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Rating: Last Poets live @ Melkweg - Amsterdam, 20th century
It was raining, but that's not surprising considering the city was Amsterdam and the season was winter. It's already a positive that it wasn't snowing. The weather report has its significance; I've never gone into the Melkweg and felt cold before. Yet, that evening, that's exactly how it was. Inside there were only me, the girl at the cloakroom, and a guy lying on the floor who seemed to be a leftover from the previous evening. In a t-shirt, I entered the small hall, the one for the concert, and I had to rub my arms to fight off the freezing cold and my eyes to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. I was alone.
And yet, what the hell, the Last Poets. The week before on Damrak, people were fighting to see the Osdorp Posse, a rap group from the outskirts of Amsterdam characterized by rather unclear ideas about music and clothing, but what can you do?
In the end, there were six of us waiting for the Poets, never seen anything like it; we wandered awkwardly through the hall, chilled to the bone, each with their little joint and a resigned smile on their faces. Will they play anyway? There's a rumor that one is unwell, but hopefully, they will. After a while, they arrive. By sight, I recognize Umar Bin Hassan, somewhat round with the classic dark circles, and Abiodun Oyewole, tall, athletic, and youthful. Along with them, there's a much younger percussionist that I don't know. Jalal Nuriddin, another original member, isn't there. He's founded his own group, the Last Poets (?!?), and there seems to be no good blood between the three. However, there does seem to be blood generally flowing. Umar begins by apologizing for his somewhat hoarse voice, but it was Jalal who slit his throat the week before. He shows us the still swollen and reddened scar. Perfect. The six of us in the hall position ourselves under the stage, the three on stage don't flinch. The percussionist starts bombarding the congas with rapid blows, for over two hours a sonic massacre.
The voices of the two, deeper and slightly monotonous that of Abiodun, very particular and somewhat shrill that of Umar, chase each other over the percussion carpet and hit hard, in the stomach. Damn. You know the pieces. "Niggers are scared of the revolution" goes on for an indefinite time, it seems to never end, but when it does, it's still not enough, we six want more. "When the revolution comes" is frozen by Umar's broken and ironic voice. You can't take your eyes off the three, you stay in breathless anticipation until the end. The other pieces are a magma of sensations and controlled, measured anger. No compromise, voices and percussion and head and liver, nothing else.
I left the Melkweg dead tired, in pieces.
Forgive me if I don't remember the date of the concert (I'm almost sure it was between 1970 and 2000), nor the list of songs, but in those two hours, I had other things on my mind, basic needs.
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