the gods! The only thing that would sate these normally docile creatures was blood. Fortune (heh) smiled upon the perched mob this night, as The E-Double and his partner-in-crime Parrish Smith shared the bloodthirst, and aimed to quench it by absolutely killing it. Tearing that stage to shreds, plank by bloody plank.
They, once more, tested the masses, resorting to reverse-mind-trickery. Speaking in tongues, the pair demanded a respite. “You Gots To Chill!” they commanded. Again, the crowd bristled at the mere thought, and refused to comply. Hands shot skyward as if possessing thoughts of their own, reaching for the invisible glories the Microphone Medicine Men spoke of. Were I not from the early 1900’s, I’d have been reminded of the strange, sweaty tribal-rave in the second chapter of something called ‘The Matrix.’ The floor seemed ready to give way and swallow us up as one many-hoodied morsel, insignificant in the face of these Hip Hop demi-gods. They existed before many of us, and will exist still after.
Two brave microphones fell in battle, try as they might to brave the duo’s channeled fury. It seemed Sermon’s may survive the culling. With the monitor speakers doing it’s bidding, it had convinced E-Double that it was impeding the projection of his voice. He kindly bid the soundman to raise his volume. Thanks to the monitor speaker’s treachery, Erick remained in the dark, unaware of the crisp, clarity with which his message was being delivered by Fortune’s Sound Engines. (I believe you refer to them as “the greatest speakers of all-time,” or some such future-speak.) This continued until, unfortunately, E’s voice started to crack, albeit only between songs. The Green Eyed Bandit again steeled himself and spat forth his word-magics with renewed vigor. Eventually, his microphone paid the price for it’s treachery, and you could hear it’s blood-curdling squeals anytime Erick came close to the speaker-machines. A phenomenon you know as “feedback.” Alas, war is not without it’s casualties.
Yet, despite these minor impedances, the night overall was filled with victories. Vancouver crowds are notoriously indifferent and subdued, but not this night. This night, everything the audience had was given, our collective energies fueling the act. The only break they took, was for turntable sorcerer DJ Scratch. Given a window to truly flex his muscles mid-set, all hell broke loose. Scratching behind his back, under his leg, spinning, operating the cross-fader with his mouth, doing a section in slow-motion. A pale man beside me projectile vomited. One of the handful of women in the place began spider-crawling on the ceiling and made love to a crucifix. Even more epic than any of these happenings: at one point I saw the mighty DJ Marvel at side-stage with his jaw dropped…
E and P’s camaraderie was inspiring. For 22 years they have been practicing their wizardry, so it should come as no shock, then, that they know each other’s every nuance and tick, and can pick up where the other drops off, literally without missing a beat. Their back and forth was, indeed, dizzying. During some of PMD’s verses, E-Double, mischievous smile etched across his jolly face, would attempt to suplex him. Parrish, though he appeared to be fighting off laughter, never dropped a syllable.
The selection of songs was without a miss. That is to say, all hits, and they still did not even scratch the surface of their catalogue. Despite not hearing It’s Going Down or Never Seen Before, I was given everything else that I wanted. Strictly Business. So Watcha Sayin’. Jane. Den en den den de den, it’s Da Joint! The encore even gave us the original Gold Digger, recorded when Kanye West was 13. I was left to conclude that in the field of rap, they do indeed pull rank. No question. (Curses! I am beginning to speak like you future-people.)
After an amusing tirade regarding our right to “smack the shit outta” celebrities that refuse to give us the time of day, Erick informed us the reason for EPMD’s continued existence, even after 22 years, was us. The fans. We keep them going, and they shall never take that for granted. That is why they still do it. Because they owe us. Which brings me to the song that most aptly fits the evening, and also happens to be my favourite.
I think I speak for all of us, then, when I say: Erick. Parrish. This was The Big Payback. Consider us even.
– Overly-dramatic-early-1900’s-Vincent-Price-Nuv
[Regular Nuv says, "Captain Arthritis' camera aches when it rains, but captures pretty amazing EPMD pictures. Click here to see the results. Hang a left at Eat Shit Blvd if this doesn't interest you."]
