I have been working on a series called "Six Degrees." It is my way of chronicling my brushes with Hip-Hop luminaries. The below encounter with KRS is probably one of the funniest and silliest encounters I experienced.
The time frame was circa 93-94 and the spot was a club called David’s. On this particular night “The Techa,” KRS-1, was scheduled to perform.
For those who are not from the 757 (VA,) David’s, to this date was the illist club the seven cities has ever seen. The building was an old movie theater that had been converted into a night club. Upon entering the club the area which had been the theater’s old lobby and concessions area was transformed into a lounge area with about ten tables and twenty or more chairs. What was perfect about this area was that the sound from the dance area did not bleed too heavy into the lounge area making it perfectly conducive for exchanging hellos and information. For those who may have forgotten or never knew there was a time when one actually had to obtain another’s contact info by writing it down on a piece of paper or napkin because your only source of vocal communication was a home phone or a pay phone, but I digress.
Once you passed through the lounge area the club immediately became a large open space. Imagine a theater stripped of all its seats; I’m talking about a 70’s era theater which were normally twice the size of the current era cineamax multiplex screening rooms. In the middle of the space was a raised oval dance floor that could accommodate approx 150-200 people. In the very back was bar located under a pinkish neon sign that read “David’s.” Take the trek up stairs and there was another lounge type area with a few pool tables and another bar with about ten stools. A couple of steps from the upstairs bar the old projection room had been converted in the DJ booth. To enter the booth it was a quick three steps down, the booth then jettison out about five to six feet giving a perfect survey of the entire club while rocking on the ones and twos.
Now on to the story, I get fresh dressed and ready to party and jump into my shitty sky blue Hyundai. At the time I thought that car was the shit, it had a sun roof, and I even put a decent sound system in it. Time would quickly prove that the line was a lemon. I mean, you still see old Ford Escorts and Chevy Nova’s on the road but when is the last time you seen a Hyundai Excel on the road?
When arrive on the scene I see a pretty good size line has already formed in front of the club, however, there would be no waiting on line for me. Due to the fact my god brother, Casper, was the featured DJ at the spot at the time I strode right to the front of the line like I was an international diplomat. I give the bouncer dap and hug the sister collecting the cover fees. All the while the brothers and sisters standing on line were definitely giving the screw face and wondering aloud why this white boy had head of the line privileges. Currently I have dreads down to my ass and a beard like a Taliban. But back then I was fresh out the Navy looking like a pretty straight white guy which I have no doubt only made the folks on line more incredulous about what they were witnessing.
With my entrance I’m feeling a bit like a star as I make my way up to the DJ booth to show love to my brother as well as the bouncers I encounter on the way. Trust me, it is never a bad thing to be known and have the bouncers in a spot on your side. Not on this night but on other occasions it proved quite helpful. There is nothing better then watching a cat bounced out of the club because he thought he could talk slick to you in front of your lady friend all the while you are laughing and taunting him like Nino Brown did to Ice T’s character in the playground scene from New Jack City.
As the club began to fill up I worked my way to a spot close to the dance floor that would soon turn into the stage for the Blastmaster’s performance. As is the case with Hip-Hop shows in a club the artist almost never arrives prior to 1am and I wound up standing in that spot in anticipation for like two hours. During this epoch of my life I hung on just about every word KRS uttered so I was going to make sure I was in the front of the crowd. Unwilling to lose my spot I didn’t budge for the whole two hours not even for a drink or to holla at any of the lovely ladies in the house.
After enduring the sweaty two hour wait taking an occasional knee to relive the pain in my back the Techa finally hit the stage. To this point the crowd was dense but everything had been chilled. KRS immediately got the crowd hyped launching right in with My Philosophy. It must have been the fourth or fifth song but the hypeness increased ten fold when the beat for the South Bronx dropped. When a crowed is rocking like this it is not uncommon for a body to two to bump into you. With the tenor of the crowd to this point of the evening being peace it was no big deal when I felt a couple of bodies bump up against me. Suddenly, I felt more then a bump but a push quickly followed by women screaming. As soon as I turned around a sea of bodies was scrambling and as it parted the source of the chaos was apparent.
Chairs were flying, fist flailing, and cats were getting stomped. No doubt shit was on. You know the routine when club fights gets out of hand. As the chaos was unfolding I started to look for higher ground to avoid the melee and quickly found myself on the dance floor stage. As the swarm of violence rapidly approached those of us on the stage had no where to go, including KRS. His hype man/body guard at the time Mick Boo of BDP had pushed KRS toward the railing and stood sentry in front of him. Momentarily distracted by the ruckus I saw an opportunity. I sliced through the crowed onto the stage with the grace of OJ and the power of Earl Campbell until I was mere inches form KRS. Just as KRS noticed me extending my hand to give a pound, Mick Boo turned around. In the space of a nanosecond Mick Boo went from looking like he was going to Mike Tyson my ass with one shot to an incredulous look of “really mutha fucka.” Mick allowed me close enough for KRS to extend his hand and give me a pound. Before I could even begin to retract my hand Mick unceremoniously shoved me back into the chaos to swim like a salmon upstream for my life. Doing my best Sweet Pea Whitaker I bobbed and weaved my way to the exit and the safety of the Portsmouth night. With my escape another chronicle in my instinctive travels through Hip-Hop culture came to an end.
Nas Dawud
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