Chronic passes through the air and when the bouncer warns anyone smelling like weed will not be let in, a few discreetly smell themselves. Others drink cheap Lucky beer to get drunk early with less expense. A crazy motherfucker known as “T”, a.k.a. Taren Melathopolous, freestyles some mad rhymes in exchange for a small token of fame. Outside the Tequila nightclub the atmosphere is ripe with excitement for The Beatnuts rap extravaganza. There is general agreement of The Beatnuts’ fucking tightness-for those already loving The Beatnuts you will love them even more live and if you are aren’t a rap fan you can just nod to the beat. They aren’t called The Beatnuts for nothing.
The show is loaded with several opening acts, namely our own Dragon Fli Empire, starting it all with some high-energy hip-hop. Their lighter brand of rhymes and rhythms puts everyone in a good mood and builds the anticipation for the main event. Also of Canadian stock, Concise and Checkmate rap to a beat with a flat, though it could just be their weak rhymes. Heralding from Detroit Rock City, the infamous Royce Da 5´9?fills the smoky club with the guns, drugs and booty everyone has been lusting for. The sound system experiences difficulties, so Royce compensate with some freestyle accapella. The novelty is of greatest excitement and the smell of weed sticks to the air.
After a pudgy crew of white men in glasses correct the electronics problem, the Latino crew of most awesome proportions, The Beatnuts, take the stage. Composed of Psycho Les, a.k.a. Lester Fernandez, and Big Ju or Junkyard Ju-Ju, a.k.a. Jerry Tines, the duo stays on point for the entire night with a performance of solid gold. The rhymes are sufficiently clever and catchy, without being too superfluous or heavy. Their beats are similar to their recorded counterparts with some remixing by Psycho Les. Despite the bare amount of scratching or interesting mixing, The Beatnuts have an ability to engage their audience on an extra auditory level, a level of super mind-body involvement.
Regardless of the Monday night fatigue, most people take their second wind signified by the nodding of heads and bodies. Big Ju is supercharged with a marvelous charisma and steez. The ladies in the house shake themselves unremittingly on stage. One over-anxious birthday girl with the dimensions of a shaky twig and skin the colour of uncooked sausage, wiggles herself about like an anemic worm on stage. Fortunately, it’s the only unpleasant moment of the entire performance.
With hands in the air, people of surprising variety united by music, the universal equalizer, grove to the powers of mind and body filtered through the energy of the show. Whether a rap lover or an occasional indulger, The Beatnuts put on a show many should be sad to have missed. Perhaps Big Ju put it best: “This shit is so damn hot hot.”