do that thang

Last night. Lyrics Born.

So I rolled up to the Majestic with J. Ash, arriving around 10. I am totally cheap, so I decide to wait for Truby so I can use his plus-one. Over the course of a 62-minute wait for that crew, we met some truly unique Madison characters, including an Insomnia Cookie salesman who at one point petted my arm for an uncomfortably long time and a washed up 28-year-old man who is moving to Galway. John was really ready to embrace hip-hop culture, sending text messages like "It's all hood." and pondering the wonders of Three6Mafia. "I can't even imagine how much of their lives they've been intoxicated. Probably years." Indeed, J. Ash. Certainly.

After finally going inside, John and I almost immediately spotted the one and only Lil Rail, everyone's favorite Madison promoter/rapper/actor/networker/clothing designer/awesome user of WordArt. I spent a lot of the night debating if I could approach him about hosting my birthday party in September. Also discussed was the possibility that Lil Rail could host Homegrown out on the Terrace next fall, bringing Midwestern hip-hop to the masses. Isn't that what he does best?

So there was a show, a guy had this weird green laser flashlight, and the girl with Lyrics Born was ridiculous. She gave the opportunity for the ladies to sing "What up? What up?" The highlight might have been the point at which a song ended with a freeze frame of Lyrics Born, the girl, and the DJ all holding their song-ending pose. Awesome. I actually really enjoyed the DJ - he won my heart by sampling both Led Zeppelin AND "Heartless" in his opening set before Lyrice Born came on stage. But things really went up a notch when it was time to give out the handbills for U-N-I and Wale.

Jamaal, the best employee of the Pub by far, made an appearance, as did Lil Rail. Apparently these two stellar men are acquainted because they shared a hug that lasted at least forty-five seconds. Jamaal is also roughly the size of 3.5 Lil Rails in all directions. Jamaal bounced, but Lil Rail stuck around to discuss show promotion and the difficulties of promoting in Madison with some other super-savory characters outside the Majestic. The moment that took the night to the next level, though, involved that other Madison breed: The Scene Kid.

(This story can only be told in the present tense.)

An ultra-hipster promoting a Wongz Wok show approaches John and I on the sidewalk. They gave out the Chinese menu flyer a while ago, and tonight are promoting DJ Benzi at Cafe Montmarte. We chat for a bit, and the kid looks at the flyer. "WUD? You guys know Patrick?" Yes, we say, of course. We know Patrick.

Kid scowls. "I read the shit he wrote on the blog about the Wavves show. Who the fuck does he think he is?"

"Oh," I say, awkwardly, "were you there?"

"Yeah, I was there. And you tell him not to blog about my bands. Tell him that if he blogs about my bands again there will be blood coming down on his head." John and I exchanged glances, both realizing he's pissed about the bands Patrick called out on the WUD Music blog for trying to sneak into Wavves. John had been on security detail; I had been let in against the rules. Noticing our reticence, the kid continues.

"He can't think he can diss local bands - they put food on his table. You've got to appreciate the local bands, they're the ones who keep this whole scene together. You tell him that."

I made some kind of noise of agreement at this and, trying to keep from getting my own head bitten off by this kid, say something about how I would pass the message along on Twitter. I am lame and awkward, yes, truly.

"Don't even do it on Twitter," kid says. "Tell him in person. Say, "Hey, Patrick," he pauses so I can repeat after him exactly what I'm supposed to pass along. "Solomon says, 'Don't shit where you eat.' "

"Yeah," I agree. "Yeah, I'll tell him." John concurs. Solomon leaves.

After a long moment of watching Solomon leave with his girl, J. Ash turns to me and reminds me, "Don't shit where you eat." We crack up and send Patrick the message from Solomon via text (not Twitter). And the response, unsurprising, is one word: Pub.