To hip-hoppers averse to under-rock dwelling, rumors of an impostor posing as underground legend MF Doom at concerts are staler than Nelly-rap about open bags of Baked Lays…dusty. URB has super-sleuthed the bejesus out of forum rants of first/secondhand accounts from attendees of the Psuedo-Doom shows. Our first story appeared right here on URB blogs back in Jan, followed by a proper piece in URB no. 153 May/Jun issue of this year, that piece is right over here. For those whose weighty fingers prohibit the exhausting click of the above links, quick rundown:
As early as 06-07, fans have littered sites with stories of shows that were clearly lipsynched by the masked one. Others claimed the performer was not Doom at all, citing physique (no potbelly) and demeanor as evidence. What followed were enygmatic messages/emails to journo’s looking for answers, sporadic online outbursts proclaiming the Villain’s death, even claims that the stunts are the evil-lair concoctions of DOOM integral to some grand scheme that will conclude with the release of the rumored 2008 album “Doomposter”. Opinions are shit right now, and proof is even harder to muster, still URB was on-site at the latest fiasco…we’ll let you hair-brain on your own.
Looking down at the Tissot, the timepiece I jacked from stepdad: 8:45pm…Shit. Drew pulls out the the setlist crumpled into 1/32nds, a minute of unfolding and he looks up and gives me that “fuckery is afoot” look. I get him. A DJ steps up and proceeds to prep his dual Numark CDJ’s, wiggling cables and casting confusion toward the sound man. Pressed against the railing, our shared premonition for some-shit-going-down tickles the URB-journo in us to keep eyes glued to the stage.
As the DJ aimlessly pulls and plugs wires like Lite-Brite pegs, the boom of acts being missed on the main stage behind us, tense creeps to unruly levels. A single cup. A nickle. A dirty napkin. Sailing to the stage, three cups, two pairs of shades and 3.47 worth of change later and the DJ’s brought in a different unit, he slangs a bouquet of dumbfounded looks to the mob mid-”Doom” chant. Nobody’s buying it. Next, its mic trouble. Herky-jerky board-fumbling marks the flustering of the sound man. Meanwhile, everyone around us is patting down their person looking for something to throw, and everyone on or near the stage is catching volleys of “you pussy”, and “bring him out you *(&%”#”. I guess its become their fault now.
A Tahoe backs in to the left of the stage. The backstager VIP’s and staff crowd the parked vehicle awaiting the emergence of the metal-faced one. No love. The crowd is pissed, fuck the “he’s coming” shit, they want him flesh and blood on that stage 20 minutes ago. 5-10 more have passed and the DJ is wading in the flung cups and shit-talk of the mass as a voice over the mic halts the assault.
It’s near 9p, and the crowd gathered at 8p. Then, general hype from a voice offstage. “Yo, yo, and yo”…two hype men skip up to the stage, henchman A in a skimask, B rocking panties on his face. “Doom” hustles up in tow, hopping about as the beat drops. Crowd elation is short-lived thpugh, as the track is fucked, sounds like he’s spittin’ through a toilet paper tube, and he ominously covers his mouth and mic as he “raps”. He’s potless, shorter than expected, he COULD be Doom…when shit starts flying from the unfooled he pulls the mic away from his face as the track continues. Lipsync, check. Everyone on stage is passing the “who sharted” reaction around, DJ to sound man, sound man to hype men, hype men to Doom, Doom to DJ. Of course, the DJ plays pissed, his face casts blame on RTB staff, but the man in the booth defends: “The DJ’s unit is fucked” comes in over the front speakers. All the while, incognito entourage members continue to spurt their “uh’s” and “yo’s” on mics crisp as fabric softener sheets. “Pass him the mic” I’m thinking. Everyone on stage has a good mic but Doom? Pass him a fucking mic. No. They wont.
The man in the iron mask shys to the corner like a scolded child, he looks for direction from anyone on stage, his presence is not one of confidence. No boldness found from a vet like DOOM?. Its not him. Cant be. Why wont he address the crowd?
Shit-showers roll in, a chorus of heckling, a downpour of debris. The masked men flee to the Tahoe, leaving DJ to clean up duty. Drew swore he saw the DJ throw in a CD pre-Doom, and the second Numark CDJ was conveniently replaced by what looked like a drum-machine. Why switch a CDJ for a shot drum unit and pop a distorted CD in? Coincidence? Who knows. To the fans who weren’t in the know about Doom’s recent bamboozling, they vocalize their loss of faith in their anti-hero hero. To my left a disappointed outburst coated in comedy, “Im glad I didnt waste my blunt on you, you fa**ot!” Drew and I were chopping it up with Bell-rockers in the immediate vicinity, one says “I dont care about his music I used to like, I dont like him no more.” Some pouted, some threw shit and yelled, most just left to catch the Nas set of which they had missed half.
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