The Roof Is on Fire

A hip-hop hoodoo whodunit.

by M.F. DiBella

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Published: Feb 13, 2007

"I'm from the illest part of the Western Hemisphere/ So if you into sight seein' don't visit there"

THE SPARK: Tracey Moore of the Jazzyfatnastees performs at Black Lily at The Five Spot, circa 2001. : Michael T. Regan (CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VERSION)

—"In the Music," The Roots, Game Theory

opinion

Friday, Feb. 2, 2007. Groundhog Night. Old Man Winter has reared his ice-riddled visage and extended his engagement for an undisclosed period of time. The featured entertainment at The Five Spot is the latest incarnation of Hip-Hop Lives, a first Friday institution for eight-plus years, previously held at Tritone. The event is ringmastered by my good friend Mighty FlipSide Esq., one half of the local hip-hop duo Electric City (with eclectic beatmonger DJ Skipmode). The house is near capacity and there's a palpable air of jocular inebriation. Even after the headliners — local male/female rap tandem Grand Agent and Liv L'Raynge — have left the building, the crowd is still vibing to an impromptu, freeform open mic session. No one is ready for last call. Hip-Hop is alive and well by all accounts.

Saturday, Feb. 3 rolls around, I call up Flip to shoot the breeze and get his take on the previous night's proceedings. He drops the cluster bomb: The Five Spot is no more. A fire. The motherfucker burned. It's unsettling, learning the nightlife landmark you've been to any number of times — and visited just a scant few hours ago — has been reduced to ash and cinder. According to reports from both KYW and the Daily News, the blaze ignited from an unextinguished cigarette in a trash can behind one of The Five Spot's bars. Of course there are the documented debts of owner Philip Cohen (as reported by The Inquirer's Tom Avril) whose Lexington Hotel resort in the Catskills also shut down after a conflagration last summer.

Something's rotten on Bank Street but if you're looking for a natural cause, you're thinking small.

While it seems that hip-hop has been downward spiraling into an abyss of over-glammed gangsterism and big-business aggrandizement ever since the late '90s, the last 12 months have been particularly trying for its true-school pioneers, proponents and pupils.

On Feb. 10, 2006, hip-hop lost another of its dwindling links to a golden era, soulful sound provider James Yancey, aka J Dilla. This Christmas past, while many heads were just scratching the surface on the polarizing Nas release Hip-Hop Is Dead, the Godfather of Soul (and undeniable grandfather of hip-hop) exited stage left into that good night. One of the marquee songs on Hip-Hop Is Dead is "Where Are They Now," a laundry list of old-school and '90s MCs who have vanished from the scene without so much as a puff of smoke. (Incidentally, the song features a sample from James Brown's "Get Up, Get Into It, Get Involved" and in fairness, virtually every MC mentioned has resurfaced for a slew of remixes.)

On the local level, venues for showcasing live hip-hop are becoming endangered species.

So. Are the conservators of genuine hip-hop culture up against some mysterious cultural illuminati? Mighty FlipSide talks shop over a recent break-bread episode at New Delhi in U. City. His Hip-Hop Lives event, he says, models itself after The Roots, creating a scene in which rap artists and other live musicians can interact. "For some reason, heads still ain't ready," he laments. "Luckily, we've always been able to find a niche; The Five Spot was our latest saving grace. First La Tazza, then Silk City and now this."

We continue the conversation at the Bubble House in West Philly. Members of Flip's extended crew, Illvibe Collective, are setting up for a gig amid the feng shui glow. Flip espouses a "for the greater good" approach. "Sometimes earthquakes have to happen so hospitals can be built," he reasons. "At this point, me and Skip are used to tribulation. ... We're doing Hip-Hop Lives in March, we just don't know where yet."

And now, gentle reader, I humbly ask you for a leap of faith.

Remove the "lone cigarette" theory from your mind. Willfully suspend your logic. Take a deep breath. Channel the inner Philadelphian.

We're cursed, right?

The Five Spot burns to the ground the night after a successful hip-hop show. Donovan McNabb pukes in the huddle. An impossible 62-yard field goal splits the uprights. The Roots album fails to go gold again. Some jackass triggers a five-car pileup on Lincoln Drive and you miss the birth of your first child. It's been said before but: "Hello, Higher Power, yeah, Tony from Oregon Avenue again. Can we get a fucking break down here?"

A mass seance is in order, once and for all. Surely John Street can organize this sort of thing. What could be more advantageous to the livelihood of Philadelphians than an exorcism of epic proportions? Imagine the waters of the Schuylkill purified into holy water — yeah, we're on a real faith freefall now — and every citizen being baptized and reborn.

Better yet, make it an annual thing a la state vehicle inspection: "I got my sticker for Demonic Possession Cleansing but I still need to meet Soul Emissions Standards."

Until the Great Philadelphia Rapture, my buddy Flip and his Electric City crew will continue to feed off this oft-unsettling, oft-exhilarating Philadelphia essence. They hold the distinction of the last-ever show at The Five Spot. You could say they brought the house down, but don't. We know what brought the house down.

(m_dibella@citypaper.net)

 

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