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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Rock The Bells Is Saving Hip-Hop

Before I start off, let me get one thing off my chest:

Rocking a hoodie and a pair of fake-ass stunna shades to the desert is not hip-hop.

Now, for all the shit-talking, eye-rolling, negative chit-chatters who bellyache about hip-hop being dead, I’ll address you all with one simple line:

If you don’t go to any of the Rock The Bells concert stops, take two of deez and go play in traffic.

Not to sound like a Stanley (but let’s face it, I am), but after seeing the various pictures from this site and others around the cyber-world, I can’t remember the last time I personally have been gassed up for anything, aside from the time my mother gave me back all of my Game Boys she had hidden from me over the years the night before I moved out of her house.

Not to mention this was the third concert I’ve ever been to, excluding the free ones that pop up throughout my city the MTV Campus Invasion three years ago in college, when my friend's brolic-ass homeboy punched out some hapless YT during Talib Kweli’s performance. The best (or morally damning, depending on your perspective) part about that concert was when said friend jumped on the stage during the freestyle competition, spat a line comparing his opponent’s rhyming career to Aaliyah’s plane crash and was booed off that fucker quickfast. What makes it worse was that while I was in line waiting to get an autograph from Talib, the woman in front of me turned out to be one of Aaliyah’s cousins. Needless to say, I didn’t get her phone number.

The thing that gets me is the overly-apparent lack of Black people that come to these events. Including the RTB show I went to two years ago, the only Blacks who attend this shit were myself, Brillyance, the rappers who perform and their weed carriers. That may have been a good thing though; in that intense heat and with those expensive prices, Blacks are known to fuck shit up at the drop of a dime.

So what tickets ran you almost $90, and one beer cost about as much as a twelve-pack in the supermarket. For an all-day festival packed with almost 20 acts, two stages, a huge open field (where I caught one couple fucking on the fence, which is pretty disgusting considering the fact that most people baked in the sun for a good 8 hours, but whatever), guys getting shitfaced in the entrance line and passing out before entering the venue, huge-knockered women with their chests all out, positive energy, Rage Against The Machine-inspired mosh pits and cracka-ass crackety cracks jumping through bonfires, if you decide to go see the Scream Tour (where tickets are roughly the same price) to be around a shitload of smell-bad teenagers shrieking for motherfucking Lloyd of all people, you are the reason hip-hop sucks.

Well, you and Southern rap.

Shout outs go to those that stopped by the booth copped a shirt, mixtape or just showed love. Extra shouts to J-23, Shake, Lexx, Brillyance, Cazi (is that how you spell it?) and Andres as well. The revolution will not be televised.

***

And bugging out to Rage Against The Machine is hip-hop.

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