Mobb Deep was here, in Miami? The simple answer to this question is “yes.” However, for anyone who was not at the Hard Rock CafE last Saturday, I feel obliged to say more. First, the ticket cost twice as much as the flyer advertised. Woops, sorry, fine print: get there before eleven, otherwise… $20 later I was negotiating a “2 for $30” deal for the rest of my posse (rollin’ deep, yo!). After sealing the deal, Prodigy walked straight past me and out of the front door. This is when the hint of a scheme first hit me.
Slight uneasiness was intensified as Littles (Prodigy’s right-hand man) scampered down the stairs after him, wearing a homemade jersey that could have easily been jacked from a Pee Wee football team. Showing up at 1 a.m. was smart, as we only had to wait outside for an hour or so before the six remaining opening acts finished up. This gave me time to see the promoters nervously running around in search of Prodigy.
Around 2 a.m., more bad news was issued: the DAT machine was left somewhere!
It seems that Mobb Deep simply cannot perform without their pre-recorded soundtrack. So, some more opening acts stepped up and got booed off with chants of “Mobb Deep! Mobb Deep!” Which brings me to another question: What the hell would possess any business to have last call 20 minutes before torturing a room full of restless Mobb Deep fans with “305 ’til I mutha fukkin die!” shouted over and over again by the truly infamous, (I am not making this name up) The THC Crew.
I wanted to pity them, but they were so convinced that rhyming “5” with “die” was so hardcore and original that it was impossible not to join the few awake members of the audience in the rebellion. By this point, girlfriends were dropping like dicks at a fat camp for nudists – lifeless and sweaty. Then…all of a sudden – Mobb Deep in da house!
Woops, sorry, fine print: I meant to say that I heard Mobb Deep. When I opened my eyes there was some DJ playing “Shook Ones.” Before I could think it, the audience did it, “We want Mobb Deep!” and so forth. Finally, after bringing in police (great!) to back up the 80 or so people still using their legs, (the main promoter) His Mohawked Nastiness:
Nastie, pleaded with the audience, predicted his own firing, and concluded by assuring the audience that in mere moments they would merge with the Mobb. After 20 minutes or so, I get up to leave.
Of course, now Mobb Deep’s arrival is announced and everyone flocks towards the police. Well, much to the chagrin of anyone who knows that the Mobb Deep has 2 members – three guys showed up, and only one of them (Prodigy) was actually in Mobb Deep. The not so “Littles” of the other two looked like an Aunt Jemima thug – wearing bandanas representing the Bloods and Crips and rocking a hairdo last seen on Jermaine Dupri. Littles seemed convinced that everyone believed he was Havoc (the other half, who also raps and does nearly all production work).
A minute or so into the show, Littles must have accidentally hit Prodigy in the head with his bottle of Hennessey, because he forgot all the lyrics to his own songs. Much like any good showman, Prodigy improvised – first by letting the other two guys on stage sing his songs for him – then by sucking down a glass of Hennessey through a straw.
The coup-de-grace was the adorable machine-gun sound effect that he spat into the mic whenever necessary. After 20 minutes of intermittent drum rolling, Prodigy seemed far more exhausted than the audience. Every minute or so he proclaimed to the audience “Fuck that!” When he started stumbling around the stage with his eyes closed, I decided it was my turn to sleep. I stumbled out the front door.
Sven Barth can be reached at email@example.com.
Editor’s note: If you have ever been to a hip hop show like this, take out your pent up frustrations by flame mailing the following addy: firstname.lastname@example.org. When we say flame mail, we mean go get those nerds on your hall, promise them girls, and put them to work. Rock the bells – HS