Scarface Show Review

Image From Scarface

Scarface was over an hour late, more than that if you count the time it took him to set up. It was to the point that people were leaving to move their cars out of the dwindling times on their parking meters. It’s not a good look if you’re a touring musician, especially in the notoriously-solipsistic rap-game. When he did finally emerge into the murky lights of the Mohawk, he made a half-hearted bristle about it being cold outside and slipped off his vest. “I thought it was gonna be an indoor joint” as his ridiculously-extended crew filled their spots around the stage. Scarface was the only one with a microphone, and ostensibly the only one on payroll besides the miniature DJ behind him. The most prominent member of his posse was a giant dude decked in all black - he had iPod earbuds poking out of his shirt and filling the side of his head, adding a deeper wrinkle to the never-ending mystery of what it’s like to be that guy. It didn’t phase anyone - why should it? This was teeth-gritted professional rap music from a guy who’s been in the business long enough to get by on prestige alone. Nothing less, but precious little more.

It’s a shame, really. I wrote in the show preview about how Scarface seems like a stellar candidate for that erstwhile “elder dude who’s never lost his fire.” But everything about his touring machine painted a picture of a guy who has barely even a passive interest in being on stage. I remember writing about Slick Rick’s abysmal showing at Fun Fun Fun Fest a few years back - a hoarse, would-be respected statesman plugging away at a half-assed festival set with very little self-awareness. Scarface wasn’t that bad, but he certainly did raise some unfortunate memories.

At the very least he could’ve brought a hype-man along; Scarface did not do well as the sole generator behind the show’s energy. He mumbled, he drank, he smoked, he seemed like he was really looking forward in getting back to his tour bus. This is about par for the course for most rap-acts whose charting days are long gone, but you’d hope an entity like Scraface would be above petty tour-stortion, especially with all the adopted hometown love present. A quick look around the club brought Houston Rockets jerseys, Texans jerseys...hell, Oilers jerseys? I think I even saw a Houston Aeros hat. Scarface unwittingly reached into the depths of his esteemed, shouted-out fanbase, but didn’t seem to care.

To be fair, these people weren’t externally disappointed. They were just happy to bounce along to the hits. A warm, inebriated “Damn, It Feels Good To Be A Gangsta,” an a capella back-and-forth of “Mind Playing Tricks On Me,” a strikingly positive reverberation to the man’s biggest post-Geto Boys hit “On My Block.” They were dosed out in two-minute chunks in favor of more meandering, aimless banter - there were a few moments where the DJ just let the track’s absent feature-rapper just play, which is kind of a telltale sign for a slapped-together hip-hop act.

Honestly, the saddest thing is listening to Scarface records after the show. He’s always been guy so vehemently opposed to selling out, to the point of proclaiming himself as a “free agent” on his latest mixtape. That’s how he’s always postured himself. His gig at the Mohawk wasn’t evidence that he sold out, as much that he’s comfortably inert in his moderate level of fame or respect. You get absolutely no sense if he’s interested in making art, or making pop, just making tour money. His ferocity has been replaced with an aura of disappointing irrelevance. We should all hope he snaps out of it soon, his perspective has always been vital.

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