Review: Fashawn @ Ottawa

photography by Loni Schick

“Even though I’m young and I can’t see the forest for the trees, follow me, and when I’m grown you know I’m bound to be the H.N.I.C., follow me, mama I’ll be alright, just let me do my thing, followin’ my dreams, this is me.” Those lyrics are from Fashawn’s “Life As A Shorty” record, which details the Cali rapper’s less-than-privileged childhood in Fresno. The record’s reframe goes, “Life as a shorty shouldn’t be so rough.” And it isn’t, considering Fash is still only 23 years of age. Life naturally becomes a little easier once you grace the Freshman cover of XXL Magazine, alongside rappers Wiz Khalifa, J. Cole, and Big Sean. Now when Fash comes to town there’s Hennessey and Kush waiting for him back at the hotel – the grease that keeps his self-contained little universe motoring. Fash is by all means master of his own domain, meaning the dude never stops rapping, whether he’s in the airport, the streets, a bathroom cubicle, or a hotel elevator.

Coming into the lobby at the Quality Inn Hotel in Ottawa (our nation’s capital), I quietly observed Fash as he went in on another clever freestyle about… something or another – I was out of earshot. He held onto a pair of skater shorts he intended to wear for the show, and tucked a freshly rolled doobie into the pocket of his spring vest. Apparently Fash arrived in Canada with little more than his vest, one grey hoodie, a fresh pair of Vans, and his skater shorts. When we were all chilling in his room, I threw it out there that he should wear the shorts for the show. After all, he’s from Cali, and he carries a snow-globe version of Los Angeles around in his pocket; Which is a roundabout way of saying that Fash is indeed the H.N.I.C (head nigga in charge), as he infuses each city he performs in with a special taste of the West.

In Ottawa Fash took to the stage in a grey Hieroglyphics tee and his khaki skater shorts – He listened to me! He immediately drew the small but intimate (and enthusiastic) crowd of U of Ottawa students tighter to the stage, exemplifying how casually a small black man with the swag of ‘Carlton Banks if he got cool’ can engage a generation. Fash ran through records like “For The G’s”, which has the two sides of the floor swaying to his lyrics, “this is for the G’s and this is for the hustlers, this is for hustlers now back to the G’s”. Then he transitioned into “Samsonite Man”, a Layman’s account of what it’s like to be on the road. On the record Fash lets it be known that he’s just another Samsonite man, as his fans would prefer him to be, and not some rolling stone who dons Louis Vuitton luggage and designer belts worth $400, and writes raps on his BlackBerry while taking pisses at the airport. Fash is pretty real about his music. He raps what he sees, and he raps about it quite often.

Opening for Fash in Ottawa was Tim Fundament, a friend, and the guy who actually brought Fash to Canada. Fundament maintained a good tempo throughout his short set, rapping about ‘wanting the world’ to a group of siamese hipster lookalikes who showed up just to see him perform. Tim went on to trade ad-libs with his DJ, DJ James Redi, a disk jockey out of the beaches (in Toronto) who recently celebrated his 25th birthday and shares (with me) a profound adoration for Rick Ross’s ‘Woop!’ ad-lib. After Fundament was Notes to Self, a grassroots hip-hop quartet from Toronto composed of world champion DJ, DJ Dopey, Swamp Donkey, Rage Roshin, and Bronze One. After steaming through their extended set, Notes reemerged late in the night when Fash brought them out to perform “Mr. Polite”, their collaborative number which also happened to be the name of the mini-tour. Watching the two acts up on-stage together, with Tim, myself, and Joel – a long standing friend of Notes who, by the end of the night, had successfully re-popularized the “Lean Wit It Rock Wit It” dance – positioned at the head of the floor, I began to see just how much fun a hip-hop show can be. That is, when it’s run properly. Great fun, clever puns, iron lungs and no guns, that ought to be the motto of a Droppin Knowledge event.

After the show, once security had kicked out all the stragglers and raised the drawbridge, the Fash, Notes, and Fundament posse, which I was privileged enough to be a part of, sucked back a couple more Heine’s and hopped the stage to watch DJ Dopey spar with Fash’s DJ, DJ F Plus, on the turntables. It was a mystifying spectacle, although DJ Redi and I soon became restless and went off in search of Notes and Fash. Creeping backstage we heard muffled voices from inside one of the doors, which (apparently) adjoined the venue to a vintage clothing shop run by the Ottawa promoter, Mike. Naturally, Redi and I made a running start at the door and stormed the shop with a drink in each hand. Instantly the guys from Notes spun around, watching in horror as some depraved journalist in a Hawaiian shirt spilled rum all over Mike’s vintage carpeting. Even Joel turned around, as he forked over two bills for a matching Burberry jacket and vest set. “Where’s Fash?” he asked, as if Redi and I ought to know. I mean, security was there, smoking dope at the bar, Notes were there, Fundament was there, DJ F Plus was there, some blonde with a Polaroid camera who liked to use the words ‘peace’ ‘word’ and ‘dope’ was there, so where the hell was Fashawn?

Well, turns out he was back at the hotel with a bacon double cheeseburger from Burger King, a staple in any city north of the Tropic of Cancer. That’s how it goes when you’re the H.N.I.C. You get first pick at the buffet, not to mention all the other perks. Fashawn is a lot like a historian in this way. He spends his hours alternating between immediate reality and the reality he creates for himself by constantly documenting and compartmentalizing. Physically, Fash may have been in Canada for two days, however, mentally he was only there for a couple of hours. Most of the time he was lost in another world, a realm of beats and rhyme, where, as I noted above, Fash is master of his domain. I only pray that he was able to ground himself when he was with that cheeseburger, the bacon double cheeseburger. After all, actions speak louder than words, and occasionally they have the power to shake mountains. Says the writer.

 

- Special thanks to Tim Fundament Stuart, Notes to Self, and of course, Fash.