GRIFFIN COMES ALIVE!

Slug Christ forgive me, but I'll never love Rakim as much as I respect him. Yeah you might see me twisted off the peppermint schnapps flexin on "Microphone Fiend" with some fierce and fabulous pantomimes, but I've accepted the sad truth that I'll never relate to him in the same way as someone who remembers the days of dookie ropes and Dapper Dan. It's the same wit a cat like Moses. I can read up on his movement and respect all the mainey shit he did, but it's a triflin' substitute compared to the visceral trouser shitting enjoyed by the fruitflies who actually saw him part those seas. I'll never be able to step outside the reality where a group of elders put The R on a pedestal when my moms was still shovin a spoon of Gerber at my face tryin to tell me it was an airplane. It is what it is.

So in spite of the obtrusive guiding track, it's a revelation to see him rock the Apollo in his prime, as a tangible figure who put on his jean ensembles one arm and pant leg at a time, whose primary concerns were crotch thrusts and moving the crowd. Much love to the reverential white guys and old timers attending his shows today, but a rap show ain't supposed to resemble Sunday mass. It's glorious to behold: the only person standing still is Eric B, and you're allowed to look like a gargoyle when you're as heavy as that MF. That's word to G. Rap and Extra P.