(image via streetlogik.com)
“Are You There Concert Gods? He’s here, Wiz Khalifa”
A concert is only as good as the audience’s energy. No matter how spectacular the shows bells and whistles may be, the fans lie at the root of an unforgettable performance. In fact, most megastars known for their live shows (everyone from Prince to U2, Tina Turner to Guns and Roses) are also recognized for their impressive and die-hard fan base. From the now cliché ignited sea of lighters swaying to the beat to pumping your Roc Nation symbol in the air, the relationship of an artist to their audience is the most important element to a good show. Wiz Khalifa’s concert at the Masquerade in Midtown this past Saturday proves that we may be able to place his name amongst the Concert Gods one day.
The hankering for this relatively un-famous artist was perhaps too palpable in the Blues House-type venue. From the back of the bar to the front of the stage, Atlanta’s university youth swarmed the congested dance-floor littered with beer bottles and North Face fleeces. The crowd, slightly resembling the moshpits of Hair Bands’ hey-day, became so suffocated that one wide-eyed, petite concert-goer silenced the room when she erupted, “ Can everyone PLEASE back the FUCK UP? We can’t breathe in here!”.
While I couldn’t have agreed more with her candid suggestion, I found that the origin of her (and everyone’s) breathing problem were a bit more organic. The air above us was emblazoned with clouds of gray smoke wafting the pungent fragrance of marijuana throughout Masquerade’s sizeable building. Despite the aggressive “No Smoking” signs which greeted fans at the door along with large bearded bouncers, kids clad in camo and leather jackets hugging the shoulders of their vintage tees lit their joints, dutches and pipes, illuminating their glassy, red eyes which were later conspicuously disguised behind Ray Bans and black eyeliner.
This attitude persisted near the bar. Just as opener Yelawolf’s set came to a close with a parade of boos, the eyelids of a boy suddenly grew heavy. When those closest heard the thump of his skull against the wooden floor, they turned around to find the young man convulsing—only the whites of his eyes were visible. He was then awakened by his friends, handed a bottle of water and resumed his apparent party-hard philosophy for the evening. For those stunned by what they just witnessed, a giggling group of girls gnawing on chicken fingers and gulping Red Stripe in motorcycle boots and heeled clogs assured them “He’s okay! Seriously, I’ve seen that happen like 3 times tonight. Everybody is going so hard!”.
After a mildly entertaining display of the DJ and Hype man’s mixing skills and call and response engagement with the anxious and impatient crowd, Wiz Khalifa finally hit the stage. At that moment, roars of enthralled cheers and eagerly reaching hands sent chills down our spines. Pittsburgh’s latest rap music import controlled the crowds sing-a-long to older favorites like “Never Been” and “This Plane” and newbies like “Black and Yellow” with every bouncing of his lanky arm, the mic nestled closely to his mouth.
The front row gazed excitedly as the tall Wiz, dressed in a heather gray crewneck, dark denim and trademark black and yellow cap, pointed with every flash of his middling light display. The artist seemed to look indistinguishable from the crowd he so compellingly commanded. Looking at the mass of Khalifa loyalists amidst his energetic and intimate performance, it would seem the pit of youth who had passed out and imprinted their thumbs with ashy lighter tracks were the essence of Khalifa’s lyrics.
In Wiz’s “Mezmorized” world where he has “ one of [his] baddest bitches rollin’ up” while he “continue[s] to smoke and remain G as fuck”, his go-hard fans would seem to fit in just fine. And the master of ceremonies wouldn’t have it any other way, ending his reign on stage with a heart-felt “ I love y’all, man” while his gaunt labyrinth of tattoos muddled beneath a coat of sweat glistened amongst a thunder of applause and shouts.
Concertgoers made their way towards the exit in a daze. As stomps of heels and sneakers created a patter-beat behind the faint singing of audience members not yet ready to leave the party, five girls sat on the front of the stage. Their combat boots and bony knees swinging carelessly beneath them, the girls were already reliving their concert experience, which included some time backstage. “I can’t believe we were that close” one girl recounts. “ Seeing him from back there was like watching a completely different show. I felt like he was performing for just me! Everybody just happened to be in the front,” remembers another. “Best. Concert. Ever” comments one girl laying back on the stage, her voice raspy and dry. “I still can’t believe we didn’t stay in that room! We would have been right next to him and all of us could have had him,” remarks another referring to their collective plan to sleep with Taylor Gang star.
Groupies? A crowd resembling a moshpit? Blackouts and weed smoking? With all of these elements in one show at the Masquerade, I fear for when Mr. Khalifa makes it to Madison Square Garden. It would seem that fast-times and the “live or let die, party, get high” mentality instilled in Khalifa’s audience revealed an awakening within this rap fan-base. A mentality, or rather, a way of life, where in youth, drugs and a carefree spirit are the highest commodities. Hippie-rap maybe.
A new idea? Not really. An unexpected revival of this idea? Certainly. Wiz Khalifa proved this past Saturday, if nothing else, that he has a large influence over those who are touched by his music. And judging by the night’s turn-out, he reaches a lot of people for being relatively un-famous in comparison to live show legends. Perhaps his recent, very public arrest in North Carolina, in which police confiscated over sixty pounds of marijuana from his tour bus, is just what Wiz Khalifa needs to finally catapult into his much-deserved, much-anticipated role of superstardom. Is his throne ready, yet?
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