It’s been a while since I’ve donned the ol’ pith helmet to engage in some good ol’ fashioned anthropology. However, this weekend my erstwhile grief counselor and now lawfully wedded wife Caroline (pictured below) and I travelled up Highway 17 to Wilmington, North Carolina to catch her friend Edie Senter in an all-female DJ contest held before an Ice Cube concert.
The only other rap performance I’d attended was a Ludacris show at a multi-stage street festival, so I was curious if Ice Cube might offer a more diverse subject matter than Ludacris’s narrow obsession with “bitches” and “hos.”
We had VIP tickets, which allowed us a perch above the groundlings and provided us with easy access to refreshments in a semi-enclosed area. Edie’s husband Dustin, a club owner and impresario, hosted us as we took in the sights and sounds of the celebration, part of Wilmington’s Azalea Festival. After the event, he took us to one of the clubs for some further late empire partying.
The MC in charge, a fellow whose name I didn’t catch, provided some fairly entertaining tunes but suffered from that common malady of radio personalities, an unassailable love of the sound of his own voice. In addition, he had the tedious habit of extolling the audience to raise the decibel level of their responses.
“I can’t hear you?” etc.
Anyway, I especially enjoyed Edie’s performance. Beaming 100-watt smiles while bopping to the beat, she clearly loves spinning,
Here’s a way too short snippet.
If there were a God, Edie would have won instead of coming in second, but the flawed Queen-for-a-Day applause meter reckoning had her ending up in second.
I thoroughly enjoyed Mr. Cube and wish I had been familiar with his work. When I mentioned to my 40-something pals at school I had been seeing the former founding member of NWA, they started gnawing their arms with envy. Once again, this snippet in short and at a distance.
One last peek into the dangerous life of an ethnologist from the one of Dustin’s clubs.