162. De La Soul
Roundhouse
10 March 2017
One of my best pals, whom I have mentioned many times in the pages of this questionable endeavour, is a highly committed metalhead. He won’t mind me saying that. It is part of his DNA that formed the foundations of his teenage musical awakening. Whilst I found the likes of Japan and Numan as my entry points, Iron Maiden, AC/DC and Sabbath were his. Different front doors, same outcome. So, you can imagine my confusion when he was the one that lobbied to go see the band that taught us rap didn’t have to be angry to be revolutionary: De La Soul. Hip hop?
I quickly did a mental FAST check for any visible signs of a stroke and, finding none, relaxed somewhat but remained curious. Turns out 3 Feet High and Rising had wormed its way into his teenage soul and never quite left. What a revelation. I was in.
I had accidentally seen De La Soul a few years back. When me and my crew had joined a new mega US firm. We did so on a wave of success and as a newly minted, imported team, we were the golden boys for a while. Part of the charm was that we were a bit gonzo, at least by big firm standards. One of the events we ran, that became insanely popular was to the Cartier polo at The Guards Club in Windsor.
This was at a time when this was still exclusive and hard to get into, so had some cachet, but the real event was our access to after-party wristbands to the China White marquee, again, back when this was full of A-listers, landed gentry and supermodels. It had become the event marked on the calendar for many of our business contacts.
Back then the car park was filled with battered Volvos belonging to the Second Earl of Farquar, each decorated with mud, labrador paw prints and latent class anxiety; the sort used to transport their gun-chickens around the estate, or something like that. But over the years, it shifted. The car park started filling up with white Range Rovers, the loafers became sock-less, the spray tans deeper. The Essex set had infiltrated.
To keep with our gonzo image, we moved to the Jodie Kidd afterparty, still exclusive enough to make you feel like you’d crashed a Vanity Fair spread, but essentially a marquee in a field serving Verve Clicquot. It was there, on the tiny stage, performing to a dancefloor populated by three hedge-funders and a model secretly eating canapés behind the speaker stack, stood De La Soul. The pioneers of Daisy-Age hip-hop, serenading a field full of tipsy aristocrats and bankers in pink chinos. It was, without question the strangest private gig in my history, a hip-hop masterclass delivered to people who thought Trugoy the Dove was a polo pony.
Now, the Roundhouse isn’t your typical hip-hop venue. But tonight, it’s transformed into a block party. When Posdnuos, Trugoy the Dove, and Maseo hit the stage, it’s like the years melt away. They may now be hip-hop’s elder statesmen, but they move with the joy of kids on a summer’s day. There’s no posturing, no attitude, just that infectious De La grin. From the opening blast of “Me Myself and I,” the crowd’s bouncing like it’s 1989 and the only pressing issue is which bucket hat to wear tomorrow.
De La Soul shows aren’t gigs so much as communal celebrations of everything good about music. The setlist hopped between eras “A Roller Skating Jam Named ‘Saturdays’” and “Stakes Is High” still landed like manifestos, and the new material from And the Anonymous Nobody… proved they’ve still got more ideas than most acts half their age.
The vibe was pure joy. You could feel the years of goodwill in the air, everyone there had grown up with these guys, and somehow, they’d managed to grow with us. There’s no nostalgia act here, just a group still pushing, still playing, still making everything sound fresh. As an encore, a clearly highly drugged-up Damian Albarn arrived on stage and they proceeded to perform a Gorillaz number to mixed success, given Albarn was so off his tits, he seemed to be two verses ahead of everyone else.
However, by the time “The Magic Number” dropped, it was pure euphoria. De La Soul are still the coolest band in the room. They had done what they’ve always done best: reminded us that hip-hop could still be fun.