Fiasco
Fiasco bounced on his heels backstage, energized. He could feel the flow of blood in his veins. He hadn’t felt this kind of energy in a while. It wasn’t that large of a club, but it was packed. It was smoky like most of ’em: too dark, hot, the usual. But there was a certain kind of energy in the crowd tonight that hadn’t been present in any of the other cities. Katrina had done some real damage to Louisiana, for sure, but the old girl still had some life in her legs. And so did Fiasco.
The DJ started cutting in with a KRS-One sample. “Let us skip back to what they called hip-hop.”
Fiasco bounded from backstage, mic in his hand.
“How many of y’all love that real hip-hop?”
A roar from the crowd.
But not cheers.
Boos.
Fiasco worked through it. “They saying hip-hop is dead. Are we dead?”
Beer cups, some of them empty, some not, rained down on him.
Plus boos that were building in a crescendo, getting louder and louder.
“Hip-hop ain’t dead. Close. But she’s still breathing. Ain’t that right.”
The DJ was still cutting the KRS-One loop. “Let us skip back to what they called hip-hop.”
It started so low Fiasco couldn’t make it out at first. A low chant that built quickly, just as the boos from the crowd had. It was like a forest fire, roaring out of control in a matter of seconds.
Yung Chit, Yung Chit, Yung Chit.
Fiasco’s show, drowned out with chants of his new nemesis’s name.
“Holeup, y’all. Yo. Holeup.”
He tried to stop the Yung Chit nonsense.
Yung Chit, Yung Chit, Yung Chit.
“Holeup. Yo. Holeup.”
His mic was invisible and speechless. Like it wasn’t even turned on.
Yung Chit, Yung Chit, Yung Chit.
He was in the Dirty South. Yung Chit country. Chit was religion down here. Chit was currency. Chit was health. Chit was everything that mattered.
Yung Chit was killing hip-hop. Killing it dead.
And Fiasco couldn’t save hip-hop.
The chant grew louder and louder.
Fiasco didn’t even get to perform one song. He gave up trying. Made a gesture to the crowd that would embarrass him later when it got played all over YouTube. Then he dropped the mic on the stage, didn’t even place it back in the mic stand. Dropped it like a temperamental rock star throwing down a guitar. Straight up Mick Jaggered the mic. Stepped off the stage without having even really started his set.
Yung Chit, Yung Chit, Yung Chit.
“This is dangerous,” Toya said.
“Feel free to keep it moving,” Fiasco replied.
“Don’t be hateful to me, please.”
“Just saying I’d understand if you want to move on,” Fiasco said. “Maybe Yung Chit has some room on his bus for you.” He touched his temple, focused his eyes like he was really thinking. “Or does he even have a bus? Probably has a leisure jet.”
He was upset, and Toya could understand. She wouldn’t add to it, despite the fact he was talking to her like she was less than zero. “This is turning into something serious,” she said.
They were back in the dressing room. Fiasco sipped a Vitamin Water, half listened to Toya. “Ain’t nothing I can’t handle,” he said.
“This is getting dangerous. I’m scared.”
“It ain’t nothing,” he repeated.
“This is Power 103, the home of hip-hop and R & B. I’m the voice of your choice, your girl Joosy. If you’re just tuning in, I have Yung Chit on the line. Chit?”
“Yo, yo, yo.”
“Before the break you said some tough things about your situation with Fiasco. We definitely don’t want another Tupac versus Biggie situation. The community can’t deal with that. You didn’t mean that, did you?”
“Dude has disrespected me on several occasions, Joose. My fans go in. I gotta go in, too.”
“I’m all for some healthy competition, Chit. Just keep it on wax. You’ve said some reckless things this afternoon. Can you guys keep it on wax?”
“Real n-----do real things.”
“Fiasco’s been quiet, Chit.”
“He better be. He’ll get rocked if he opens his mouth. Ever. I ain’t playing wit’ this.”
“It’s that serious, Chit?”
“It’s that serious, Joose.”
“Come on, Chit.”
“I heard homeboy’s down here in the Dirty touring. If he knows what I know, he’ll get on that gay bus of his and head back North. I got gunners everywhere. Ya heard?”
“Chit, come on. That’s reckless talk.”
“This a reckless game, Joose.”
“Chit, come on.”
“I’m out, Joosy.”
“Chit…Hello, Chit. Damn. We’ll be back y’all. Gotta pay the bills.”
Fiasco powered off the radio.
“Okay?” he said. “I heard it Tone.”
He was back on the bus, headed to South Carolina. Toya was asleep, finally. Just past two in the morning, Fiasco couldn’t shut his own eyes, restless. Tone apparently couldn’t, either. But then Tone never slept more than a couple hours a night. He was a hustler, always on the grind. He’d called Fiasco’s cell just minutes before. “If you’re on wheels,” he’d said, “get to the radio and turn to Power 103. Now.”
“I didn’t like the tone of that, no pun intended,” Tone said now. “Sounds like this is getting serious.”
“It’s okay,” Fiasco said.
“It might not be a bad idea to do like he said, come back North. No need leaving yourself in harm’s way down here.”
Tone hadn’t even heard about the fiasco at the club, no pun intended, and Fiasco wasn’t about to share.
“Got four more cities to do, Tone, and I’m doing them.”
“You my dude. I don’t want to have to bury you.”
“I got this, Tone.”
Tone sighed through the phone lines.
“Four more cities,” Fiasco said. “Plus the benefit concert at that college in Georgia.” For Eric’s big sister, Kenya.
“And Chit’s gonna be there, too,” Tone said.
Fiasco nodded, cracked his knuckles.
Yep. Chit was gonna be at the benefit concert, too.
Fiasco was looking forward to it.