Who’s the “Pussy’ole?” I had to ponder this question last night as I wondered why the Dizzee Rascal concert went so wrong in every way. First, he didn’t show up, which is, well, like, a problem in itself. More importantly, though, the audience at Cervantes didn’t know why he didn’t show up, or even of the concert’s eventual cancellation until a quarter to midnight. Most importantly, the concert seemed strung along until that point to maximize liquor sales.
No one was let in the show until almost half an hour after the posted 8 p.m. door time and only then after an employee obviously checked to make sure that there was enough confused concertgoers to let people in. A DJ started to play at eleven, just as the crowd was starting to yell out Dizzee’s name, and just when their liquor-buying tolerance seemed to be near its end.
On the flip side, a stumbling, smiling concert patron had informed me that he saw Dizzee Rascal eating tacos at around 8 at an undisclosed location with his “crew”. So maybe Dizzee was so full of tacos (and one would assume other substances) by 11:30 that he decided to call off the show.
I’ll never really know, I think. I assume denunciations, arguments, and counter-arguments to abound in the wake of such an event. All I do know is that in searching for answer to that eternal question, “Where Da G’s At?,” I could safely answer: nowhere near 26th and Welton last night. -- James Anthofer
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