Written by Noah Goodbaum | Photography by Philip Litevsky

Here’s the thing about Hip-Hop Karaoke: Walk into the Boat on the second Thursday of any given month, plonk down five bucks, and you’re bound to see a concert that would ordinarily have been the highlight of your year. An idea originally conceived well over ten years ago, kicked off in New York City and now established in four cities in the UK as well as Montreal and Reykjavik, Iceland (which only makes sense, of course; how could it not be in Iceland?), HHK is based on a formula so simple it’s all-but-foolproof: four hosts (DJ Numeric, DJ Ted Dancin’, the enchanting DJ Dalia, and the lionhearted More or Les) lay down time-honoured rap tracks chosen from a laundry list of classics, and participants, signed up and their selections chosen, get onstage and rock that shit. No gigantic TV screen, no cheesy bouncy-ball, and only a few ever need lyrics; just that straight-up hardcore boom bap, raw and given to ya, with no trivia.

The Toronto incarnation, whose seventh shindig occurred August 9th, is unique in boasting an elite troupe of regulars who alone can turn the evening into a rafter-shaking delight; unfortunately, many of the constellation’s leading lights (Sean Ward, Buddy With The Skills, Tango & Ass) were absent tonight, but many more all-stars were there to represent. The great and garrulous Gersh, well-known for matriculating like a grand piano in LL Cool J-ology, this time chose instead to let Punks who Jump Up know they’re gonna get Beat Down; Splattermonkey, protesting that he’d be wack, threw on “Intergalactic” and “Award Tour” and soundly disproved himself. RaSoul, whose imposing six-foot frame belies a disarming sincerity, proclaimed his “hatred of carpet” (translation: “Get the fuck up here, y’all!”), brought out his main man Testament, and proceeded to kick out the true-school jams, getting all plangent and wistful for “I Used To Love H.E.R.” and tearing the house down with his specialty, dead prez’s fist-pumping “Hip Hop”.

Rant-prone preacher-man Rhinoceros tore into his three selections (the Pete Rock Remix of Das EFX’s “Real Hip-Hop”, Mos Def’s “Mathematics”, and, as the final performance of the whole night, Jay-Z & UGK’s “Big Pimpin’”) with a frenzied passion bordering on dementia; his bizarre persona has earned him something of a following on YouTube, but I’m sorry folks, I just don’t believe the hype. After a brief stumble, the homie Kagan did “Warm It Up Kane” up proper. Mindbender, having mauled Kanye West’s “Heard ‘Em Say” last month, made the second time a charm. A random Asian cat from Scarborough, ranting about the glories of the ‘90s and sporting a chain that could choke an elephant, did something like justice to Casual’s “That’s How It Is.” Marco’s “Unbelievable” was just that, and the Cookie Puss Crew took “Hold It, Now Hit It” for a spin and killed it, while a fetching lass known only as V, respected for tearing up a Rascalz joint last time, topped herself with an undeniably on-point, gender-switched “Passin’ Me By”. And I would be remiss not to mention the justly beloved Sherry P., who did Onyx’s “Slam” and absolutely DESTROYED THE UNIVERSE.

Most hearteningly, a surprising number of new jacks made the case that they’re ready to be welcomed into the fold with the best. Standing out in particular among the first-timers was a fella called Sean, who wrecked shop three separate times, most notably with Canibus’ LL diss “2nd Round Knockout”. In fact, there was hardly a wack performance all night. The exceptions were a glaring few, and hard to classify as such even then. Some plainly sozzled schlemiel wandered up to do an embarrassing if unintentionally hilarious “Shimmy Shimmy Ya” (he was as -erratic- as ODB, but I’m not sure that equals a dope performance.) Topping all in a triumph of resplendent awfulness, I-Ras ambled up to do “Ms. Fat Booty” ENTIRELY in the most tortureosly laboured whiteboy faux-patois this side of Matisyahu. With his unflappable poise and evident self-regard amid the wreckage, he recalled no one so much as woebegone, grasping Vanilla Ice, but methinks another comparison may be more apropos: ladies and gentlemen, I present the return of Snow!

And yet not even THIS clown was booed. Warm, nonjudgmental good vibes and a spirit of camaraderie permeate the whole enterprise. MAS TEES, run by HHK regulars, sold their wares at the door; fitting, because mutual respect and goodwill is all this evening is about. And yet it’s more than that. None of us are snobbish puritans, but fundamentally, we all recognize that it’s about the valorization of a dream, a utopian era of joyously pure, emotionally resonant hip-hop that may never have actually existed. In so doing, it’s almost like it lends us a greater knowledge of our dignity as people. We HHK-goers are romping around in the quicksilver playground of memory, taking ourselves out of the workaday grind once a month to bring joy to our hearts by throwing ourselves full throttle into the world and the music that matter to us.

Peep the pics from all the madness here.