Sunday. What else is there left to say? We could see the end in our horizon. We knew the hell of reality was waiting for us there. This nest, this cache, would soon puke us out to the land where all consequence would be dealt with. The Bill would come on all this Sweaty Blasting, and the tab will be paid, sir. The last battle, the final casualties, and the lessons of climax. I would be less than honest if I didn’t admit there was a gauntlet I had thrown down on myself: This Lollapalooza would see how much I had in me. How long I could go in the best redline I could muster before giving out. This would be final arena.
But first we have a funny little Jewish man.
Matisyahu is an Orthodox Hasidic Jew who raps over a reggae band. This is a mix of things that still has even me with a hung jury on the man. I don’t know if he’s for real. And even if he were, I still wouldn’t know what to think. At one point while jumping off stage, his yarmulke became detached, and he immediately reached for a towel handed to him by a roadie to keep his scalp hidden from Da Lord. “Shit”, I thought, “He’s serious.” What would that mean? Why would he be a rock star, I thought? If true music is the hymn of The Damned in search of beauty, what does this maverick have to offer if he’s already secure in the definite knowledge that he’s right?
But in the pure sense, the music is good. And for someone using music as the ultimate Rorschach test, like I do, this would mean there’s a worthwhile attempt at deep communication by the man. Something he wants me to know that I’d be missing if I just wrote him off as a pop-culture frappe.
Not just a great scam—a triple gimmick!—for a rock star to convince people he really cares about something other than free drugs, attention, and sex—“He really cares about his fans! He even offered me a towel after he came on my face!”—just the fact that I haven’t caught on yet is a testament to its ingenuity, if it is in fact all a farce. But I refuse to be cynical and let the crime of a lost human connection be perpetrated because I have a paranoid streak. Matisyahu might be the real thing. And if that’s the case, there’s nothing harder than keeping your integrity in something with as many backdoors as rock music, in which case Matisyahu’s challenge is no different from every other artist that has ever lived, only the form has changed. Matisyahu’s hat is grunge’s flannel, his reggae-rap is Slayer’s Nazi speed-metal. Confusing me means it’s either the new genius, or an elaborate musical ploy, punishable by disemboweling.
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