Two days later I’m still wiping the slick of that evening off myself. Sweat, Pabst and “Blue Ribbon raps.” Yelawolf. Fortune Sound Club. We’ve done this dance before, so I should have the steps down, right? Ha ha, silly Nuv…
The venue and the man on stage were about the only things that remained the same. For starters, in the over two years since I last saw him, the rest of the world had caught on to what I’ve been yellin’ about here at every opportunity. Including a certain Mr. Mathers. Being signed to Shady Records got Yela’s words into a whole new set of earholes. Longhair skaters and backpack-clad hip-hop heads. Chicks in “skirts” (belts) with loose “morals” (vaginas). Misguided miscreants like my jerk cameraman, Jay “Air Mattress” Haddow and my homeboy Pat “Chinese Fred Durst” Woo. I saw at least two dudes enter that I thought were Yela, but were actually other white dudes with the mohawk-mullet. Yela’s got a wolfpack in every city now, dog. Fortune was the United Colours of Benetton that night. End result: Fortune was, side to side, front to back, Jam. Fucking. Packed.
It was hot as fuuuck up in there, and that was before anyone took the stage. By the time Snak The Ripper stepped up to Take That Shit, the fucking ceiling was sweating, no joke. Despite Snak’s attempts to convince us he was Lazy, he was anything but. I don’t know if the ticking clock on this early show looming was responsible (another show scheduled to happen afterwards meant a strict curfew), but Snak wasted no time, hitting the crowd with efficiency and that Onyx-rasp (and a mountain of a hype man he rightfully dubbed the “Seventh Wonder of the World”), and successfully churned us into a rabid frenzy. But not like, normal rabies where you foam at the mouth and star in Stephen King novels and try to kill a kid and his mom and shit. This was Rabies of Love, buddy. Take your shirt off. Hug the sweaty stranger beside you. Yell for Yela in unison. Tantric, acoustic, Kumbaya-ass rabies. Still with the mouth foam, though this foam tasted decidedly like hops and barley.
A short wait later, the howling worked! I heard the epic warning broadcast that signals the insanely good intro to ‘Wolf’s Shady LP, Radioactive. And: BOOM! We’re ridin’ in Daddy’s Lambo. Yela took a minute to thank us for our insane reaction and energy, which made his hellish 6.5 hour border wait worth it. Then he surprised the fuck outta me by doing his verse from the BET Cypher, followed by another lesser-known gem, No Hands. By the time Hard White (Up In The Club) came on, we were moving the whole building with us. Stomping for every kick, clapping for every snare, hanging on every word. It was fucking bonkers. Some dude was (accidentally) using my left foot for a trampoline and the chick in front of me inadvertently got a horsey ride. I either came or had a stroke by the end of that song. Maybe both? I wanted a smoke and I smelled burnt toast…
After that, it was a bit of a blur, as Yela tore through song after song, displaying the verbal pyrotechnics that make him – no hyperbole, no word of a lie – the best, most exciting rapper since Em in pure skill. I think my brain was blown into submission, but the night’s been coming back to me in hop-around-the-narrative Tarantino-ass flashes. So, in no particular linear order: I Wish. Marijuana. Growin’ Up In The Gutter. DJ Vajra sliced us wide open with a 2 minute set towards the middle, showing why he’s a DMC World Champion. Hardest Love Song In The World. I Just Wanna Party. Good To Go. Some songs I hear a lot of people criticize off Radioactive, like Animal and Let’s Roll. Both of which, I can now confidently say, they haven’t heard at all till they’ve heard ‘em live. And I got a Sound Club full of people that will back me up on that shit.
A few highlights…
Trunk Muzik came on and grown men were crying like 12 year old girls did for The Beatles. And the girls? Man, shee-it. One of them tried to chloroform me to “add to her collection” after seeing that I was the only one (in our area, at least) that could flawlessly rip through the rapid fire “Alabama’sUnanimousAnimalYelawolfOnThe808ComeUpFadeAwayAin’tNoBetterWayToGetDown.”
I managed to slip her grasp, but she would pop up occasionally threatening “lotion” and “the hose”…
He did a truncated version of the ‘Dedication To MCA‘ he’s been doing lately, running through a medley of covers by artists whose influence he wears like tattoo sleeves, some obvious (Beasties, Eminem) some not (Simple Man by Lynyrd Skynyrd!). For a few minutes it felt like a stadium show, what with all the lighters and titties swingin’ around…
Aaaaand… Pop The Trunk. Holy everlovin’ motherfuck-your-face-in-half, Pop The Trunk. “Heavy and tall as the midget Willow…” When introducing someone new to Yelawolf, this is the go-to song. My favourite. His best. It’s like nothing else out there, and it so wholly encapsulates everything about him, who he is, where he’s from, what he’s about. It’s his signature. And judging by the way the floor buckled and the fact that I still can’t hear out my right ear, everyone else there agreed. And came. And is still cumming… [cut the music, point the mic at the crowd]
“On yoooouuu…”
- Nuv
