Artists: 50 Cent, G Unit and Soulja Boy

Venue: The Foothills Stadium, Calgary, AB, CA

What can truly be said about 50 Cent that hasn't already? The rapper and his eight bullet-wounds are quite possibly the strongest symbol of this rap generation's ethos, and in so being, 50 Cent has had the chance to disseminate his story everywhere from his own movie to an episode of The View I watched once because it was a boring summer day because I have no friends because I do silly shit like watch The View. This is why it's hard to review anything 50 Cent.

On the other hand, the experience of being smash-smash-sandwiched between some way-too-hot party princesses, their way-too-aftershaved boyfriends and a way-too-flimsy fence serve only to make it clear how unsettling this sharply overblown image of 50 Cent is; if everyone knows everything they need to about him, and information regarding his career has seeped so far into our collective subconscious, what can he possibly do to surprise us? And since so much of rap depends on being suprising (or at the very least, shocking), why is he still so relevant? Nevertheless, he remains thug-loved, which is like regular love but with baggier pants and more posturing. As I try to soak in the show, this puzzle gets bigger and bigger until it's just too big to solve, so I take a walk.

“Juh-juh-juh-juh-juh...” I am interrupted in my stroll and considerations by some fans in the stadium seating. It seems harmless enough, so I engage them with a confused stare.

“Juh-juh-juh-juh-juh...” I am meant to be figuring something out here, but it hasn't quite hit me, so I keep staring.

“Juh-juh-juh-juh-juh...” It finally hits me.

“G-Unit!” I exclaim, happy to have figured out this snippit of rap-concert protocol. It's not good enough, though, as my interlocuter merely frowns, dismissive.

“Juh-juh-juh-juh-juh...” Now wait a second here. I already got this one. What's the dilly-o, vanilly-o?

“G-Unit,” I grunt out with my head aimed down and the half-hearted expectation this might make the situation disappear.

“Juh-juh-juh-juh-juh...” He hasn't quite let it go, and something else pops into my mind.

“Juh-juh-juh-juh-juh...G-Unit!” I excitedly give it one more go, and I'm surprised to see my new friend smile and offer me ups! High-five time!

As I am walking away from this brief but confusing intermezzo, it suddenly becomes clear: 50 Cent is exactly as overblown as he wants to be. Viewed from the larger context of the hip-hop genre, in fact, 50 Cent is exactly as overblown as he has to be.

Follow me for a second here. My friend and his silly catchphrase illustrate an important part of what they call the rap game, and that is its focus on character. Characters have been important to rap since the outset. After all, before Flava Flav had (and subsequently lost) his strong politics, he had a retarded giant clock pendant.

To start exploring foundations and assumptions is the earmark of age in a genre, as in a person. If we follow rock through its midlife crisis in the 70s and 80s, we are forced to admit that, yes, it is highly produced, and, yes, often quite silly. Listening to Captain Beefheart or trying to understand the motivations of David Bowie, for instance, might make your head spin a little, but it was such discordant and intelligent acts that paved the way for the emergence of punk and new wave and helped procure a continuing seat for the genre in the spectrum of musical styles.

And if we follow the production line leading from early rap to 50 Cent, we see the same sort of pattern emerging. NWA was by most accounts one of the most important political acts in hip-hop, relying on character as a means to deliver the message. The success of NWA launched Dr. Dre's solo career, which was visibly much more focused on his character and production than the message. This was one of the hey-days of rap, when gangsta was a well-writ theme and the best recourse for visiting it was through reference to the lifestyle of the rap producer. Dr. Dre in turn funded Eminem, whose goal seemed to be an exploration of the divide between the gansta persona and the actual personality of a hip-hop icon. 50 Cent was Eminem's project, representing the logical conclusion of this line of inquiry: if his story is to be believed, 50 is the epitome of gansta, a rapper whose character and politics are intimately intertwined and inseperable by construction.

50 Cent and his group, G-Unit, say a lot about the current state of hip-hop. Their acts show that the medium itself is at a crisis point, though only because it is growing up. With crunk stars like L'il Wayne and David Banner being more indicative of what's currently en vogue in the genre and Wu-Tang affiliates like Ghostface Killah drawing heavy attention from the indie crowd, it's a pretty safe bet that rap is at its most confused these days.

Just like rock, which in the height of its existential dilemma, compartmentalized and broke into a billion billion (billion) subgenres, rap is no longer capable of being just itself and must find the all the different ways it fits in. Examples of this have already occured; last year Kanye “I'm Jesus, Please Love Me” West challenged 50 Cent to a sales-off, claiming that 50's music (fun, airy club music with a gansta bent) was irrelevant in the face of his much more intelligent, well produced brand (he actually meant “enormous ego”). The dispute went nowhere, which is, of course, exactly where it belonged in the first place. After all, there are enough fans in the world to listen to both 50 and Kanye.

This is why 50 can be as overblown as he wants. This is why 50 must be overblown. If rap is ever to find its larger place, it can't afford to ignore that overblown is something people want. If 50 Cent were to attempt to switch styles tomorrow to be more like Kanye West's vision, well, that's just not very honest, is it?

The concert ends, and I'm left to ponder. What, if 50 Cent represents the culmination of one of hip-hop's greatest self-studies, is next? But the answer to that, too, was in the concert. For even if 50 seemed to be phoning it in sometimes, unenthusiastically belting it out, there was much to be said about his guests. Lloyd Banks, G-Unit member and the newest solo career from the 50 Cent lineage, boosted the energy in his own way with catchphrases and ruminations on the pot-smoking habits of the crowd. Soulja Boy, despite giving me no roadmap on how to do so or even means of interpereting what the phrase meant, really made me want to supahman a ho or two.

The lesson here is that even when it doesn't offer a sound explanation why, rap will continue. More to the point, it will continue in the same enthusiastic and bouyant fashion that has always made it so easy to dance to, to imagine, to like—if not moreso. And if, in the meanwhile, it feels a little lost and the gangsta threats start feeling a little hollow, well, they were never all that full to begin with. Rap is learning, just as I did, that the characters aren't always there to push some heavy message, that sometimes they are there because damn it feels good to be a gangsta, even if just for a night. And for teaching me that, Mister Cent, you get a tip of the hat. Good show.

       

Written by :

Chip Dingo