Written by Noah Goodbaum

Let me admit something to y’all: When it comes to Canadian hip-hop, I’m generally a bit of a skeptic. I taught myself that critical assessment of skillz has to come before hometown or national pride when evaluating an artist, and I had myself believing that, when measured by this oh-so-exacting scale, most Canadian hip-hop artists came up short. It was an arrogant attitude, not wrongheaded but probably unduly snobby, and I was pretty well convinced of the rightness of maintaining it. So it sorta bowled me over when ManifesTO came by to prove me wrong on every conceivable level.

BIG shouts an’ hollers (like HE-EY! HO-O!) go out to the muddaphuggas and muddaphuggerettes who were responsible for conceiving, planning, organizing and implementing the whole shit. Really, this was a behemoth of an event—even the small part of it I attended (Sunday’s festivities only, which is regrettable given the involvement of righteous folks like Ultra Magnus, Arowbe, and my peoples Numeric and Dalia at other times) seemed colossal, mammoth, something that could barely be contained by one afternoon-and-evening. And it turned out it couldn’t. No jive—practically every single act was so bang-on, I was beside myself with exultant joy, and even the acts I didn’t expect to go home praising won me over.

For a while, though, things looked pretty grim, I grant you. I arrived at Nathan Phillips Square around 2 PM, just in time for something called “The Cause Showcase” and a glib, didactic, well-meaning but really not very entertaining group of would-be revolutionaries called Stolen From Africa. It hurts my heart to hate on acts that have “good things to say”, but one can only afford to be hit with a sledgehammer so many times, and these dudes weren’t exactly subtle. “Pro-black”, “conscious”, “multicultural”, the whole nine; all ideals I fall in line to support, all stuff that needs being said. But not this annoyingly, declamatorily, poorly.

The rest of the afternoon was cool—smooth-dancin’ twelve-year-olds, yo! 2 Badd are the SHIT!—but things really didn’t get going ‘til around 6 PM. Wait, no, I lied: Ayah came on before then, and if there’s even a teeny little bit of justice, Ayah will soon be a star. We’ve all heard the same R&B-diva tropes drummed into the ground so many times by a hundred thousand equally talented, equally boring mistresses of melisma, and I’m not sure whether Ayah does anything much different from what, say, Mary J. would do. But never forget, Mary J. is awesome, and Ayah is aaaaawesome. She did nothing especially unconventional with her set, but she nailed every single thing about it.

There was some breakin’, some graffin’, an ill freestyle cipher, and then the real shit began. A dynamite set from Abdominal & DJ Fase, with cavalcades of rapid-fire syllables reverberating off the stage. The beautiful Zaki Ibrahim, wowing the crowd with a mesmeric, near-avant-garde stream of gorgeously full-bodied singing and bohemian scat. Shad-K, winning a bevy of new fans by being exactly as staggeringly awesome as he doesn’t seem to know how not to be. Top-shelf performances by the lot of ‘em. But other than Shad, whose music I just love to bits and pieces, I think my favourite pre-show set was by Masia One, whose show was utterly fantastic.

My reaction to Masia One was a tricky thing. Going in before the set, I kinda didn’t want to have to switch around from my last review and give her my unqualified support, because I felt it’d smack of a loss of integrity not to stick to my opinion, plus I didn’t want it to seem that I was giving her a good review ‘cause she’s so pretty. But I really did have an absolute blast at her show; it made me wonder whether I’d just been asleep last time, because in addition to her usual engaging stage presence, she also had a raft of great songs to do, and spun each one of them into gold. Truly impressive, and a big surprise for your happily curmudgeonly correspondent.

All this, and that’s not even touching the later “live mixtape” show, which purported to combine the ‘past, present and future’ of Canadian (mostly Toronto) hip-hop, who would form like Voltron to create a watershed moment in T-Dot rap history. One would have expected it to end up as baseless hyperbole; I certainly looked down my nose at the whole business at first. But no, it was astonishing; despite certain absences for the better (k-os, Kardinal Offishall) and the worse (Spek of Dream Warriors, who for those who don’t recognize real, is an absolute legend) every last performer came through.

The “future” segment was an interesting little lineup. I’d previously rather enjoyed poking fun at Eternia, but her set was commanding and totally on-point. Daetona, too, rocked the spot (I don’t remember the name of his huge hit, but that’s a really good joint, isn’t it?) The only mar was Rochester (aka Juice), who was exactly as stolid, as one-note, and as unpleasant as I’d heard he was. But ‘nuff cats all over seem to think he’s the truth, so don’t mind me. Eternia and Masia both proved me wrong tonight; maybe the next Juice concert I see will blow my brain. One has to wonder.

And it kept going. You had Brassmunk, Mathematik, Dan-E-O, Tara Chase, Saukrates. All good rappers and fine, capable performers, but no one who blew my wig back. I saved my sheerest elation for three Can-rap heroes, folks who’ve pioneered the artform straight from the start, and made an enormous impact here and elsewhere. These were Mr. Lu of Dream Warriors, Michie Mee, and the one, the only, Maestro.

As word is my life, and love is my witness, I’ma tell you straight up: All three of them were on FIRE. As much as I might have been more inclined to give props to Spek over Lu (Subliminal Simulation is my favourite Can-rap album due in large part to Spek’s introspective and intelligent spits), the man came off damn nice. I had forgotten my definition of a boombastic jazz style; how nice of Lu to help me relearn it! And I have nothing but the most glowing things to say about Michie and Maestro, both of whom were thrillingly dynamic and absolutely killed it; Michie still has every bit the energy, sass, warmth and skill to take on the younguns, and Maestro was a whirring blaze, a fireball, tearing through his catalogue of classics with the kind of ferocity and dapper showmanship I’d have expected from Big Daddy Kane. The man seems to have really developed an understanding of how important he is to Canadian hiphop history, and he’s ascended royalty’s throne with dignity and grace.

Remarkable, really, an absolute jaw-dropper. And here’s why, for me, it was so important. It taught me a key lesson, and although I’m no moralist and I have a distaste for “lessons”, I’ll absorb it and be sure to learn it well: Snobbery and holier-than-thou condescension in respect to one’s hometown hiphop scene is a crock. Hate if you must, but turn around one day and you just might be blindsided with an embarrassment of riches, ‘cause the scene will grow whether you realize it or not. So as every thatched hut can’t be Buckingham Palace, so every rap-city can’t be NYC. But we, Toronto, can do something even more valuable; we can find dope and unique and meaningful ways to be us. And that we did, in fine style. Thanks to all who showed me that.

Love and blessings go out to Rod Skimmins, for persevering through the Herculean task of putting it all together; to Strictly Tev, ‘cause he’s my motherfuckin’ man and puts up this site so y’all can read it; to Sherry P. for somehow finding a way to be awesome even in passing; and to Kriti B., just ‘cause I say so.