Last night Pete and I saw Wu-Tang Clan at LCA. He drove up from his house in Black Mountain for a summer jaunt week in Michigan. Our history of memory and experiences, sloppy past and heartfelt connection. We attempt to make cleaner now with barber cuts and recognition of sleeping.The Wu were fifty-year-old men acting as super-hero ninja action figures playing their MC super power part deeply aware of the metaphors that RZA presided over. He is a true master who went early at a young age and faced that demon and darkness to come out cold and inspiring. The Wu succeeded and they live residual culture essence in the lexicon.
The audience, mostly men, had the skin and beard tones of Pete and I. Elements of jugallo fringes and funk. Marijuana, smoke, incense and Shea Butter Detroit fabulous.
All of it was routine and performative.
The stage and the audience had all moved on from that era as we know we had all changed the past five years. The pandemic was an unveiling and now this current climate unfolding we know we’re going into something we don’t yet know, too afraid, too stu pid to look at history.
The climate the Wu warned about, and the Chamber we have all entered.
The Chamber Pete and I once shared has long been broken, the clay pot shattered. Some around us have been left intact, water seeping into the patio cracks absorbed by moss.
As Pete and I had the routine middle eastern Detroit restaurant where the young men emulate their old world elders. We broke bread and shared the chicken schwarma relating the new chamber we were entering, educated by Wu Tang sloppy and wavy decades ago.
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