Big Boi – Heaven, London – 23/6/11
3/5
By: Thomas Hannan
Unless your interpretation of the song is drastically different to mine, when David Byrne sang “Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens”, he wasn’t singing about the rejuvenated Central London club we find ourselves in tonight (though the line about “everybody’s trying to get to the bar” rings true). If he was, then he’s a mistaken fool – squished beneath the arches of Villiers Street, this busy little hangout (though still most renowned for hosting the G-A-Y nights) has seen itself become the venue of choice for indie and hip hop promoters of late. Indeed, we’ll be back amidst its constant dry ice, neon lights and sickeningly overpriced drinks in just a few nights to see Destroyer, of all people (review to follow...).
But tonight, we’re here for Big Boi, aka Sir Luscious Leftfoot, aka Daddy Fat Sax, aka Sgt. Slaughter, aka Corporal Sticky-Pantzz, aka Hot Tub Tony, aka Francis the Savannah Chitlin' Pimp, aka one half of bloody OUTKAST! Believe it or not, all those (and more) are official pseudonyms under which Antwan André Patton operates – my favourite’s ‘Hot Tub Tony’ – which could lead one to question whether the guy was suffering something of an identity crisis. Nonsense. He just likes silly names. If anything, in the face of so many skit-filled, over long hip hop commercial hip hop LPs of late, Big Boi has made one of the most coherent, enjoyable records spawned by the genre in recent memory, and one that’s recognisably the work of one, singular, frightfully talented and charismatic fellow.
You could argue the case that it’s in fact the quality of Sir Luscious Leftfoot, The Son Of Chico Dusty that has this sold out throng here at this confusingly early hour in the evening, rather than people just clamouring to hear the OutKast hits. It’s a remarkable record, and one that should be a complete blast to hear recreated live. Through no fault of Big Boi’s however, it kinda... isn’t. At least not as much as it could have been.
It’s not the crowd’s fault. They’re drunk (despite having to pay a week’s wages for the privilege), and they’re dancing (or at least, they look in to the idea of dancing). It’s not the music’s fault either, nor the way in which it’s performed – Big Boi’s as tight in the flesh as you find him on the LP, and the array of hits he, his DJ and hype man present us is straight from one of the strongest songbooks in modern American history. Not just signature tunes ‘Ms. Jackson’, ‘So Fresh So Clean’ and ‘The Way You Move’, but also ‘Daddy Fat Sax’, ‘Tangerine’ and ‘Shutterbug’, selections from his debut solo album proper that stand shoulder to shoulder with anything he’s produced with the help of Andre 3000 (aka Three Stacks, aka Ice Cold, aka Possum Aloisious Jenkins, aka Dookie Blossum Gain the 3rd, aka the other half of bloody OUTKAST!).
The problem is the sound. Heaven is a place where nothing ever hits you round the face like it should. We need to be able to feel our eyes rattling around our heads to this stuff, but as it is, this is one of those gigs where two people can have a pleasant conversation without raising one’s voice right up until near the very end of the set, when they finally get their shit together (for ‘Shutterbug’, thankfully). But pleasant conversations aren’t what you overhear. It’s grunts, frustrations, occasional abuse directed at the sound desk. Big Boi seems oblivious – the monitors on stage are apparently working fine, and when the girls from the front row are pulled up there to dance with him, they suddenly seem a lot more animated by the increased volume levels they’re experiencing. It looks like so much fun. Just wish we could all have been a part of it.
Artists in this article: Big Boi
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