Matt Reed, TGP and you Pronounce the Other Guy’s Name Kwa-lee

"Consider me the entity, within the industry, without a history, of spittin the epitome of stupidity -- livin my life, expressin my liberty.”

BlackStar, Definition

Just like most white suburban kids from my generation, I grew up listening to rap music, much to my father's dismay. If my parents were guided through their adolescents by Lennon, Dylan, Page and Plant, my navigators were Gangstarr, Biggie, Jay-Z, Methodman, and the rest of the Wu-Tang Clan. I had a grunge rock phase, complete with Bush/Gavin Rossdale worship (wish I had hung on to those now chic flannels), but more then half the cds I owned from 1998-2003 were featured on BET's Rap City. I never gave up on rock 'n' roll but I was a product of the times. Hip-hop was popular culture and I was on board.

One of my favorite MC's, whom I became familiar with during this period of my life, is Talib Kweli. His album with Mos Def (BlackStar) easily cracks my top 25 albums of all-time, in any genre. When I heard Kweli was coming to town and that my friend Cliff's band, Matt Reed and TGP would be one of the opening acts I was ecstatic. I contacted my man on the inside to see if he could hook me up.

"No worries," Cliff told me via text message. "I can get you a few free tickets." Wonderful news. This had ‘extraordinary' and 'epic' written all over it. I hadn't been to a hip-hop show since I saw Kanye West in Chicago a few summers back. It really wasn't all that great; an amazing interactive stage, lots of smoke, lights and other effects. But he was the only one out there; THE WHOLE TIME! No guest rappers, no band, no dancers. Just a whole lot of Kanye, gotta love ya some Kanye ... he does. The United Center was over run with white, 14-year-old girls, wearing braces, training bras, and don't forget the Venetian blind shades. I've never looked at the man the same since ... just being himself doesn't help either (i.e. Bonnaroo '08, Taylor Swift debacle).

This would be different though. Talib was all substance, little style, as apposed to the opposite (see above). I had also been to TGP shows many times before and loved their eclectic electric funk, soul, R&B combination. We were all going to really tie one on for this.

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My phone said 9:45 when I returned home from a busy night at the country club, with a little cash in my pocket. This was a rarity, since the patrons are all members and simply sign the check to their member account, neglecting the tip box they no doubt notice when they are eating out anywhere else. My apartment was nearly full of strangers; brothers of acquaintances, and their girlfriends, a few good pals and my roommate Tony. They had been drinking heavily since six. Obviously I hadn't been as lucky, so some catching up was in order. A bowl or two was passed around and I could hear forgotten but familiar bass heavy beats coming from the idock.

The mood was being set for what lay ahead, but I barley had time to sit down. Cliff had been blowing me up since I left work, warning me that they had over sold tickets and we should hurry to Skully's or we might not get in at all. I promised him I would do a post on their show, so there was little alternative for me but to finish my beer, change, and hit the road.

It was a surprisingly chilly night, even for Ohio in early November. Shivering, I zipped my coat and pulled my collar up to keep my neck warm. The sky was very clear and I was almost able to make out the Big Dipper despite the heavy light pollution of the city, which sprawled around me in every direction like mold on stale bread. BlackStar's Astronomy was suddenly playing in my head; background music in a movie I call my life. As I approached the bar, I could see that two lines had formed.

Unsure of what to do, I called Cliff, who informed me that the line to my left was for pre-sale tickets only. The poor bastards in the right line where trying to buy their tickets at the door. They had no idea that they wouldn't even make it to the guy checking IDs. Waiting in the line which was actually moving, I noticed my friend Janis and her boyfriend, standing in the stationary line to my right. We chit-chatted for a bit and I told them the situation. They were not pleased.

"Sorry to be the bearer of bad news," I said shrugging my shoulders. "I'll give you guys a shout after." I gave the door guy my ticket and walked in, feeling like a very important person. I texted Tony and told him to hurry his ass up.

Waiting at the bar, I saw Cliff and our mutual friend Constance K. Cliff is a pretty low-key guy but tonight he was geeked up for his gig. Matching his intensity, CK was (and always is) a bounding ball of energy; ridiculously fun to be around. The last time I saw her was in Chicago, her adopted home, when I was visiting for Kanye. I had no idea she was going to be in town. Matt Reed and TGP were employing her to take some pictures for their Facebook page (fan them). In addition to being a close friend, she is a gifted photographer. All her amazing photos reside at www.eyeshotcha.com ... be sure to check them out. Tonight she was sporting a shiny, black, sequenced stretch top and stylish jeans, both of which which match her personality; a little bit of flare but never out of vogue. She hugged me tighter then my mother does and told me to order a drink on her tab. Feeling classy while jotting in my notebook, I ordered a gin and tonic and began shooting the shit with my compadres.

Facing out, with my back against the counter, leaning on my forearms, I surveyed the scene. It was a cross section of America; blacks, hispanics, asians, arabs and surprisingly high white representation. However, this is not the thing that stuck out the most in my mind but rather the fact that everyone was getting along, mingling even. We had all gathered for the same reason. This was a perfect example of what makes our nation great; the ability for an incredibly diverse population to all unite under a common cause, in this case Talib ... and in Kweli we trust.

Constance K. and I were on our own after the first round, Cliff had to get ready for his set, they were just one of many warm-up acts, pretty customary at hip-hop shows. The first group, who had just started, called themselves the Liquid Crystal Project. They were very mellow, jazzy even, with a strong Roots vibe. The drummer even looked like Questlove, minus the afro. They played some covers, in addition to originals, and scratched samples in-between.

People continued to file in; crowded wasn't the appropriate word. Teeming or squished came to mind. I felt like a spawning salmon trying to swim up stream the few times I got brave enough to try and take a leek. It was by far the most people I had ever seen at Skully's ... ever. Throughout the night, whenever I saw flashing lights drive by, I held my breath, hoping it wasn't the Fire Marshal, come to shut us down ... or worse. A vision of headlines reading 'Fans Trampled to Death at Rap Concert’ flashed before my eyes. After the first group finished up we pushed our way to the exit leading out back for breathing room and fresh air. Outside we ran into Tony and some other friends.

"Nice to see you made it," I said shaking Tony's hand.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," he responded after a long toke on a spliff.

After it was out, the three of us (Tony, Constance K., and me) headed back in. "Make a hole!" she shouted. Raising her large telescopic lensed camera into the air. She acted as our lead blocker, despite being six inches shorter and sixty pounds lighter then both of us. It was assholes to elbows now, beyond dangerously crowded. We parted the masses and made our way upstairs to the balcony, finding a spot just in time for Matt Reed and TGP.

Having seen the guys on several other occasions, I felt like this was probably the biggest crowd they had performed for yet, and it showed a little bit. They started off nervous but finished very strong. It didn’t help that a baboon was working the sound booth as well; the guy was really fucking up. Cliff and his mates took it in stride though, and still managed to kick ass. Matt Reed was the perfect frontman in his debonaire striped dress-shirt, tie, suspenders and fedora. He's got tons of charisma, and works the crowd to perfection. Jeff Trasin’s fingers danced effortlessly over the keys and turntables. His crooning voice is enough to make all the girls we... well you get the idea. Jon Hammond and Cliff’s rhymes are top notch and they all harmonize beautifully together. My favorite part of every show (besides Cliff's percussion) is when they break it down Temptations style on Still Here. The synchronized dance moves are cold as ice.

“Alright, this one is for the ladies,” Jeff said into the mic. Cue the lights, and break it down. All that was missing were the white leaser suits.

As they went through their set, Constance K. was growing more and more fidgety. She couldn't get the shots she wanted from where we had hunkered down. That would simply not do.

"I'm heading back down, to get closer to the stage," she said. We both told her there was no way in hell we were going to fight through it again. We would try to catch up with her later. Watching, as her thick mane of black hair bobbed and weaved through the crowd with a quickness and spunk that equaled the Energizer Bunny’s, we had to credit her on the tenacity.

After the set, we impatiently waited through another act, all the while pounding beers. It was well past midnight and no Talib. One of our friends, from earlier, found us and waited as long as he could before throwing his hands into the air and giving up altogether. Tony and I laughed about it later; not even ten minutes after he left the man himself came out and absolutely killed it. He started off slow, with Brown Skin Lady. From then on, the tempo picked up. Every bar was on point; sharp as knives. The speakers were just right (guess the sound booth got its' shit together) and the speed of his cadence, which I never truly appreciated until I saw him live, was mind blowing.

The Brooklyn based MC did 10-15 bars form his Reflection Eternal hits like: The Blast, Move Somehtin, This Means You and Down for the Count ... all at blistering speed. He even did his parts from some BlackStar songs. The crowd was supremely hyped and no one seemed to be angry about the lack of personal space anymore. All my feelings of worry and impatience melted away. During Definition, Tony's favorite song, I noticed he was standing up on the bar’s foot rest, supporting his weight with his hands in order to get a better view. He was totally shitfaced and enjoying ever second of the show. Surprisingly, no one fucked with him, including the bartenders.

"I can see everything from up here!" he shouted over the bass. He stayed perched up like that the rest of the show. At a break in the action, Kweli addressed his fans.

"I've been in Ohio a lot recently, working on my new album with Hi-Tek (a Cincinnati based producer)" he explained. “Actually, I just drove up I-71 to get here tonight and I seen a lot of heads, between here and there, who love hip-hop. Who's got love for hip-hop out there?" He asked. We responded with ruckus cheers. "I can’t hear you! Ya'll gotta let everyone know how ill Columbus Ohio really is!" He dropped Get By next and everyone had a conniption. After a few new tracks he addressed the crowd again.

"If it's alright with you guys, I'm gonna spin a little after the show. Stick around for the after party, with your man, DJ Kweli."

This was fucking amazing. Talib Kweli DJing the after party? I could only imagine how jealous all of our hip-hop head friends would be. He spun classics like Anti Up by M.O.P, and Biggie's Who Shot Ya? ... ( not to be confused with www.eyeshotcha.com ... seriously, check it out). We danced with some random chicks we saw on the floor as the crowd slowly thinned out. Before we knew what had happened, it was after 2 a.m. and the flood lights were on. Everyone who had looked attractive five minutes ago was now rendered hideous by the unflatteringly bright white lights. We were pretty soaked with sweat ourselves by this point, being up close and personal with a couple hundred strangers will do that. We closed our tabs as C.R.E.A.M by Wu-Tang Clan banged out behind us.

On the walk home, in-between drunk high fives and some street meat, we discussed the events that had transpired. It was easily the best hip-hop show either of us had ever seen and we were thrilled we waited it out till the end. Matt Reed and TGP had won over Tony as well and we looked forward to seeing them perform again soon. We tried to get ahold of Cliff and Constance K. but we were really in no shape to entertain more guests. We made it back to the apartment unscalthed ... for the most part.

"My fucking hand is totally numb dude," Tony kept saying. "I can't figure out why, I hope the feeling comes back by tomorrow." I tried to explain to him that it was probably from supporting his weight the whole time he was on his bar rail perch. Luckily, he would be fine, but for two days after he had no feeling in it what so ever. “Totally fucking worth it,” he kept repeating. We fell asleep on our respective couches fully clothed, TV blaring and all the lights on. And we wonder why the electric bill keeps going up.

Although I truly love (almost) all music, hip-hop will always have a special place in my heart and Talib reminded me why that night. No matter what you grow up listening to, it will forever be the music you associate with your youth. Elvis or Tupac ... it’s really irrelevant. All that matters is that it reminds you of a simpler time, when your biggest problems were how to finish your algebra homework and where you were going for open lunch. When I think back fondly of my time skipping class through the halls of Gahanna Lincoln High, I will always have songs from the Sound Bombing 2 LP and other Rap City classics to provide the soundtrack. We are all products of our environments and whether you’re a white kid from the burbs or (insert your choice of minority) from the inner city some things ring true either way... like a love for good music.

- J.R.

***Be sure to peep Matt Reed and TGP’s latest at ... http://www.youtube.com/thegreenplan

The Night I Met a Ruthless Cunt and Other Old Hallows Eve High Jinks

"She'd love to leave for some place all alone, and she'd love to live far from every face or name she's ever known ... No, I can't say I blame her."

Heavens, Dead End Girl





Halloween is a lame excuse for a holiday once you're past puberty. Honestly, what are we really celebrating? Isn't it just another angle for Walmart to push more products onto us that we don't really need? Look honey, a giant inflatable spider and witch's cauldron. Is it an excuse for college coeds to dress like hookers, and parade themselves around town, auditioning to be the next date rape victim? Let me guess, you're a slutty nurse/cop/fireman/sailor/catholic school girl etc, etc, etc ... not that I'm complaining.

Purists would say it's the one chance we have every year to be someone else for a few days. Better yet, the opportunity to live out some fantasy that's been festering in our skulls for the last eleven months. The parties are always fun anyway. I used to give a shit, and even tried to get into my characters. One year I spent $60 on a Pope get-up, which was a real crowd pleaser, depending on who you asked at the party. I blessed the house, door, table, toilet, the Jagger bombs we were drinking, the various girls I was trying to hit on ... pretty much anything I came into contact with. Some people were definitely offended. Maybe it was the part where I told them I'm actually Jewish and this was the closest I would ever get to accepting JC as my lord and savior.

"Don't worry, New Castle is kosher," I told everyone. "Now let me just bless this chip dip, incase it's been compromised by Satan. The power of Christ compels you!"

This year, the Thursday before Halloween weekend, I had purchased a bare bones pirate costume at Yankee Trader ... real original, I know. For just under $8 I got an eye patch, plastic sword, false gold tooth, and Jolly Rodger wrist band. I added to the look with a pair of old, very worn khaki shorts, a red bandanna, sandals, and a soiled looking, long sleeve thrift thermal. I ripped a spare dress shirt into a vest and wrote 'Captain Plunder' on the back in sharpie to relieve any doubt about my intentions. Shooter bought a flight suit at the Army Surplus store, which was a little tight in the crotch("Totally splitting my pins dude"). He threw on some Aviator shades and called it 'Maverick'. A pilot and pirate, quite the pair; taking the night by air and sea.

On the evening of Friday the 30th, the two of us headed to a house party in German Village. Upon walking in, we immediately scarffed down two Jell-o shots each. We played water pong (it was BYOB, so you just drank some of your beer when someone hit a shot ... lame). The host was a friend of a friend. I was really there to see the latter. Her name was Tatiana, and she fancied herself a writer as well. She loved to discuss only the important things, like literature, music, the arts ... or the finer points of a frosty pint. She was average height, very tan, with dark brown hair and steely blue eyes; definitely exotic looking. She was of Russian decent, but I guessed Italian when I met her for the first time. She was also the type that couldn't be bothered with a costume. When I was still in Gahanna, living with my parents, we often met up for drinks at Butter's. It was a sleazy local joint, in the armpit of a strip center, nestled amongst an aging apartment complex. It was the perfect place to meet welfare moms, divorcees, and local yokels that I had been trying to avoid for the four years I spent away at college. The only reason we went there was because it was where all the restaurant people in the area went, and we were both servers. It really is a post in of its self, but I'll save it for another time.

The party was fun enough, but most of the guests seemed to be old friends. We polished off most of the case we brought and had more then our share of shots, but we still didn't really feel at ease. I knew the host, Tatiana, and Shooter. Shooter knew me ... and that's it. He isn't really the outgoing type, unless he has to be or someone else takes the lead. I found myself shaking a lot of hands, guessing costumes, and having contrived conversations. My favorite look was Ash from Army of Darkness and his zombie fiance. Soon we realized almost everyone was engaged or already married. Even Tatiana was there with her boyfriend. Great. So we were at a couples party. Awesome. The older I get the more I find this happening. It's certainly a far cry from the shindigs I used to frequent at the University of Kentucky. Some fucking party; let's talk about wedding plans, babies, and what type of wall paper we're thinking about for the bedroom. No thanks. We decided to call it a night early; tomorrow was the real deal anyway. Highball was going on right down the street from our apartment, and it was at the top of our to-do list.

***************************************************

It was chilly in the apartment when I awoke the next morning. We had windows built sometime before WWII, and it showed, badly. As a result drafts came in and out easily. In the summers, when I tried to open them, chips of lead paint the size of quarters popped off, no doubt spraying particles into the air for me to breath; definitely not up to code. My room also faced east, with only thin blinds over the large and ancient edifices, protecting me from the harsh sun during one of my favorite past-times, sleeping in. I was becoming an early riser against my wishes. I have never been mistaken for a morning person, especially when I've been up drinking until 2 a.m. the night before.

Rejoicing on a rare Saturday off (and Halloween to boot!), I pulled on my favorite sweats, hoodie and prepared for a tough day of laying on the couch. Shooter and I knew we wanted to go crazy later, but after smoking some pot we just bummed around the house most of the day. Tony was in Cincinnati visiting friends so it was just the two of us. We watched college football and enjoyed being slovenly and unshowered. Of course the highlight was OSU rolling over New Mexico State 45-0. I loved shut outs the most; defense was always my favorite part of any football game. Shooter's brother Mike stopped by to get a bite on his way back to Chillicothe. We were forced to shower and change, much to our dismay.

We planned to walk the length of Highball; to check it out and find a place to eat. We weren't going to bother with costumes just yet, since Mike didn't have one. The block party was literally right outside our front door, but they still expected us to pay $5 each to 'get in.' Pay them for inconveniencing us; the people who lived on this street, who had no parking for the weekend, who had to deal with a couple hundred extra assholes hanging around. Technically I was already in when I exited my apartment. If I wanted to walk to a restaurant down the block that was extra. Cover for a block party? Screw that noise. We decided to head further north, towards the Gateway, where we had a less than stellar chain-restaurant sub.

After Mike hit the road, it was almost ten, and we hadn't really started drinking or done anything resembling getting ourselves together for the night. We were supposed to go to a costume party in Clintonville, but we kept putting it off and false starting. We wanted to go out, since it was Halloween and all, but the pot made every task seem impossible and unworthy of the effort. That, and it's harder to bounce back than it used to be. Staying out till 2, mass beer and liquor consumption, and poor late night eating habits are a recipe for disaster. Hangovers have a funny way of sticking around now. Five years ago binge drinking three or four days in a row was nothing. Now, going back to back nights was twice as difficult. Finally, by quarter til eleven we were costumed, buzzed, and in route to the party.

Bethany and James were good friends of mine from high school. They started dating after college and recently gotten a place of their own. It was an older house, in good condition, with an up town area code. They had put a lot of work into it; remolding, wallpapering, painting ... the whole nine yards. There were beautiful hard wood floors and contemporary furnishing in most of the rooms. It was a preconceived notion these two would be the next to get married. I had actually run into the pair at a mutual friend's wedding the week before. See what I mean about couples, their parties, and me lately? It's enough to make any single, 25 year old reevaluate things.

Our hostess was 'Flow' from the Progressive Car Insurance commercials and James was dirty laundry, literally ... wearing a specially rigged hamper, cheap and clever. There was an 80's kid, someone claimed to be Lady Gaga (gag), the Twitter Bluebird made an appearance and a few weren't in costume. It was fairly low key, compared to the other party, but I knew everyone there so I was having fun. I found myself losing track of the time as I caught up with old friends. Sometimes it's just like that when you go out; you get a late start and before you know it the nights almost over. In classic shitty roommate fashion, I forgot Shooter knew no one, again, and was probably not having a good time. Before we left our place, he had implored me to make it a quick trip so we could make it back for the end of Highball.

Unfortunately, I had dropped the ball. By the time we got back to our place it was 12:30 and everything was winding down. At least we could wander where ever we pleased without having to pay anyone. Unsure of what to do, we walked into the nearest bar, which happend to be Circus. After a few visits over the course of the past several months, I had officially designated it a Goth bar, for better or most likely, worse. Nothing wrong with stepping out of your comfort zone though. Halloween is Christmas for Goths and everyone there seemed to be in the spirit. The lady working the door was Gene Simmons, with full face make-up, body leather, and spikes. Almost everyone inside was in costume ... or maybe they weren't. Shinny latex, piercings, and heavy eyeliner abound, three hundred and sixty five days a year there, but this was taking it to another level. The musty smell of sweat, alcohol, and bodies rubbing filled the air. I tried not to touch anyone as I made my way to the bar.

"Excuse me Matey," I said in my best pirate voice, pushing my way through the mass of humanity, feeling my costume was very pedestrian in comparison.

While patiently waiting our turn to be served, we noticed a girl sitting next to me that was surely fresh out of Tim Burton's wet dreams. She was pale and tiny; maybe 5"3, part Punk, part Goth, and heavily tattooed. She wore a tight pink Patten leather corset, black Patten leather mini skirt, and five inch thick, knee high, combat boots. Despite the black lipstick, shellacked eyeliner, and skunk stripped wig, she was very attractive, in a living dead girl kind of way.

"I like your costume," I said. "Who are you supposed to be?"

"What the hell are you talking about," she barked in a surprisingly gruff voice. "This isn't a fucking costume."

Well, this was going to be interesting. We introduced ourselves, and she said her name was Victoria. She was the manager of a campus area all-night eatery and a regular at Circus. All her tats were memorable (like the fairy pissing on a rock or the cat pooping in a liter box) but the one that catches your attention the most was the one on her chest. Honestly, I couldn't make up shit this good if I tried. Right there on her sternum, just above her breasts, where Superman wears his S, were the words 'Ruthless Cunt' outlined in pretty purple flowers. Blam! For the world to see. Now if that's not a conversation starter, I don't know what is.

"It's actually a group on MySpace," she informed me, after I asked the obvious questions. "Me and my bitches just roll around doing what we do. We just don't give a fuck." The whole time we were talking she was digging in her butt/crotch, pulling out cocktail napkins, wadding them up, and nonchalantly placing them on the bar in front us, before retrieving fresh ones to replace those she had dislodged.

"What are you doing?" I asked, a little taken aback.

"No panties," she replied casually. "Not worried about leaving a twat spot or anything, I just don't want this seat giving me crabs."

She said this as if she spoke from experience. Before I could delve any deeper, (which I hadn't really planned on doing), the unknowing bartender came by and picked up the pile of napkins with his bare hands. In shock and awe of the events that had just transpired, I was unable to warn the poor bastard. I sat there for what felt like thirty minutes; at a total loss for words, which believe it or not, doesn't happen to me often. Shooter was totally dumbfounded as well. She threw back the shot of Wild Turkey we bought for her without batting an eyelash, hocked a loogie, and spit it on the floor. There was no 'thanks' or 'nice meeting you' as she promptly stood up and strut her way to the dance floor; a ruthless cunt indeed.

Industrial house music and pasty, misogynistic ecstasy users were starting to get the best of us. It was time to be on our way. As we walked south, Shooter seemed to be pretty bummed about missing Highball. I told him not to fret; we still had time to make up for it. Just then we were passing Skully's and I could hear a band playing. On a whim, I asked the smokers standing by the entrance what the cover was. Batman informed me admission was free. No cover Saturday night, with a band playing, on Halloween? The gods were showing us favor, we would be fools not to take advantage.

The place was packed with every type of costumed hooligan. Even the band was dressed up: lead singer as a clown, lead guitar a wizard, bass player a Beetle (not sure which) from the Sgt Pepper's album cover, violinist a witch, and a second guitar player as some sort of swinger but in retrospect I'm not sure that was really a costume. They called themselves the Spike Drivers, and they were jamming the fuck out. It reminded me of a cross between Phish and Stevie Ray Vaughn, with other flavors sprinkled in. Later we found out the band was comprised of local musicians from other bands, a Columbus all-star group if you will. They truly had a little bit of everything: drums, bongos, three guitars, harmonica, an electric stand up bass, and an electric violin/fiddle.

"Weeeellllllll, I'm built for comfort," the clown sang. "I aiiiiinnnnnntttt built for speeeeeeeed."

He came out with his acoustic, and harp on a neck harness for a slow track that reeked of Bob Dylan, much to my delight. We had worked our way to nearly the front by then, and I noticed he had a snake skin guitar strap, very bad ass. Shooter was floored by the skills of the Wizard and the Swinger, who began to duel via guitar solos.

"These guys are the truth man!" he shouted over the noise, almost giggling with delight. His smile was a mile wide. Mission accomplished Maverick.

Drunkenness had taken over from that point on. We hippie danced to the beat like the rest and headed out after last call. Overall I felt the night was a success; another Halloween in the books ... although, with each passing year they have begun to lose their luster. As a child I lived for the sugar fuelled feast that came at the end of October. As a young adult I reveled in the drinking, debauchery and false decadence that presented itself as a great ass in tight, red, boy shorts (slutty devil anyone?). But I find myself at a crossroads now. I grow older, the parties grow staler, and everything just becomes an excuse to get drunk. The magic has gone but we still buy (or make) a costume, dress up, and act a fool, because what other choice do we have? After all it's a holiday, right? Or is it a sham? Either way you make the most of it, even if you miss the (High)ball.

-J.R.