commUNity

So, I went to a rap concert. Living in the Twin Cities now, where all the big performers stop on tour, I’ve wondered what it would be like to attend a big-name concert. Even better, what would it be like to see a major rap artist? Not Kendrick Lamar big, but maybe 2 Chainz.

I hadn’t done it for several reasons. First, I wasn’t willing to pay hundreds of dollars to fight a massive crowd into an arena and then spend another hour in midnight traffic to get back out. Paying a little less for a general admission ticket to stand and wait forever for a performer to take the stage as I’m pressed into someone’s armpit isn’t my jam, either. What if I needed to pee? And, who knows—things could get wild. I’m 50-something and only 4-foot-nine; standing crowds can be dicey for me.

The weekend before last, local Minneapolis hip-hop performer Nur-D, who’s brilliant, performed at the free Taste of Minnesota event located close enough to where I live that I could easily ride my bike there. Ludacris was the headliner. He’s one of what’s known as the Dirty South rappers, a style popular in the early 2000s, when I was listening to more rap. A free, outdoor event I could get to by bike, with a phenomenal opener and a big-name headliner? Hellz Yeah!

My husband went with me, so we grabbed drinks and made our way toward the stage 30 minutes before Nur-D was scheduled to start. We stopped in the middle about eight rows from the front. The party amped up as Nur-D performed, especially for his last song, “Glorious,” with everyone singing along. My husband, who doesn’t do large, tight crowds, looked around and then said to me, “It’s totally filled in behind us.” A few minutes later, he told me he would wait for me in the back.

During intermission, Lizzo’s DJ Sophia Eris entertained the now sea of people waiting for Ludacris. Folks pushed their way through an already packed crowd. One woman forced her two young sons ahead of her with a nod and expression of, “I’m just doing it for them.” More people tried with, “I need to get to my friends.” A couple rows in front of me, a fight almost broke out between a woman and someone I couldn’t see. We were so close to go time—my safety sensor was on alert. But I waited and sure enough, everyone nearby convinced them to back down.

A group of younger Hmong fans to my right were busting all the good moves; they knew the words to every song. The Black thirty- and forty-ish friends to my left sang along and chatted among each other. The white lady in front of me—about my age—must have had a spectacular view; she was close to six-foot. (It was her armpit I was pressed into.) The two thirty-ish-year-old white guys behind me were quiet. Wearing earplugs, reflective blue aviator sunglasses, and a ball cap turned sideways to block the sun, I was in my element. (It’s occurring to me now that I sung the loudest and danced the most of any white person around me.)

When the DJ for Ludacris took the stage, the energy of the crowd spiked high, and I impulsively laughed. I felt it here—that sense of community I’ve experienced at live concerts, art exhibitions, and women’s sports events lately—that reminds me how we’re all in this together. It seems like we’ve otherwise forgotten that since the pandemic.

Ludacris worked the crowd in standard ways: “This side is the loudest!”; “Damn, the ladies of Minneapolis are fine!” He sang the hits (“Yeah!” by Usher featuring Ludacris), the raunchy songs (“Get Low” by Lil Jon featuring Ludacris), and his originals (“What’s Your Fantasy”). In the 18 square inches I barely held, I was pressed by the woman on my left and bumped by the guy to my right as we all danced. Singing, dancing, and sweating distracted me from considering whether I needed to pee. It was all thrilling.

After Ludacris encouraged the crowd to take liquor shots and to “Party hard!” I decided it was my cue to back out. I spun around, ducked down, and weaved my way to the back to find my husband. As we exited the gate, we noticed armored guards. We later learned the event had reached capacity before Ludacris even took the stage and that people had been turned away or blocked from jumping the barriers to get in.

With every cell of my body popping, I pedaled through the summer sunset and a refreshing breeze. At home, I washed down an electrolyte tablet with a full glass of water, took a fast cold shower, rubbed Arnica gel on my knees, and chased a bowl of popcorn with a glass of wine. After watching a few minutes of the Tour de France stage replay on TV to unwind, I collapsed into bed. Glancing at the clock, I noticed it wasn’t even 11 P.M.