TUESDAY NIGHT LIVE

Good JESUS! Your homie, THE UNDERWRITER, must have gotten overthrowed last night, because I have a mean linger right now and can’t understand why I’m so hung over. Honestly, I was surprised at my coherence and comprehension during my weekly phone convo with Mom this morning. She hits me once a week, early in the A.M., to talk politics, life, love and dreams. Mom is the truth. Matter of fact, shout to your Mom.

But lest we forget, your homie was/is throwed like a horseshoe last night/this morning. So, I’ll let that “journalist” idiot, Michael Jordan, fill in for me on this one. I’m going to have a warm, leftover Corona and two cups of hot white tea to soothe my bubbly stomach. Then I’m going back to bed, bitches.

Take it away, MJ…

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(This is why I prefer to go out on Tuesday nights in Atlanta. You wouldn’t expect it, but this is when the Atlanta crowd is at its best.

First of all, you have a certain limit to your fun. You won’t get too crazy, because it’s still early in the week. Then, it’s like an insider thing. People come into town on the weekends in Atlanta, just to trick off a G stack and say they balled out in the A. It’s almost worth the following week of no electricity and no food, back home in Guntersville. On a Tuesday night, the cool kids know that you don’t have to spend any money besides gas and maybe drinks, so we have our fun when the OT crews are away.

Only a few clubs charge a cover on Tuesday, and those that do are definitely worth the price. My favorite club in Atlanta, THE MARK , which used to be Karma, always charges admission. The few times I remember walking in without paying, I felt like the Shogun of Harlem. It’s a rarity. But I still get “the freak ghost” when I go there, because of wild experiences in my early twenties.




But this night, I forsook The Mark for other options. After such a dead Monday night, I figured I should at least give it another shot. Luckily, Atlanta does have options, so last night there were three spots that I planned to hit after work. First was Café 290, located not far from me on Roswell Road. Next was the Brand Nubian concert at The Loft in Midtown, and last would be D’Jango’s.





I got off work and went right to another local wireless bar, to eat some fish and spaghetti and drink two Sweetwater drafts. After getting the preliminary business accomplished, I changed clothes and headed to 290. I’ve been there before, but it’s one of those spots that’s so remote that you need directions every time you get invited. When I got there, there was an artist’s showcase going on, promoted by my homie Rodney from Huntsville. On the low, Huntsvillians are making moves in Atlanta; back-and-forth scramblers. Only one artist performed – a cute female with a nice body and a decent voice, with enough courage to sing fearlessly. I actually clapped when she finished each song. Plus I met this cool-ass nig named Troy, who went to Morehouse and knew some of the same industry people I’ve worked with. I roffled (look it up) when he bristled at some chick who asked axed him to sponsor her Long Island iced tea. Dude is like the new Robin Harris, down to the look. A great comic; he needs his own HBO special.




R.I.P.


After doing the polite networking thing, I got bored around 11:45 and bounced to The Loft. Brand Nubian (that’s Grand Puba, Lord Jamar and DJ Alamo – Sadat X is still in jail) had an RSVP-only, Scion-sponsored show, and I figured I'd come see if they could still bring out the faithful NY crowd in Atlanta. Unsurprisingly, the camouflage and hoodie crowd showed up en masse. I wasn’t mad, these dudes deserve some down south love. Nolo.

I arrived right on time at midnight, to see Brand Nubian take the stage and go through some of their catalog classics, like “Punks Jump Up to Get Beat Down,” “Love Me or Leave Me Alone,” “All for One” and Grand Puba’s, “I Like It.” Cool vibe. The tri-state crowd was definitely feeling it. Me being 5’6”, I wasn’t trying to fight my way through the sausage fest that bum-rushed the stage, so I sat in the back and took in the whole scene. I wanted to hear “Don’t Let it Go to Your Head,” “Steal Ya Ho” and “Slow Down,” but by the time I hit the $20 minimum for using a credit card at the bar, I was tipsy enough to be tired of hanging out. Plus, I was a little tight about this lame, up-north skeezer, who had the nerve to drop a balled-up napkin right in front of me on my table, while I was writing notes for this very blog. This hooka damn near reached over my arm just to put her trash in my face. I almost went Dipset, but in the name of national cultural understanding I let it go without calling her a chicken-head beeaieeatch to her face. Chivalry ain’t dead.





Seeing Brand Nubian in concert in 2008, in Atlanta, is like seeing OutKast in New York, ten years from now. You love it, because you remember the music and long for that feeling when you instantly loved the songs, but you feel sentimentally sad that this era is no more. It’s a reminder that Hip-Hop really may be dead, but as long as we’re here to celebrate the past and move into the future, we’ll always have fond memories. And on a different note, I prefer to see Brand Nubian - the whole group - than a three-the-hard-way version(nolo). It's true that I used to get upset with Sadat back in the day; he had a habit of coming slack with his rap game, but at least he brought raw energy to Grand Puba’s swagger and Lord Jamar’s 5% theory overload. It was a masterful equation.

So, free Sadat X, I guess. Bring back that good music in Hip-Hop. Support out of town rappers who deserve praise and recognition. And drink Sweetwater beer when you’re in Atlanta, because it’s a local brew and it’s good. Don’t forget to bring your own joint when you go to a rap show, because cats are stingy with theirs. And don’t think that Atlanta has nothing to offer you New York niggas. We’re international, and we still appreciate the pioneers of the game, even if y’all don’t.)


And that’s what you call a good night.


[Young Michael Jordan]