hal miller

Kool Keith + DJ Spooky

Wetlands, NYC
September 2, 1999

It's slightly more than a half-hour's worth of time, after DJ Spooky's under-appreciated, other-worldly display of advanced turntablism ends, that brings out a hockey-masked agent of Keith's, wagging towels in our faces. And it's not long before a rubber-haired MC generally known as "Kool Keith" walks on stage champion-like to meet the enthusiastic cheers of his young fans. We applaud the triumphant return of our Bronx-born anti-hero, now a West Coast transplant.

"Hey, everybody," Keith offers in a friendly, yet slightly shy and nasal voice. Keith, donned with cape, fly threads and freshly-glued, rubber Elvis coif is now fully awake and ready to rip. Solid, pounding beats quickly break down the hippie flavor that commonly dominates this deadhead hangout. The fanatical crowd shifts and flows forward. It's been a long journey to recognition, but it seems that Keith is finally receiving the appreciation he deserves for channeling his oddball charisma.

Keith resurrects the late surgeon Dr. Octagon with the classics "3000" and "Girl Let Me Touch You," whipping the crowd into a single, jumping mass. Hands wave above heads that sing along to hyper-charged choruses. Disappointingly, the glaze-eyed "Blue Flowers" doesn't translate as well. A shouted delivery and wall-slamming beats bury the song's tear-eyed musical strains. But, like everything else about Keith, this is merely a fragment in a series of eye-opening exceptions and interesting inconsistencies that simply maintain the freshness.

New numbers like "Livin' Astro" and "Rockets On The Battlefield" epitomize Keith's talent to write super-catchy songs while still retaining his unique, outer-stratospheric edge. "I got my shades on/big rock star compared to Elvis/signin' autographs for rappers/while girls move their pelvis," the MC boasts. The rubber-crowned king of ill flow maintains the center of the storm as he triumphantly tours the stage, flanked by his ruckus-bringing henchmen. The inevitable booty-call to the stage brings a large party of female fans to gyrate fervently with Keith and posse as the less fortunate males in the room watch from the crowd side.

The night is full of positive exchange. Keith introduces his parents to his appreciative fans, who, in turn, make it clear that they are also fans of Mr. And Mrs. Thornton for bringing Keith into the world. One massive fan holds his vinyl copy of "Black Elvis" above the throng, his torch-like display of devotion to Keith. Later, this same Keith devotee shares the mic with his hero. Earlier in the set, small packets of oily fried chicken fly from the stage. Some punters, after snatching the packets mid-air, waver on taking action with their dead bird parts. Others follow their natural instincts, accepting Keith's generosity with open, greasy hands and mouths.

Fans' responses to Keith are varied yet positive - can you think of anyone else who receives mixed reactions while commanding such rabid attention? Scatological metaphors such as "I roast fools that move in butt like I'm toilet tissue/what is your issue/you're over, man, I don't miss you" and "Put used diapers on your windshield wipers/Make you eat your own feces" meet with serious-faced devotees shouting back the words as well as amused admirers keeping a safe distance.

Keith draws forth bundles of energy with material form his 1997 porno opus "Sex Style," 1996's outer-reaching "Octagonecologyst," Dr.Dooom's recent killing spree "First Come, First Served" and "Black Elvis/Lost In Space." No one dared challenge Keith's superhuman boasts that he could "throw a hundred-thousand-pound walrus right through a wall." When you're livin' astro, anything is possible.