Clipse, Making Missing TAL all Worth It

Tuesday was a difficult day for the city of Boston. How frequently do you find yourself having to choose between the Clipse and This American Life? More importantly, how do you choose? Pusha or Dan Savage? Malice or Kori Gardner? The Reupgang or Ira's Gang? The Middle East tried to mitigate these concerns by adding a Monday Clipse show several weeks out, but it was too little, too late for those who'd already bought tickets to the sold out show on Tuesday night. The concern on everyone's face inside the club was palpable; they'd all been pat down before entering the downstairs area, with the obvious fear that people would pull out Ira Glass-style wigs and glasses halfway through the set in some sort of flash mob protest.

DJ Low B's set did nothing to dissuade those concerns. He spent the first half hour spinning a tired enough reggae beat to earn catcalls, and while he picked up over the next hour, the crowd treated him like minor league baseball.

That crowd, by the way, was one of the fascinating aspects of going. Clipse' status as Pitchfork's favorite hip-hop group puts them on mixtapes and on torrents that other MCs never get to. (Hell Hath No Fury Getting an XXL from XXL Magazine doesn't hurt, either.) Unlike most shows, you would have found it nigh impossible to pick out the people walking down Massachusetts Avenue who were actually going into the Middle East. The crowd that did make it in, though, was a pretty chewed-up mix of backpackers, underage hipsters (Clipse has your All Ages back), and people who were flat out strictly there to see the Clipse, guys who couldn't recognize a single sample in the two hours of DJing before the Clipse set but who knew every word off of Fury.

Clipse (and the accompanying Ab-Liva and Sandman, which joins like a Power Ranger with Clipse members Malice and Pusha-T to form side project Re-Up Gang) gave it to everyone for cheap. Halfway through "Momma I'm Sorry", Malice's face suddenly contorted into this crazy, maniacal grin and he stared out into the crowd for thirty seconds; everyone had no choice but to return it. Hands in the air, trying to look cool, nothing -- people were giggling, half in anticipation of enjoying the rest of the set, the other half in anticipation of bragging to their friends about being four rows away from the most charismatic man they'd seen on the downstairs stage in years. When was the last time indie rock made you that happy? The Opera House had nothing on us, and hindsight felt glorious and clever. This was one of those great shows that make the ten other awful ones you go to worth it.

Image courtesy of Ben Sisto and his hundred or so other photos of the two nights of Clipse on Flickr.

Post contributed by Bill Barnwell