I recently spent $19 to see one of the West Coast’s most talked about emcees: Nipsey Hussle. Not only because he’s assisting Cali in thumb-stamping it’s place back onto the map of rap. But also because he was being backed by a live band and I’ve never seen a thug scat over a flute’s crescendo.
At first, I felt as confident with my attire as Dennis Rodman does in a ball gown, but after walking into a sea of stilettos, I began to feel like my Jesus sandals and second-hand sweater were a mistake.
So, as a means to distract myself from myself, I went into a texting frenzy. Instead of appearing idle, I decided that now would be the perfect time to construct elaborate text messages exploring the philosophical meanings of sewn-in weaves and push-up bras.
After several minutes of nobody responding to my theories, Nipsey finally made his entrance.
Feigning cool, I pretended like I was already bored and remained seated when he asked everyone to move closer to the front of the stage.
Nipsey isn’t too bad on the eyes. He’s pretty cute. Something like a human poodle. He had two hype men. One who looked less poodle and more bulldog and the other who looked more like a mix between fine and a long stick of butter.
I was so distracted by aesthetics that I almost forgot about the live band. Where was it?
The only semblance of live music was the lone drum set. Disappointed.
The good thing about traveling alone is that when things don’t go as planned, I need not worry about consoling whomever accompanied me. Instead, I get to risk making matters worse by engaging in a bit of social experimentation.
In this case, I pretended to be a reporter (an important one) and as such, whenever my song(s) came on, I coolly waved my hand in the air and intentionally tried not to make eye contact with Nipsey or his hype-men. Important reporters are to remain neutral. They couldn’t know that beyond my cool exterior, lied an internal woman pup waiting to bark.
However, after the hip-hop standard call and response “which song do y’all want to hear”, my woof growled. I realized that my options read like acts out of a Gin-and-Juice opera:
“I don’t give a fucc”
“Nigga I’m good”
“Mac 11 on the dresser”
Am I in an episode of The Boondocks?
Sometimes,watching rappers live is just as repulsive as watching roaches die on their backs.
Still, I give Nipsey an extra booty bump for standing on top of the monitors and bridging the physical divide between audience and performer. Although it was more like bridging the gap between penis and forehead, I still appreciate his attempt to make contact with his fans.
But not as much as the multi-ethnic college student in the front row. I was intrigued by how excited she became every time Nip Nip thrust his pelvis closer and closer to her forehead whilst rhythmically detailing the history of his penis. I don’t know about her, but I’m just as attracted to a man who’s had “hella bitches”-as Nip and Tuck so brazenly proclaimed–as I am to a man who has an extensive history with gonorrhea.
If you have yet to download Nipsey’s mix tape, The Marathon, I suggest you do so immediately and come to your own conclusions as to whether you’d date him, or download another mix tape for that matter.
For the sake of indulging me, and perhaps saving another multi-ethnic college woman from being knocked in the head by a penis, count how many songs it takes for him figure out a pronoun for woman other than bitch, ho, or groupie. Once finished, write a better blog (or extensive text message) psychoanalyzing Nipple’s plausible succession of failed relationships as the cause of his misogynist attitude reflected in his lyrics (which was really what this post was supposed to be about).