The Camp + Apathy - Middle East Upstairs (Cambridge, MA; Apr. 12, 2008)

If ever there were a show aptly described as treading water in a sea of retarded sexuality and bad poetry . . . .

It’s important to remember, when reviewing a show from the front row, to look behind you. Sure, the fellas in the front center (the guys in the wife-beaters! side-cocked hats! gold chains!) may be having an excellent time, their minds blown by such lyrical brilliance as “Is everybody fucking pumped to get fucking drunk tonight!!?!?!?!” But, what about one row behind them?

For my very first hip hop show at the MidEast Up, if you ignored the front row, the dangerous amounts of self-indulgence on stage, and the sweat flying off of the continuously belly-showing, bleached-hair-tossing stage-door Suzie, it was exactly like a Tuesday night emo show. Once passed the first row, it was your usual tennies-examining, shaggy-haired scene, immovable, immobile, unimpressed. And while I certainly agree that 66.6% of the evening was not just forgettable, but probably took years off of my life in its badness, even a Cambridge Hipster should have been able to rock out a little bit for Apathy and The Camp, through whose record release party’s FOUR OPENING ACTS we were certainly suffering. Thanks, I suppose, to Leedz Edutainment for the lineup (what, Premier wasn’t available? THAT would have been something).

Ok, I think it’s best to dispense with each opener first, and we’ll just get that out of the way.

1) Mastapeace. Setting aside the choice of name DANGEROUSLY CLOSE to that of Yg. Percy Miller (Master P. to the kids). Setting aside the limited creativity of their lyrics ("Whoda fuck is this!?” x30). While The Camp’s excellent DJ spun in the background, our two heroes spat from the front of the stage, tangling their mic cords as they stumbled around each other, guzzling Bud Lights. BUT, redemption: a guy in a tiger mask stood worthless on stage. Seriously. So, you know, totally worthwhile.

2) Rite Hook. Good name. Mmhm.

3) Oak Lonetree. I actually came into this show having listened to and not-disliked Oak Lonetree. Sure, there’re those ridiculous forearm tattoos (you’ll recognize him in the last shot from the Joe Budden show). But he does have the non-faux-confidence of a good MC, he struts no more than he has to, and his lyricism is improving all the time. I’m actually going to surprise myself and say that his opening set was not a complete waste of life. Not that I’d go see him as a headliner, though.

4) XL. I actually forgot that XL performed. Perhaps enough said.

5) During Apathy’s all-too-short set, I’m pretty sure I saw a deal go down. I’m not well-schooled or -experienced in negotiation, but, in any event, the $20 that changed hands immediately preceding two people heading toward the bathroom was both too much (bad trick) and too little (worse john) paid.

Apathy, though, is really very good on the mic. He’s able to cuss and rant without being needlessly vulgar, and even managed to get the hipsters in the back of the room tapping their feet a skosh. He saw his job for the night as merely an opener for The Camp’s new album, The Campaign, and didn’t waste time self-promoting or -glorifying. Though, I suppose, he did mention that he pressed for the new album, even going so far as to be featured on a track or two, and executive producing the effort. But he clearly likes The Camp’s new shit (trax, if you read any of the blather left on their MySpace page). And it’s no wonder.

The Camp might as well be called The Flock, The School, The Mustering, The Prickle, or The Implausibility, due to the number of people they crammed on the Up’s tiny stage. By my count, and reviewing the pictures, first there was the DJ. Then three MCs. Plus a couple of guys who occasionally shouted along into mics that may or may not have been juiced. Plus Apathy on and off. Plus the gal waving the poster in our face (by the way: WE WERE ALREADY AT THE FUCKING VENUE, GET THE FUCKING POSTER OUT OF OUR FACES). Plus Bean and another photographer. Am I missing anyone?

But who are these un-masked, begging-for-attention men? MCs: Dese, Grime Tha MC, and Excetera. DJ Hevan, though, is himself reason enough to see The Camp. While clearly still getting comfortable using the effects and gimmicks of a modern turntable, DJ Hevan mixes, patches, and scratches with ease, though not seamlessly. He leaves traces of the work out there, not too simply moving from one bit to another, but allowing some spill-over from the previous thought, or, I guess, the previous beat. This gave a hopelessly disjunctive evening a bit of through-line. Plus, this non-dancer found him, well, eminently danceable.

While this crew of Three MCs and One DJ have their clear influences (the whiny voice of King Ad-Rock or Eminem, the oft-mid-lyric-trading leads of The Beastie Boys), they lack the cleverness of lyrics, and certainly the sophistication or thoughtfulness, quick-on-their-feetfulness of either crew. Plus, none of them will ever marry Ione Skye. Additionally, while we can debate whether The Beastie Boys should or shouldn’t have forsworn their lady bashing, The Camp hasn’t gotten there yet (though they do sample “Paul Revere"). What they have done, though, is taken the day-to-day misogyny of adolescence and given it yet one more microphone. To quote some choice lyrics from the new album—keeping in mind that I find them hilarious:

“Hey yo, I woke up late, it was way passed noon
I had this chick in my bed, I’m gonna head to the bathroom.
Checkin’ a voicemail from Slain that said,
‘Hey, I heard you left the bar last night with Renee,
That chick with big tits from around my way
She hits weed, likes to suck dick, get skeed.
And Dese told me that she had a disease,
Um, when you get a minute just call me back, please.’”

What’s surprising, though, is a solid bit of acknowledgment that the protagonist done fucked himself. Lyrics acknowledging the, “Shit, no condoms” balancing that occurs to most are not unheard of, but The Camp actually manages to treat the subject with intention and, if not edutainment, then at least educatient, berating the listener “Don’t you ever take sex ed?”

An additional highlight from the album: Gentleman Needs ft. Apathy, though the start is extremely reminicent of M.I.A. “Paper Planes.” Then again, it’s not like she invented staccato eighth-notes, so maybe they’re just parallel constructions. Maybe. The piece, though, is clean, sparse, without much of the heavily layered, multi-MC shouting that weights down many modern artists. Rhythmically complex with a couple of lyrical gems—"Lookin’ for dick like ‘Yo, where did Richard go?’"—I’m looking forward to springtime listening with the windows down.

Check’em out.

Oh, I didn’t even talk about the dudes in the audience screaming into a mic until the gal on stage showed us the girls. Neither did I talk about stuffing singles into her jeans. Classy show, Leedz. Classy. 

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