Number Two (4 page)

The Gang continued to smoke away while Robin snapped his pictures. When he was comfortably satisfied that he had captured enough photographic evidence to put these guys behind bars where they deserved to be, Robin signalled for us all to sneak away in the opposite direction so we could make our escape. Then after school we would quickly get these pictures developed at my dad's drugstore and bring the photographic evidence to the appropriate authorities, probably the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

Just as I put my hand down to slowly and quietly prop myself up and leave, I heard a voice—the most terrifying voice I had ever heard. Menacing, ominous, it came from one of the Leather Jacket Gang, the one with his back to us. He didn't even turn around when he said:

“You guys are gonna get it.”

We had been caught, and now there was nothing to do but panic.

We all sprang up in unison and ran, screaming at the top of our lungs the entire time.

All the way down the hill we ran, pushing aside tree branches, stepping on leaves and dog shit, practically falling all over each other in our attempt to flee the scene. It wasn't exactly every man for himself, but if you were to have witnessed us emerging from the trees that day you would have assumed we had all been held against our will in those bushes for weeks and had just now found our escape. That was the level of unbridled terror in our eyes. Our fellow students looked at us like we were completely and totally insane.

We sprinted to the doorway of the school and ran inside toward our home classroom, where Mr. Galonka would surely appreciate our tale and keep us safe from the pursuers who were about to be exposed to the entire world for their drug use and general bad influence.

But there was no one behind us.

No one
.

They hadn't even bothered to chase after us. They just didn't care. They were happy to put the fear of God into us and that was that. They went on drinking their sizzurp and smoking what was likely one of their father's cigarettes. It probably wasn't even dope.

We had never really gotten a good look at their faces, so we had no idea who they even were. There weren't many kids wearing leather ties at that school, but there were plenty of twelve- and thirteen-year-olds wearing bad leather jackets. We never did find out who the real Leather Jacket Gang was.

After that embarrassing conclusion to the investigation, we wisely closed up our detective agency and the Dopebusters became nothing but a memory from those few weeks in grade five when we suddenly became the least cool school kids in North America.

G
rowing up, my father didn't make me do many chores around the house, but my one regular responsibility was mowing our one-acre back lawn about once a week during the summer months in Alberta. (For those not from Alberta, the “summer months” are May to August, and maybe September if you're lucky. Truthfully, they may just be June to August. Okay,
just
August.) I actually enjoyed mowing the lawn because I would throw on the foam-covered headphones, slap a tape into the Walkman, and groove out to some of the hottest hip hop sounds of the day. This being the late '80s and early '90s, that would include such seminal releases as Big Daddy Kane's
It's a Big Daddy Thing
;
Digital Underground's
Humpty Dance
; Public Enemy's
It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back
and
Fear of a Black Planet
;
A Tribe Called Quest's
The Low End Theory
;
N.W.A's
Straight Outta Compton
and
Efil4zaggin
;
and Beastie Boys rivals 3rd Bass's
The Cactus Album.
I was into hip hop at an early enough age to have
regularly listened to MC Hammer
before
“You Can't Touch This” (the
Let's Get It Started
album) and Sir Mix-a-Lot
before
“Baby Got Back” (the
Swass
album).

When it comes to hip hop's all-time greatest MCs, I'm often disheartened to see Big Daddy Kane fail to get mentioned with regularity. Maybe it's because he simply faded out of the spotlight. I was somewhat disappointed in Kane's
It's a Big Daddy Thing
follow-up,
Taste of Chocolate
,
but there was one hilarious song on the new album called “Big Daddy vs. Dolemite” where Kane traded increasingly profane barbs with the '70s era Blaxploitation comedian. The song was so foul that it shocked even me—and I was listening regularly to Andrew Dice Clay at the time. I once made the mistake of forgetting to eject the tape out of the deck in my father's 1990 Chevy Silverado, which we used to deliver prescriptions to the local nursing homes in town. When he drove home that night he got into the truck, turned the key, and at full volume heard Dolemite say something about wanting to take out his shiny dick and tear up some lady's old grey ass. I can just imagine how shocked and borderline frightened he was after a day of counting pills and dispensing advice about enemas. My father never really paid attention to the music I was listening to. He didn't seem to listen to music at all except for perhaps the soundtrack to
Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat
.
So I was seriously taken aback when Dad stormed into the house that evening shouting, “What the heck is that music you were listening to in the truck? Pretty foul!” He was not amused. I didn't even know what he was referring to until the word “Dolemite” was uttered. The situation could have been a lot worse—I mean, I could have left a 2 Live Crew album in the truck.

2 Live Crew was a four-person group started by Miami impresario Luther Campbell that made waves with their pornographic rhymes
as opposed to the gangster rap world created and cultivated by the likes of N.W.A. Their entire debut album,
As Nasty as They Wanna Be
,
was like an audiobook for an African-American pornographic film set to programmed drum beats. Their huge debut single, “Me So Horny,”
was an exercise in nuance and subtlety. Naturally, I was a big fan. So much so that when my friends and I got word that 2 Live Crew was opening for Tone Loc at the Dinwoodie Bar at the University of Alberta, I begged my father to drive us all in to see it. Amazingly, he agreed.

The Dinwoodie was not a regular concert venue for the likes of my friends. We had pretty much been shackled to Northlands Coliseum where the Edmonton Oilers played. That's where Edmonton hosted stars of the day like Poison, Bon Jovi, Skid Row, and yes, Janet Jackson, who busted out some serious moves in a Martin Gelinas Edmonton Oilers jersey on her
Control
tour.

The Dinwoodie was an altogether different venue. It was for all intents and purposes a bar with a performance stage that often hosted improv comedy shows. The bar did host a few concerts from up-and-coming indie rock bands and Canadian acts, but it was a somewhat strange choice for the performers of such blockbuster hits as “Wild Thing” and “Funky Cold Medina.”

The pairing of Tone Loc and 2 Live Crew was very strange in and of itself. 2 Live Crew was the biggest purveyor of filth in the day, the target of Tipper Gore's censorship campaign, “Parental Advisory” stickers plastered all over their tapes and CDs. Tone Loc was about as vanilla as they came. No one was fooled by his “Wild Thing” video and the subject matter of the hit song. This was a fat, lovable, mostly agreeable fellow who wasn't out to offend anybody. In other words, he was absolutely
not
cool. He was a Top 40 rapper—even this hip hop loving prairie boy knew that. I didn't own his album, and I had no real desire to see him in concert. But
as soon as I heard that 2 Live Crew was opening for him, the tickets were purchased over the phone and plans were made to drive into “the City” to see these crazy Floridians for ourselves.

We were actually not that used to general admission concerts. The venue was one big room with a stage at the side. All my friends were fairly tall, and we quickly realized what an advantage height would be for us at general admission concerts in the future and how much of a disadvantage that would be for those who stood behind us. We shimmied and squirmed our way through the mass of white, pimple-faced Edmonton hip hop fans toward the stage until we were standing directly in front, blissfully unaware that our eardrums were about to get their first real test of limitless programmed drum beats and profane hip hop shouting. We were young and full of stamina, and we knew the words to every ridiculously foul number on the group's hit album,
As Nasty as They Wanna Be
.

Then we waited . . .

And waited . . .

And waited . . .

At first, we kind of appreciated that they were a little bit late; it gave the crowd an excuse to come together in encouragement—everyone started cheering and chanting, “2 Live Crew! 2 Live Crew!” But by the time a full hour went by, the crowd was starting to get restless, and by the time the second hour went past, that restless crowd was genuinely starting to get pissed off.

But even more than anger, that crowd was dying of thirst.

I had never been part of a group that was packed that tightly into a venue before. I hadn't paid attention as I was blissfully making my way to the front of the crowd, but as minute after minute went by with no sign of the group anywhere, I started to take notice of my surroundings. I was packed in way too tightly next to my friends,
and everyone was starting to sweat. No air conditioning, lights blaring on the stage as two massive African-American security guards stood next to each other, arms folded, staring at the crowd. I wasn't craving anything to drink when I arrived at the Dinwoodie, but after that second hour went by every bit of hydration had finally left my pores and I desperately needed something—
anything
—to quench my thirst.

As two hours became two and a half, we began to wonder if the group was going to make it out onto the stage
at all
. At that point I would have literally traded my friends next to me for a sip of water—warm, dirty, it wouldn't have mattered. My lips and throat were so dry I stopped trying to make small talk with anyone around me. I stood helpless as the larger of the two security guards walked out from behind the curtain carrying a big bottle of aqua, which he proceeded to drink like he was an extra in the movie
Flashdance
, pouring the water over his head, as we watched, desperately wishing he would take pity and spray the crowd with his own cold spit. Five minutes later he came out with two more bottles of water, which we thought was some kind of ridiculous practical joke, and then proceeded to spray the crowd as we cheered in relief.

Word began to circulate through the crowd that the plane carrying 2 Live Crew, Tone Loc, and their respective posses had taken off late but had since arrived. Those of us new to the concert scene imagined all of them sprinting off their private jet on the tarmac of the Edmonton International Airport into a waiting stretch limousine.

“Step on it! We've been keeping hundreds of Northern Alberta hip hop fans waiting!” Tone Loc would shout to the driver, who would weave in and out of traffic at high speeds like a real-life game of
Spy Hunter
. Alas, like so many of my concert dreams that night,
the concept of the artists rushing to a venue when they were late was also a pipe dream that was about to be shattered.

Moments later the water-soaked security guard once again came to the front of the stage to initial cheers that soon turned into jeers when he announced that “2 Live Crew are now eating their dinner and will be taking the stage shortly.” Eating their dinner? Couldn't they have grabbed a few tacos from Taco Time on the way in? Patience was wearing thin. No one was under the illusion that Edmonton was a spot on the map where hip hop artists were going to perform with regularity, but still, those would-be gangsters were really trying our patience.

A half hour later, three full hours after they were scheduled to take the stage, DJ Mr. Mixx, one of the founders of the group, walked out to the turntables, and the crowd let out a relieved and desperate cheer. Finally, 2 Live Crew was about to hit the stage! But first we were treated to a special added bonus, presumably because we had waited for such a long time with such patience. Two neon-green-and-orange-bikini-clad African-American statuesque beauties strolled out on stage to start gyrating to the beats the DJ was laying down on the turntables. It was a sight to behold for a kid from the Canadian prairies. In those days, seeing an African-American woman in Edmonton
period
was something of a rarity, but seeing two wearing clothes that barely covered their unmentionables temporarily made me forget that I had just spent the past three hours sweating out all my bodily fluids. Pink tongues wagging, big booties gyrating, fingers tipped with long, recently manicured fake nails cupping their massive, silicone-enhanced breasts, shaking them like maracas. This was pretty much worth the price of admission alone, and the group hadn't even taken the stage yet—they were still backstage tucking into a late catered dinner, likely pierogies prepared lovingly by a small group of Ukrainian
babas
.

Finally, 2 Live Crew sauntered out to the performance area. They greeted the gyrating dancers with a few slaps of the ass, and the crowd, being both relieved and desperate to tell their friends they had seen some actual hip hop in “the City of Champions,” let out a thunderous cheer. The whole group was there: Fresh Kid Ice, Brother Marquis, and the group's lead rapper, producer, marketer, and all-around guru, Luther “Luke Skyywalker” Campbell—all of them presumably well fed and ready to perform to the best of their abilities. The opening sample that kicked off “Me So Horny” began to play over the loudspeakers—audio taken from a scene in Stanley Kubrick's
Full Metal Jacket
in which a Vietnamese prostitute propositions an American soldier.

The dancers hopped up on the two massive speakers on either side of the stage and we were off! Campbell was up first, and I was immediately blown away by the accuracy of his rhymes. It was almost as if he was
too
precise. It was almost as if he wasn't rapping at all. It was almost as if he was lip-synching.

And that's because of course he
was
lip-synching.

He was mouthing the words to a recorded track.
Is this how it is at all hip hop concerts?
I asked myself. I tried to pass it off as a group not quite warmed up and ready to perform. Perhaps the next tune would give them a chance to show off their considerable South Florida rhyming skills. Meanwhile the two gyrating dancing girls were distracting us from the fact that we had spent three hours waiting to see four dudes lip-synch. The two girls were definitely earning whatever money they were being paid, bent over directly in front of the stage as Campbell and his cronies took turns playing slap the bongos. Not only had I never seen a booty shake like that, I had never seen a booty like that
ever.
I smiled at my friends, who were equally mesmerized by the display.

After the final beats of “Me So Horny” had played, the entire
crowd roared in satisfaction. It was fairly obvious we were being duped here, but everyone was just relieved to be getting some sort of a show instead of slowly dying of thirst. DJ Mr. Mixx dropped the beat on the next track and we were off again. The nasally voiced Fresh Kid Ice had the first verse on this one, but this time he didn't even bother to mouth the words. We could hear the track on the speakers, the dancers were still gyrating to the very best of their abilities, but Fresh Kid Ice just stood there with a goofy look on his face, as if to say: “Whoops! Oh well, we already have your money anyway.” Even a group of prairie kids who were just happy to be there had seen enough. A chorus of boos began to rain down on the filth peddlers from South Beach. But rather than become petulant about it, the Crew tightened up their act and finished strong, turning in as good a lip-synch performance as I had seen, leaving it all on the stage, holding nothing back. We had been robbed of our money and time, but we still cheered when the group walked away.

Sensing our impatience, Tone Loc came on immediately after the Crew was done—and he actually performed live, rapping into the microphone and performing awkward, choreographed dance moves that looked like a seniors' underwater aerobics class without the pool. Tone Loc was a big, heavy man, and he truly looked like he was moving in slow motion. The requisite hits were performed satisfactorily, but two neon-bikini-clad dancers were pretty hard to follow. Not to mention that even though most of the people in the crowd probably had Tone Loc's album, few of them had likely listened to it more than once all the way through. By that point, we had also spent five hours standing, dancing, and booing in a space best described as a really, really cheap and disgusting sauna. The night ended mercifully, and my poor father met us outside. I can't imagine how bad we must have smelled as
we climbed into the back of his Chevrolet Suburban for the hour-and-a-half journey home.