Trinity International Hip Hop Festival: Day 1

My heart sinks as I stare at the prediction on Weather.com: rain, Saturday and Sunday. Just fabulous. Trinity’s International Hip Hop Festival is supposed to be one of those vibrating outside events, spilling over into the streets, commanding the attention of everyone around it. ”It rained at Woodstock,” I reassure myself. “It can still be fun.” I arrive on Friday late, having no idea what to expect. Trinity College, a gated campus in the middle of a declining Hartford neighborhood, is the last place I’d expect to host America’s first large-scale, international hip-hop event. When I first learned of the festival, my head had filled with images of blond jocks and girls with blow-dried hair awkwardly swaying to hip hop beats. But, when I pull up to campus, Trinity students are outnumbered by permanent Hartford residents. Outside the venue, graffiti artists perfume the air with spray cans. Artists and staff, all wearing the same VIP tags, anxiously mill around, talk into tape-recorders, video-cameras, and walkie-talkies. They shove fliers and mix CDs into my hands. Three Trinity students, all wearing North Face fleeces, walk along uninterested. Iinside, I’m struck by two things about the audience: its size and its mix. I remember being impressed by the roster of artists — Trinity managed to bring performers from places like Brazil, Tanzania, Mexico, Senegal, Iraq, and Uganda. Yet the crowd is meager, the venue barely half full. Still, I feel a bustling energy around me. There is a curious blend of people: white boys with dreds, elementary school kids, racially ambiguous Trinity students, Puerto Ricans, hoodied and blazered New Yorkers, and polished college girls. There is a breakdancing corner to the right of the stage, and I can’t take my eyes off a huge dancer with an airbrushed hat and a billowing white T-shirt.

Suddenly a small black man in a wine-colored blazer bounds onto the stage. “No ice, no bling bling, no sucka MCs all weekend,” our host, Yesod, promises. The first act commences. Two college-age kids called Himalayan Project — one Indian but both repping New York City — spit your average socially aware lyrics over moderately live beats. The kids and the hosts proffer what has become hip hop-loving cliché — at once critical and idealistic lyrics, unmistakably New York-tinged, same as every other S.O.B.’s or Village Underground or Mercury Lounge concert I have ever seen. Alright — where’s the global influence? I’ve heard this all before.

My ears perk up when Baba Israel takes the stage — somebody I’ve actually heard of and may have even seen at some random Roots concert a few years back. His guitarist is a white guy with never-ending dreds. As I absentmindedly listen to Baba’s rhymes, I stare at the dred dude thoughtfully plucking his guitar, wondering what he would have to say for himself. Suddenly Baba Israel breaks out with one of the most amazing beatbox performances I’ve ever born witness to. The best part is when Yakov (dred dude) opens his mouth and joins in. “Hip hop is a participatory culture,” Baba Israel beams, inciting a spontaneous breakdance show on the stage and a burst of approval from the crowd. Liza Garza, the hostess, loves it. “This was not planned. They met in the spirit of the music, of the creativity,” she gushes. Despite her cheesy comment, I’m smiling uncontrollably. Dola from Tanzania starts rhyming in Swahili with an infectious facial intensity. I feel almost embarrassed by the contrast of Dola’s persistent bass in my stomach and the crowd’s faint cheering in my ear — Dola deserves the most live audience possible for his set, but the call-and-response skills of this one are downright pathetic.

It’s hot and I need to take a break. When I return, Silek, an Italian rapper who reminds me of the Beastie’s MCA sets a trance, Euro-hypnotic style. Not into it. Even less into it when Liza Garza presents us with a spoken-word piece, just a compilation of all the hip-hop buzzwords. Even less into it when Majesty bellows out his rhymes, which are truth-telling but abrasive and unoriginal. A dirty-looking white girl in the audience solemnly nods her head, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. The crowd looks eager — restrained but anticipatory. References to hip hop culture soar over people’s heads. There is a disconnect between the performers and the audience, and I can’t tell if it’s the crowd’s bored disappointment or its wide-eyed expectation.

El Gambina is the last act, a Korean-American who was once part of Jersey group Organic Thought. This girl seems familiar — could have sat next to her in an English class or something. She rhymes clearly and coyly, smooth and unassuming. The venue finally fills up for a last session with all the artists onstage. Spirits lifted but mostly puzzled by the poor showing, I find myself thinking, “Too little, too late.” I slump into my car at 1 am. Driving home, I remember Liza Garza imploring the audience to yell, “Woooooorlllldddd wiiiiiiddddeee.” But what I saw tonight was a lot of the East Coast basics. I love New York hip hop. It’s comfortable, reminds me of eighth grade, Union Square, and Brooklyn. Still, I secretly wish for more Dola-style stuff tomorrow. Please… tell me something I don’t know. Check back tomorrow for PopMatters‘ coverage of days two and three of the festival.