Waka Flocka Flame Gets Pawed By "Ferocious" Fans in Fort Lauderdale

Triple F Life Tour

with Waka Flocka Flame, Wooh Da Kid, and Haitian Fresh

Revolution Live, Ft. Lauderdale

November 14

Better Than: Gucci Mane in a sloppy tracksuit at a poorly attended porn convention.

Last night's edition of Waka Flocka Flame's "Triple F Life" tour was 3/4 everything that sucks about rap concerts and, really, live music in general. But the last quarter achieved a Zen, platonic perfection, courtesy of the evening's marquee maniac. 

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We arrived to find a fairly expansive onstage hype crew -- DJ, MC/host/default main hype man, a superfluous live drummer, three to seven people holding cameras, and dudes just standing there -- yelling all sorts of hype crew gibberish at the 18-plus audience in between dense and deafening blasts of a Top 40 pop rap megamix laced with select deep cuts from the Brick Squad Monopoly recording vaults.

The crowd at first was fairly timid, especially compared to the rabid blunt-smoking party savages native to the rap concerts at the Fillmore on Miami Beach. We imagine this was due to most of the audience being under the drinking age, which, BTW, we didn't expect. Not that there was any demographic expectation, really, but this group was notably young and suburban. 

It was also highly inclined to dethaw. By the time local rapper and recent Brick Squad signee, Haitian Fresh, took the stage, the kids were getting straight stupid. To be honest, his set, as well as that of the other two openers -- Sugar Shane and inner-circle ATL rapper, Wooh Da Kid -- were a chore to sit through. 

You the know the drill. The DJ plays the song. The rapper yells over his own prerecorded voice. Everything is too loud. Repeat. And the deeper we got into the respective sets, the vocals became increasingly blunt and hoarse, adding to an overall washout. 

Haitian Fresh invited girls onstage to dance like strippers, but every single one that ended up there looked like they were dying to get off. Sugar Shane hung from the balconies and a few times looked like he was going to totally wipeout. He also spent some time rapping while crowd surfing. These were the only notable occurrences until Waka took the stage. 

Once that happened, the night shifted into another gear. The live hip-hop experience is almost comically shitty. So you know an MC has talent when they can turn their CD blasting over a PA into a memorable experience. Which is exactly like what Waka Flocka Flame did from the moment he burst on the scene like a football player charging through a banner mixed with Lil' Jon, Andrew W.K., and the Macho Man Randy Savage.

Flocka paced back and forth down in the pit between the stage and the audience like the frontman of an '80s hardcore band. For much of the show he straddled the barricade like an East Berliner fistpumping during the demolition of the Berlin Wall, as the portion of his body exposed to the audience was clawed at, tugged upon, and groped by fans that could be accurately described as "ferocious." His other half was supported by a security guard who took on the rapper's Shaq-like girth with a spiritual dedication not unlike Simon of Cyrene helping Jesús carry his cross.

Waka ripped through song after song with the enthusiasm equal to that of the freaks he was whipping into a frenzy. Although he was clearly the center of attention, the life of the party, and within the precise crosshairs of most people in the room's attention and/or adoration, he was still ultimately a participant. His toothy shark's grin framed by a waterfall of perspiration confirmed this.

The night's peak came when a man dressed in a chicken suit was brought onstage for "Rooster in My Rari." He proceeded to go the fuck off, like he was the hip-hop equivalent of the guy who danced for the Mighty Mighty Bosstones. His unbridled, righteously goofy enthusiasm was the absolute embodiment of Waka Flocka's ethos and aesthetic.

Critic's Notebook

The Crowd: Three bros for every ho, high school kids, white people, suburban-y mall norms, squares, various delegates from punk, rock, and/or related etc contingents, Outmoded Broward "scene kids," a few thugs, and a beautiful nerd in a chicken suit.

From The Crowd: Hysterical, language-less cries of party rockin' ecstasy. Imagine people so thoroughly entertained that they flail and holler like a circus clown that has accidentally set itself on fire.

From The Stage: "Why you shakin'...[eyes widen with cartoonish omniscience], like you on dem mollies?" - Waka to his DJ

Personal Bias: We used to prefer getting icy with Gucci. But we've been converted to the Waka Flocka Church of Lampshades.

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