Through a glass, party

For the last two-and-a-half years, I happily scrambled, late, late into Sunday nights to meet Monday deadlines for the Mirror. It was never hard to find ill local shit to get excited about, and that others would be down for, in those last seconds.

Granted, it is my job as a reporter to go out and find. So I do.

Ninety-five percent of the time, when local artists come at me for promo (whether once or 100 times), they are professional — or, at the very least, honest, open and polite in their approach.

Most are young-ish, maybe kinda rough around the edges in general, or straight salty, or some combo thereof.

Considering the lack of avenues for local rap talent to catch media attention (and opportunities to practise that skill as an independent artist), I can say that most present themselves hungry and on-point.

As I begin a second term covering hip hop from a local perspective, and get ready to delve into more in-depth music talk for Cult MTL, I feel less compelled to just go give it up to whatever is going down.

I’m building. We’re building.

And, casual reader, if you’ve been with us, you are the head cornerstone.

Nobody asked any of us to care about local hip hop. So if you loudly heave one or two bricks around the yard expecting everyone to watch their toes, be careful not to break the new windows.

Here’s my window on the soul of Osheaga this weekend.

Friday:  First raps shall be in native tongues as Radio Radio take the Virgin Mobile stage from 4:15–5 p.m. Switch your dial to the fifth-billing Bud Light stage at 5 for the basstallicalistic Huoratron.

I am not giving the Weeknd a pass here. I don’t see what the fuss is about. I’ve known since the 5th grade not to believe the hype. But I am looking forward to a critical challenge.

And what more can I say, really, than I believe that headliners Justice, in their living glory, will tip the scale over?

Saturday:  The party don’t stop ’til Snoop stop, and Snoop gon’ party to the end. Hopefully that won’t mean the worlds of weed, douchiness and grandparents colliding from 9:15 p.m. onward in front of the Virgin stage.

Way prior to his Highness, at 2:15 p.m. on the Sennheiser stage, see one-droppers the Aggrolites — a rare breed of white-type West Coast roots riddimists with more trusty cred than crusty dread — mashitup.

The Bud Light stage, early in the day, is a legit dancefloor, with locals Simon Called Peter and Kaytradamus preceding L.A. enigma Nosaj Thing, from 2–5:45 p.m., all in.

Major hype for my day, though, is at the Sennheiser stage 6:30 p.m.: Harlem’s prettiest muthafucka’, A$AP Rocky. Fuck yeah, all that swag shit is tacky. So are rock fests.

Sunday:  I wouldn’t quite call it a day of rest, but soul music lovers can take it, easy.

L.A.-bred Motown-sound revivalist Aloe Blacc sets off a Sunday vibe at 2:35 p.m. on the Virgin Stage. Rain or shine, this man and his band will make you smile wide. Couples, lovers or anyone who’d want to turn the scene into a first date, take note.

Stroll on over to the river then, maybe, but make it back for a 4 p.m. rendez-vous with Common. Always smooth and absolutely larger than life live, expect 45 minutes of outdoor hip hop at its finest.

Shift over to the big Bud stage right after that for the beautiful trance of wailer Santigold.

After that, who knows? M83, the Black Keys? Conception in the Biosphere? ■

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