Written by Noah Goodbaum | Photography by Philip Litevsky

I don’t really know Jesse Ohtake. Before the night of Saturday the 24th, I don’t think I’d ever met Jesse Ohtake. I knew the name ‘Jesse Ohtake’—enough reputable cats an’ dames in the T-Dot rap scene scream his name that it sorta occurred to me I oughta learn it for future reference at some point—some things happen by osmosis, y’know? But the man himself was a mystery, an abstraction, elusive and fundamentally unknowable. Like John Shaft or some shit.

That is, until Friday night. You see, as it turns out, there is against all odds a real live flesh-and-blood Jesse Ohtake, and the fella just recently turned an age that ain’t old by a long shot, but that’s a high enough number that I don’t wanna tell you what it is ‘cause I don’t know whether dude wants it screamed from the rafters, undadig?* That said, I can speak on what he decided to do about it; what he decided to do was throw a party. And that invited to said party roughly half the most extraordinariest mic-wreckers north of Buffalo. And that it was some CRAAAAAZINESS.

Now admittedly, not every performance was a knock-down drag-out humdinger, exactly. But the guest list alone rather made me consider requesting to the Crown that Jesse Ohtake be granted lordship of a small fiefdom—you know, give the man a couple acres in the West Indies, set ‘im up right next to Trugoy The Dove’s pops, that’ll do the trick. (Not “Dave”, Trugoy, dammit!) I ain’t even lyin’ to you, folks; when you can get a lineup like this one into the same room for longer than eighteen seconds, you are approaching blue-ribbon territory. Get Rod Skimmins to DJ the gig, and I’ll make it a medal. In fact, I am making it a medal; goblin welders on Dope-A-Lot staff are being dispatched to the job as we speak.

Then again, maybe I just become hopelessly giddy whenever I see Shad-K perform. Mark my words, any time spent in the company of this dude’s mind, live or on record, is bound to be rewarding, and this was no exception. Bounding on stage to a fittingly fresh intro courtesy of his formidable DJ, the recent DMC finalist Tee-Lo, Shad’s set was short, swift, and so much fun, I met a barrel of monkeys on the way home who told me they were mad jealous. Irrepressibly gregarious and winningly charismatic, with a scythe-sharp wit and an exceptionally elastic flow, Shad is the kind of rapper who makes crafting sparklingly insightful, hilarious songs look as easy as breathing. (“Hey Shad, what are you gonna do today?” “Oh, I’m just gonna go record a couple insanely dope joints, full of genuine, unforced compassion and containing the best punchlines you’ve ever heard. Keep the pot roast warm.”)

Next up was the bewitching Masia One, who appeared mildly perturbed to have been invited on stage when she did, but put on a fine show regardless. Masia’s dedication to the culture, and to helping develop the T-Dot rap scene into the best thing it can be, via Honey Jam and otherwise, goes well past the point where simply praising her sincerity and integrity can cover it; she’s the real deal, straight up and down. She’s also an engaging stage performer, preternaturally self-assured and possessed of a feline grace. The only thing is, I don’t feel her songs very much; to my ears, they’re summery wisps that spend a lot of time going nowhere much. She does what she does pretty well, and I’m not in a position to question whether it needs doing; I wouldn’t know. But given how much I respect her as a person, I’m sorry to have to say that most of her music ain’t my bag. It may well be yours, though, and she more than merits your support, even if mine only goes halfway.

Dylan Murray I’m not so sure about either. He’s an earnest, competent reggae balladeer whose voice is a gorgeously lilting tremolo; unfortunately he tends to wrap it around the kind of ideas (you know, “corporate capitalism is wack”, “let the people unite”, that sort of thing) best befitting a jam-band festival where peaceably stoned granolas sway back and forth arm-in-arm, murmuring kumbayas. The songs are pleasant and enjoyable, but they’ll also help get you rid of that pesky insomnia right quick. It seldom helps that he delivers them in a specific dialect of Jafaican that may not pain the ears, but is still just enough to raise eyebrows with every “whatta gwan”. Patois is tons of fun, but we bleachskins need to tread carefully with it, and Dylan Murray might wanna watch his step.

Finally, we come to the mighty mighty Ghettosocks. The boast-beast from the Coast East wrecks a T-Rex like he’s swatting a fly, invents seventeen handy gizmos a week, and repels the agents of wackness with specs thicker than blood or water. He’s nimble as anything onstage, and his recent album, Get Some Friends, is laden with front-to-back niceness: beguiling Slick Rick-isms, scaldingly caustic battle raps, imagination out the wazoo. Pick it up. And the next time you see Jesse Ohtake, give the dude some dap, and wish him a happy belated; the man deserves it, on the real.

*Readers are advised to kindly note that E-40 was regrettably unavailable to contribute to today’s Dope-A-Lot article more than a single solitary word. He thanks you for your understanding, fashigadale. Now go ahead an’ get dat doe like you rollin’ on Ball Street. Yadadamean?