Noise: SFBG Music Blog - Feeling one's bones with Ghostface Killah and co.

By Chris DeMento

One can't help heaping expectations upon a show like this - the Nov. 2 appearance by Brother Ali, Ghostface, Rakim, and the Rhythm Roots Allstars at Mezzanine: three big-name emcees, a 10-piece backband, a sold-out venue. It turned out to be fairly low-key evening, what with all the civility, the smoky supplication of so many mature hip-hop fans.

Brother Ali opened with a lot of righteousness, hyped Rakim and Ghostface, validated himself, then closed with a very clean, very tight freestyle. Ghostface made the most of his well-recognized Fishscale material and turned out some welcome oldies: 30 seconds of "Daytona 500" satisfied a craving that had been gnawing at me ever since some asshole ate my Ironman disc like eight years ago. Likewise, Rakim's third-act performance called up more memories for me: the fragment of "Mahogany" he played was a real treat, same with versions of other decades-old rhymes like "Microphone Fiend" and "Don't Sweat the Technique." I was sated, but I can't say I was exactly inspired by the music. Despite the spot-on efforts of the Rhythm Roots Allstars, who did a thorough job of imagining all the live tracks for each of the three MCs, it sounded like the same old hip-hop you knew and loved - the same old hip-hop that you still know and love, but at a greater distance.

Not to say old is bad... just old. Ghostface himself asked the crowd how many thirty-somethings there were in attendance, and the crowd returned a roar that probably shouldn't have come as a surprise. Then he encouraged all to remember the late ODB, taking pause to reflect on the "'All I Got Is You' days." This sort of nostalgia helps preserve the history of the art form. Indeed, much of the show seemed suspended, freshly dipped (thanks to the band), in a glass jar of formaldehyde labeled "hip-hop classic."

Nevertheless, trips to the museum are important trips to make: Rakim turns 40 soon enough and still rips the microphone effortlessly. Ghostface is the killer, after all, and has another solo album about to drop. He wore 50 pounds of leather and precious metal and didn't break a sweat. Amazing. It's just that I saw my own reflection as I looked sideways across that glass jar, found a history that's longer, maybe, than I care to admit.

This show is bound to get rowdier the farther east it travels, but it won't get any younger, and I must admit that part of me is waiting for hip-hop on the whole to undergo some kind of heavy mid-life crisis for me to live through, vicariously, as ever. Better it than me. And for the time being, if chance has me in Philadelphia at the end of November, I'll be at the Trocadero for the Hip-Hop Live Tour finale.