bring the noyz

Friday night I went to church, in a manner of speaking. Le'me tell ya my brotha, was there ever a whole fucking lot of preaching to the choir.

Public Enemy.

Where to begin?

Well for starters, I could begin by talking about how kick fucking ass it was to be out in the world, going to see the PE with a forty and a fatty along with Bishop Groove, a past present future collaborator and co-conspirator.

I could begin by trying to describe the grooves, the rhythms, that incredible gahdawful wailing wall of DJ generated noise that is awe inpiring to exerience as it demands your attention?

I could describe how the S, the S, the S1-W's looked a little larger as they did their militaristic dance steps than when I last saw them, but it has been 15 or so years. I too am a little larger.

I could describe Flavor Flav celebrating 48 years of age and two decades as the the crowned clown prince of hip-hop.

I could try to descibe and grant justice with my meager words the staight talk and the true speech of the Gospel According to Chuck D. He knows the son of a bad man when he sees one.

I don't really know where to begin.

And I don't give a rat's ass how you might try to characterize it. The group fucking still rocks harder than anyone on the streets today.

However, I do think it odd that Flavor Flav seems content to remain the jester and has expanded this role beyond the stage. Somewhat ironically he transforms into what PE has always preached against. Like some kinda anti-Chuck, he becomes another puppet dancing on strings for the entertainment and enrichment of The Man in those VH-1 "reality" series. Why he would chose to do this, I have no clue. Perhaps the drugs are better. I've watched the shows so I know it ain't the women.

Actually, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that it was all part of some master Public Enemy plan to extend their demographic and market their music to new audiences. Use Flavor Flav, the happy puppet to lure those who only know him from the awful "reality" shows. Like Brigette Nielsen, I'm sure they all "love the little black man". I can imagine several conversations that went a little like this:

"Why look Buffy, I see in the paper that some old rap group called Public Enemy is playing an outdoor show for SXSW. Aren't they from the '80's? Hey, isn't the Flavor Flav guy from that cute VH-1 show in that group? He's funny, we should go, it's a free show!"

"Oh, yes my darling Biff, maybe Miss New York will be there! We really must go!"

And so they go and they stand there for a few minutes politely listening to what they were expecting to be some classic old-school radio friendly hip-hop that they vaguely remember from their junior high or high school years.

Instead they are treated to obscentity laden chants ("Fuck George Bush! Fuck Dick Cheney! Fuck Tony Blair! And Condaleeza too! Fuck the war! Fuck the war!") nestled between anti-government raps ("I got a letta from the government the other day. I opened and read it. It said they was suckas").

That's it Chuck, lure them in. Then let them have it, a verbal brick right in the face.

I personally witnessed at least one Ken and Barbie couple leaving in disgust not soon after the show began.

Of course that could have had little to do with the actual music. Maybe they were just annoyed that Bishop Groove and I were standing right behind them slamming tallboys and word for word not singing, but quite literally shouting along with every song.

(Whatever the reason for their hasty departure, that accidental strategy worked to our advantage several times that night and allowed us to work our way up through the crowd nearer and nearer to the stage.)

But as for Chuck D. . . Suckas to the side, his uzi still weighs at least a mother fucking ton.

And with the opening lines of the inspiration of this humble jounal's name I entered a ecstatic state of mind that can only be characterized as some sort of cosmic pure mental energy orgasm. Ah, ah, ah, aaaaaaahhhh. . .

Okay that last bit might be slightly embellished.

Or maybe not. I'll never tell.

And well, I had an interesting revelation.

Chuck D. is still one angry pissed off mother-fucker, and still louder than a fucking bomb.

I am not.

This was interesting because I realized that my youthful anger and idealism has faded. It has been replaced with what some might refer to it as "maturity": a sense of jaded and disillusioned cynicism about the world and how it operates.

I guess that's okay. Really now, at who or what shall I attempt to rewaken and redirect the misspent anger of youth? My beautiful wife? My amazing child? My new home? My illustrious career?

So I guess what I'm saying, my dear reader, is that I am still very much fighting the power.

Just not as hard as before.

After awhile my shoulders get sore and my back starts to ache.
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