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Filthydelphia Meets the Dirty Dirty

To our consternation, Diplo's Rothko performance eschews East Coast Hip-Hop.

by Douglas Passion | 2005.03.12

Despite the feeble protestations of crestfallen Hip-Hop purists, the age of conventional break-beat science is behind us. Like converted worshipers of wood nymphs and giant stone deities with sloped foreheads and bone-threaded nostrils, anyone previously grousing about the lack of East Coast aesthetic in contemporary Hip-Hop should now tout the syncopated rhythms of 65 bpm as their new God and sacrifice mules accordingly. File that chicken-scratched copy of The War Report for the 1997 time capsule and remember to use the phrase “son needs to holler at Large Professor” only in irony. Remember that “Illmatic” refers not to a vintage effort by a future Megan’s Law degenerate, but to that magical moment of creativity when Lil Jon, Luda and Ursher all slide their Phantoms up to the same wood-paneled ATL studio.

“No shit, simpleton,” you bleat. That Southerners and Midwesterners drawlingly dictate the course of music is no platter-eyed revelation to anyone remotely familiar with the offerings on the FM dial, MTV or SoundScan. But take a quick cripwalk down memory lane back to the early ‘90s, when chino-clad G’s with jheri-curls dripping White Castle juice on their flannelled shoulders ran everything similarly. With the exception of a few dudes like Masta Ace and Brand Nubian (who concocted dismally watered-down versions of G-Funk), New York responded by cementing its grimy aptitude and unleashing arguably some of its most brilliant material. The truth is this: as long as labels continue to consolidate in small empires under Midtown Manhattan skies, New York rap ain’t going anywhere. But this isn’t about New York’s impact on Hip-Hop as a whole, friend. This is about the stagnation of the East Coast sound.

It was on Thursday, March 10th, while awash in a torrent of overpriced Budweiser, that this conclusion slapped Young Passion in the back of the head. Rothko (116 Suffolk @ Rivington), an LES venue usually more hospitable to indie rock than rap shit, was flooded with scenester-types happily shucking out $12 to enjoy the selections spun by Diplo, the DJ from Philadelphia’s Hollertronix cabal. Para-sailing atop a tsunami of publicity from an URB cover and his romantic/professional relationship with Tamil Tigress-du-jour M.I.A., Diplo’s set is an amalgamation of Dirty South Shit, Reggae, Garage/Grime, Brazilian Dance music and pretty much anything you can think of -- except East Coast rap. As an AV-controlling sidekick worked two projector screens flittering with images from Mr. Teeth and the 9-11 Qaeda jumpoff, Diplodicus wheeled his way though sequences such as Sister Nancy to Destiny’s Child to Prince to Slim Thug. Note: Homie did look a little simpish when one of his CD-players went on the fritz (prompting well-deserved boos), but the temptation to lug a solitary Case-Logic CD book instead of six record crates is understandable.

Although the frequency of facial hair and puffy bombers with fur-lined hoods rises dramatically when the city of brotherly love is in the building, a hardcore Hip-Hop crowd this was not -- and a spotting of Fabulous Julien seemed imminent. These were mostly white kids with prancing on the agenda that packed Rothko to asphyxiating and unintentional-frotaging capacity. So it shouldn’t be taken as an absolute indictment of NYC’s Hip-Hop failings when a downtown party with an Illadephiatic DJ only traipses gingerly into local territory in the form of night-closing numbers from Juelz Santana. Still, when our region can’t crack the rotation of a dance party until final call, it’s a motherfucking shame. We just have to figure out a way to do it without riding the sweaty-ass nuts of those filthy Red State inbreds.

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