An all-star, all black rock band was coming to town. And they were gonna play for next to nothing at a premier venue, just to warm up.
Turns out the rumor was the long whispered about Jack Johnson crew. Not the white surfer guy, but the Jack Johnson... As in ex-heavyweight champ of the 1900s reborn as the hardest black rockers you could find.
Mos Def was putting a band together, the story went. Originally Quest of the Roots was gonna be the drummer, but he had his hands too full to get his Power Station on. So that left the evil genius Bernie Worrell of P-Funk. Doug Wimbush and Ill Will Calhoun of Living Colour. And Dr. Know of the seminal Bad Brains.
These guys were gonna be a band... Just because.
Now, if the rumors were true, by the time they hit the Metro in Chicago's Wrigleyville, these cats had done a grand total of 3 shows that anyone knew about and had been together about 3 months total; they'd played Wetlands once or twice in NYC... Somewhere in BK they did a gig, and supposed they'd done a gig in Cali somewhere, possibly SF or even the Paladium in LA. But that was it.
So they roll into town one night and me, my notebook and my ears got the treat of all treats....
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Ghetto Rock: The Great Black Hope:
Mos Def resurrects the ghost of Jack Johnson in Chicago.
By: Hadji Williams
Despite the likes of John Lee Hooker, Muddy Waters, Hendrix, Wes Montgomery, Bootsy, George Benson, Albert & B.B. King, Lenny, Vernon Reid, Sly Stone, Chuck Berry, The Meters, Prince (the most unsung axe man since Bo Diddley), etc. guitars and by extension rock ‘n’ roll has belonged to White America (since, well, maybe since Buddy Holly). No matter who’s done what before or since, a black man with a guitar is still like a brutha with a hockey stick: Yeah, he can probably play, but… but he’s just a guest in our game.
So when I heard The Black Jack Johnson Project was in Chitown, I thought, Bruthas Slingin’ Guitars. As a shorty, I remember thinking, What the hell is Ice-T doing with a rock band!? My biggest fear for The Black Jack Johnson Project wasn’t that they’d have to prove their talents as much as they’d have to prove their right to have the talent.
Anyway, I copped my $30 tix and hit the Metro. It was packed— easily 2,000 deep and a good ninety percent white to boot, which wasn’t surprising, given Hiphop’s 70% plus non-black consumer base. And these days, mainstreamers love Mos Def like Old Navy. “He’s real hiphop,” I’m told. But quiet as kept, much of the crowd’s make-up was due to the venue. The Metro, which is on Clark and Grace streets, is pub-crawling distance from Wrigley Field in Chi’s lily-white Wrigleyville neighborhood. It’s notorious for it’s ability to draw drunken frat boys and aimless suburbanites out on a whim. And given this show’s anorexic promotions hype and high off the street sales, tonight was no different. (Plus, Chicago’s still the most segregated major city in America, so black and brown consumers who had no clue Mos was in town tonight weren’t about to trek to Anglo-world. But that’s another story. Anyway…)
The opening DJ banged classic joints: Everything from ATCQ, BDP and Common to NWA, The Roots and Slick Rick. But sadly, if it was pre-‘97 or wasn’t on the ViacomVideoNetwork it gave the crowd the shrugs. They didn’t know who MC Lyte was or what “Cha-Cha-Cha” meant. They didn’t know Rakim or “Move The Crowd.” UTFO might as well had been an X-Files episode…
Bruthas Slingin’ Guitars— God help ‘em.
Then, one by one they took the stage: P-Funk’s Bernie Worrell on keys. Living Colour’s Will Calhoun and Doug Wimbush on drums and bass respectively. Bad Brains’ Dr. Know on lead axe. And Mighty Mos Def last up to bat. They quickly ripped into The Way We Swing (a classic Digital Underground groove)—again, heads didn’t recognize. But once Mos began chanting, I feel like bustin’ loose, it was on.
Doing what Mos repeatedly declared was, “Ghetto Rock—rock ‘n’ roll for the ghettos,” Black Jack drove hard funkdafied rock rhythms... Bashed out grimy breakbeats. Swung some fatback soul. Jammed out some reggae and gospel. If it was black music, Black Jack played it.
During a gorgeous Ms. Fat Booty, Mos wove in the entire first verse of Just My Imagination by the Temptations. Maybe 17 cats got it. There was some Black on Both Sides (his classic solo joint) and some BlackStar (his incredible collab with fellow documentarian Talib Kweli). During an incendiary version of Rock ‘n’ Roll, Mos chanted, “I am rock ‘n’ roll… Elvis Presley ain’t got no soul…I ain’t tryin’ to f*** with Limp Bizkit/The Rolling Stones ain’t come up wit’ that style on they own…” some in the crowd seemed almost offended, while others seemed to realize that this was the whole point of The Black Jack Johnson Project.
(I doubt the crowd even knew who Jack Johnson was. Pops said that because he faced better talent and even more racism, Jack Johnson was better than Ali. The notion of a black heavyweight champion was so
despised that once Johnson dominated the top talent, promoters would round up the biggest white guys they could find hoping one would get lucky enough to knock him out. Hence the phrase, “The Great White Hope.”)
The band proceeded to run thru new selects, mainly from BJJ's rumored debut album, which included Ghetto, a beautiful singy-rhyme piece on project life. (Trailerparks is ghettos, too, Mos clarified.)
Next came something called "Rapeover," a scathing anti-record industry rant combining Jay-Z’s Takeover beat, Joan Jett’s I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll chorus with gems like: White Labels is runnin’ this rap shit/Viacom is runnin’ this rap shit." And as much as that got the crowd hyped, some moments killed the mood. In what i swore was made up on the spot, Mos lit up a joint called, "Blackman," a bizarre but hysterically blunt take on the old Batman theme about the drama of young black men in America. It left most of the crowd stunned. The show ended with a soulful Mumi Says and a tight man-in-the-mirror-esque acapella freestyle.
Another highlight was Bernie Worrell’s Billy Preston impression on keys — launchin’ into some ol’ black gospel church grooves while Mos Def yelled out, “I’mo take ya’ll to church!” Say what you will about one nation unda a groove, but watchin’ a couple thousand milquetoasted white folks struggling to keep time with grimy funked-up black gospel-soul rhythms and latent gospel runs was funnier than hell.
But this point, Mos simply turned and walked off stage; then the band decided played on. And I mean played. As good as they were before, what they launched into for the next 5-10 minutes was sprint to rival any crew of musicians you’ll see anywhere:
Dreadlocks flyin’. Axes grinding. Black skin sweatin’. Live drums kickin’. Real keyboard playin’. Bruthas workin’ thangs out. And I mean airing it out. Full blast—chord shifts, rifts, all kinds of funk ideas, played loud, fast, hard and precise.
The crowd took a deep breath, then lost their minds. People started yelling. Lighters went up, people jumping around…
“Guitars are for white boys,” huh? Not tonight; not on our watch. Simply put: Black Jack kilt it. (Not “killed it” but kilt it.)
An oh, if you’re wondering, Can Mos Def sing live? Better than Zach de la Rocha. Better than Ja Rule for whatever that’s worth. But don’t sleep: The Black Jack Johnson Project is a so-solid crew of professional badasses unashamed of being a “black rock band.” Even with the Bruthas Slingin’ Guitars stigma, The Black Jack Johnson Project can be great— a P-Funk/Hendrixian experience for the 2DoubleO with more rebel consciousness and less weed. (Okay, ignore the weed part. Mos luvs to partake—from what I hear.)
As L-Boogie once flowed: Ready or not, here I come/you can’t hide/gonna find you and make you want me…
Black Jackson, N-Y-C... R-o-c-k-i-n-g... Ghetto Rock, ya’ll. Make way.
