The Urban Lounge
SLC fans throw up their heads for Wu-Tang member GZA
The house was packed full for this show, everyone from tall-t thuggish-ruggish-gangstas, to tight pants fashion kids and dirty rotten skate rats were there. Ws flew high as the crowed chanted, “Wu-Tang Clan aint nothin to fuck with! Wu-Tang Clan aint nothin to fuck with!” The lyrical mastermind GZA the genius was about to burst on stage. He hit the stage rhymes a blazin’, the crowd pushed up close to the stage and threw their hands up high, bumpin’ and bobbin’ with the beat. Lighters sparked and clouds of blunt smoke blew into the air. I guess security was looking more for guns and knifes not joints and pipes. Puff puff pass. I tried to break into a cipher, but was immediately shut down. With some 500 people jammed into Urban it felt like an underground Brooklyn basement show. GZA controlled the crowed like a hypnotist with a verbal onslaught of rhymeology. His stage performance was cool and collected. He didn’t jump around in a frenzy riling the crowd up with fierce extravagant body movements. Rather, he kept it lyrical using the power of the spoken word to drive exhilaration into the crowd. His mind was sharp – no stuttering, no hesitation, no pausing in his rhymes even when spitting freestyle lines.
Unfortunately not everyone in the crowd was as well spoken and colleced as GZA. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted one of our photographers on assignment documenting the show. As he maneuvered through the pack of people digitally capturing the essence of the show a delinquent derelict turned and started harassing the photographer for taking a picture with him in it. Aggressively claiming that his PO would bust him violating his parole. The photographer cordially agreed to delete the photo on the spot. However, the beligerent boozehound did not believe the photo had been deleted and kept up the harassment. All of his cronies started to surround the photographer giving the almighty alcoholic the confidence to rise up and snatch the camera right from the photographer’s hands and place it securely in his pocket. Even with the ferocious fuck-tard pack pushing and shoving the photographer and telling him to leave there was no possible way he was going to give up his hard earned gonzo styled photojournalism. Just before the skillfully trained photographer unleashed a violent barrage of furious Shaolin fists like a classic five-on-one kung fu-movie scene a Samurai princess tough like an elephant tusk caught sight of the muther fuckin ruckus and flew in head rushed like an Egyptian Munk to rattle their spirits and lay rest to the pointless quarrel. Poisonous blue eyes and seductive blonde locks subdued the lamerbrained lemmings into returning the camera.
The show raged on the crowd never lost interest. GZA never missed a beat or slipped a rhyme. As a matter of fact he was so quick-witted in his lyrical madness articulating rhymes with double and triple meanings that it became hard to keep up, what is he talking about where is he going. The red lion over-saturated my belly. A foggy haze of cigarette smoke replaced most of the oxygen in the venue. Things became blurry my head felt fuzzy I had to escape the crowd for a breath of freshness. I wasn’t the only one feeling this way some 30 plus people congregated out front for the last verses of the night. Outside I could still catch the sound system blaring loud enough to hear the show from the doorway. The last line flew from GZA’s mouth, the beat dropped and the crowd went wild nobody was dissatisfied with the evening’s exposition. It was a spectacle well worth the dimes and dollars of an admission ticket. Next time GZA rolls through SLC don’t let him ninja vanish before your ears can catch a glimpse of his performance.