Eskimo Dance, Building Six: 02 Academy. March 5th, 2016.
Having moved in London just recently, I was propelled into the world of Grime - a realm previously uncharted for my musical knowledge and taste - with no control of my direction. Being I want to be a cool kid, and I want to know stuff about where I live, I ended up pressured (no blame no shame) into buying tickets for March 5th’s Eskimo Dance at the O2 Academy; an event hosting nothing less than all the godfathers of Grime, all together, all at once. Wiley, Skepta, the Ruff Squad, and something like nine other so-called rappers with highly questionable names, like Elf Kid. Come on, Elf Kid? Really? And you want me to take you seriously? Needless say I only knew about two and a half of these artists before the event, and, after this excursus, I am even more confused with regards to who is who and why they even call themselves rappers.
So the story goes something like this.
After a prolonged tube ride, squishing like constipated penguins even though it was midnight, my six friends and I make it to the venue. We are subsequently very aproximatevely checked by security. Admitting I’m rather submissive with authorities, I wouldn’t dare argue even if they required to inspect my panties; but yesterday night I was almost indignant at how little I was searched. “I also have a bag if your want to check it”, “No, I’m cold, leave.” Yes, that was exactly the conversation I had with the security woman. Now, I understand it must be an absolutely tedious job and it probably entails arguing with way too many drunken idiots, but I could have taken anything into that arena last night, and thinking back, I probably should have.
So I paid £7.50 for a ‘large’ cloakroom locker which turned out being one of the smallest in the locker wall. However, we fortunately managed to cram in the entirety of four puffy, fluffy winter jackets, because, I mean, after having paid £7.50, we would have even squished our aunts and uncles in there if we could have. Shortly after, we huddle at the bar and chug down as many ice cold jeger shots as our wallets permit, and once again, that being not very many given that those saddest shots we had ever seen, cost the moderate price of £4. I’m sorry, I do not want to make this all about money, but we must acknowledge that not only London is crazy expensive, clubs are also apparently run by uptight shylocks feasting on teenagers’ allowances.
Having soaked up our livers and emptied our pockets, we take to the dance floor and show off some horrifyingly, off-beat dance moves. As several short, chubby gangster wanna-bes casually touch my ass addressing me as a White Girl to my unamused disgust, the dancefloor fills up, very much, too much, with too many of them. We wait, and wait, and awkwardly dance some more, not that there’s much space left to dance in anyways. We wait again, it is 2am and there is still no sign of any of these grandiose Grime fairies we should be bowing down to. So we keep on pretending we’re having fun, and chat about Donald Trump with random men boasting ridiculous snapbacks, and steal cigarettes off blondes too drunk to be stingy, and laugh at ratchet ladies slipping on poured beer and off their preposterous high-heals.
So it’s packed, it’s hot, and it is as grimey as it gets. Excuse the pun. A bunch of stiff, buff black boys sway side to side facing the stage and blankly staring at the screens. Nobody seems to actually be having fun. Not even the wide eyed blokes proudly waving their 500ml crumpled water bottles, or those sniffling their pointy noses. As a consequence, the hotspot of the venue is the smoking terrace, a rustic resembling patio area with sofas, picnic table, a burger stand and a grandiose view. In fact, we spend most of our evening out there, in the freezing cold, shivering and nodding our heads to the tunes filtering through the doors, ‘far from the madding crowd’.
It is finally 3am when it starts getting exciting, or at least sort of. We hear muffled sounds that resemble the chorus of the only Skepta song we actually know, so we race to the dancefloor to finally admire the 33 year-old Nigerian-born British rapper as he waves his hands to the rhythms of 2015 hit track Shutdown. Everybody is jumping, yelling and nodding along. The self-proclaimed King of Grime shows the audience what he’s made of. Having performed in America the night before, he proves that what The Guardian critics have established is probably true: “ the world, and the hip-hop establishment, seems ready to meet Skepta on his own terms, rather than the other way around.”
I’m buzzed, and I’m singing along with the few words I know, which are basically a list of Skepta’s accomplishments and then the word “shutdown”, which means, in case you don’t know, “a very hyped atmosphere”.
“That's not me and it's shutdown, Ring ring pussy, it's shutdown, Fashion week and it's shutdown, Went to the show sitting in the front row, In the black tracksuit and it's shutdown” but all I basically did was yell “shutdown” when everybody else was doing so too. I sing, but still understand very little of what they are saying. Actually, almost nothing of what they are saying. The speakers also suck.
Everything seems to pick up, we’re thrilled and look at each other in agreement, silently telling each other this is what the night was all about. All the rappers are together on the stage and chanting in unison, clashing each other and spitting rhymes like there’s no tomorrow. Hands up, faces towards the sky, rolling their shoulders.
And then they leave. Just like that. 10 minutes, and they leave. Gone. As if they had never been there. Wasn’t the night supposed to be about them? What kind of King shows face with his disciples for no more than a few words? It very much seemed like an evening full of people that, hypocritically enough just like me, had shown up because Skepta’s fame just recently exploded, even though he’s been on the frontlines of the newborn genre for a decade now. People that, once again, apologetically just like me, wanted to see what it was all about. A concert where the main acts are too full of themselves to actually carry out a full gig, right because they’re fame just exploded anyways. Those people had already paid their tickets. Those people had been waiting three and a half hours, minimum, for them.
Unimpressed, we try to make our way home. We fight amongst ourselves on the quickest route home. We fight with a bunch of violent commuters trying to get on a bus. We fight amongst ourselves some more. We do not get on. We, shortly after, who knows how, manage to get on another bus. A rather random one. It is more packed than the 8am Central Line and, instead of hosting poised suited-up business men and women, carries way too many drunk, dazed, grumpy and sweaty troglodytes.
When now resigned and desperate, we experience an unexpected musical highlight of the night. Some roudy, talkative passenger sitting on the floor next to us launches a rap clash against a guy sitting behind me, a questionably skinny twenty year-old dressed somewhat like a malicious Dementor. They battle, and it is amusingly entertaining and incredibly funny. Refreshing. We’re all probably too tired and too cold but we explode in unison as ‘Dementor’ disses talkative-boy’s grandmother.
It’s 6am and we’re finally home. Sober, and hungry, we make ourselves pasta in my kitchen, we’re Italian after all. As my eyelids fall, the sun’s rising, and I baptize that moment as the best moment of the night.
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