When Method Man‘s manager Seven arrives at Barcelona’s Club Razzmatazz, my girl Hollywood and I are swallowed up in the entourage and swept into the club, where Meth and Redman are performing to a packed house.
We watch the show from onstage and get a full view of their crazed Spanish fans, from the ground floor to the second floor ceiling, screaming and welcoming the dynamic duo’s stage dives, choreographed interludes, and water bottle baths. Not far from me, 2010 Latin Grammy winner for Song of the Year, Mala Rodriguez, is moving it like a video vixen in the tightest yellow and blue striped dress ever, surrounded by her own all-dude entourage.
After the show, Hollywood and I enter the dressing room just as Redman’s coming out of the bathroom. “That was dope. I needed that,” he says of the show. Method Man, normally quiet, starts in on DJ Allah Mathematics, who, it seems, has gotten pink eye. “I seen that with my daughter,” Meth says, “You put your face on the pillow, didn’t you? It be feces on hotel pillows.” I look up from my Blackberry. “Come on, son! I’m never going to sleep in a hotel again, you know that right?” He just laughs. “You heard about the bed bugs in New York?”
Above: Method Man Feels the Armor in Barcelona.
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And there began the single grimiest conversation I’ve ever participated in in my life, which ended with Method Man looking around at the international, multilingual gaggle of groupies who’d descended on the room, giving me a pound, and saying, “Out of all the girls in here, you prolly the only one that got on drawers.” Months later, I still sleep in hoodies on hotel pillows. (Thanks, Meth.)
I was born in Brooklyn and raised in Jamaica, Queens, but I’ve been living abroad, on and off, since 1998. First it was Costa Rica. As an English teacher in Limon, my students and I bonded over Mase and reggae dancehall choreography. In England, I felt guilty as my South African housemates (among the first Nelson Mandela Scholars to do postgrads there) recounted how Johannesberg youth were killing each other over the East Coast-West Coast rivalry.
In Paris, I saw French rap luminaries, Neg’ Marrons perform live. I realized that French heads would never kill over East Coast-West Coast, especially since they had their own big rift: Paris-Marseille. And after identifying myself as a fellow American to a DJ at a club in Berlin, I ended up in the booth, buzzed, mc-ing very badly, like, “Let’s rock!!” Here in Barcelona, Spain, where I’ve been based for the last 3 years, the elderly Spanish owner of my neighborhood bakery confesses that he thinks of me every time he sees the video for “Halo.” “Tu eres mi Beyonce,” he gushes. You’re my Beyonce, even as she’s about 6 skin shades lighter and a whole lot thicker.
Above: M.O.P.’S Billy Danze Rocks Barcelona.
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Beyond the foreign tongues, exotic foods and ancient cities, from kayaking in South America to yachting in the South of France, wherever I’ve been, hip hop’s been there too. At last count, over 60% of Americans don’t have passports. Whether or not Americans travel internationally, our culture does and always has. “Where we come from from, we’re supposed to just be confined to that one spot,” says Billy Danze of M.O.P. “But we’re lucky to be able to travel the world and enjoy the fans and see the passion they have for this real hip hop music.”
The duo tore Barelona’s Sala Apolo down only weeks ago on their European tour, which included France, Germany, Bosnia, Croatia and Macedonia. After the show, Billy Danze jumped off stage and shared hugs, pounds, and photos with die hard fans, most of whom barely speak English, but have memorized each and every word M.O.P. has ever spit.
Backstage I asked M.O.P. if they’re surprised by how hard their foreign fans ride for them. “It does still surprise me,” says Lil’ Fame. “But we’ve been doing this for years and years since Gang Starr first brought us out here.” That was 1993. Only half a decade before I set off for Costa Rica and was welcomed with open arms as an unofficial ambassador of the hip hop nation. Been holding my position ever since.
“Hip hop is a universal language. It’s THE universal language,” Billy Danze said. Well, hip hop and sex. But that’s another story for another time.
Above: Master Gee of the Sugar Hill Gang Makes Time for His Fellow Americans.
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Ashanti and I, Christmas Morning at the President’s House in Georgetown, Guyana.
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Spain’s hip-hop pioneer is a she: Mala Rodriguez, 2010 Latin Grammy Winner for Song of the Year.
