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Random Magnet: A Show Grows In Brooklyn

By Candice Holmes

For me to get up before noon on a weekend is an amazing feat. I’m by nature a night owl. Almost 24 years later, my mother loves to tell the stories of how as a baby, I’d wake up like a vampire as the sun went down and would later quickly fall asleep, as it would rise. I fight my nature doing the nine to six (or seven) all week long and revert to base Thursdays (when the weekends officially begin, of course) through Saturdays.

But this Saturday was different. Weeks earlier, it spread through the web and my friends that Dave Chappelle was planning a free concert in a secret location in Brooklyn to mark the anniversary of Wattstax, a historic concert in Los Angeles in 1972. I requested two tickets online and successfully managed to get my tickets confirmed. I wasn’t missing the lineup of Erykah Badu, Jill Scott, Mos Def, Talib Kweli, The Roots, and other notable names lumped under the neo-soul banner for anything.

I had invited a friend to tag along as soon as I found about it and reminded him about it the night before. He let me know he was in the middle of a fast (a fast, I thought to myself. What’s up with that?), but he still confirmed himself as a go and we made plans to meet up at the event designated location for our bus ride to the secret spot.

Not only was I up early that Saturday, but also left earlier than I thought I would. I stepped into the world with my hoodie up and umbrella in hand to shield myself from the light drizzling. My planned course was from Jamaica to Chinatown where the bus was leaving from by 11:30am. It was around then approximately 10am. I was making decent time and about to break an arm patting myself on the back until I got to the train station and heard the announcement I’d begun to dread after a few rainy disastrous days of commuting: “there are extensive delays on E train service due to flooding on the tracks. There is interruption in service to Manhattan. The next train is leaving at [20 minutes from then].” The time was 10:25 am. I cursed under my breath and thought about my options. I headed down to the J platform -- thankful I lived at the last stop and that having a former MTA worker as a mother had taught me to be resourceful. The J was in the station about to leave and I took a seat mere moments before it set out across Queens and Brooklyn. Because it was the weekend a.k.a. when all the train lines go to hell, I couldn’t get the helpfulness of the typical J route because of construction on the Williamsburg Bridge. I had to take it to Broadway Junction and switch to the A, then again at Jay Street for the F train to East Broadway. But, still the ride had the potential to be smooth. The E being a pain actually might have saved me some time. The trip went well, despite the F running as C in Brooklyn for some inexplicable MTA reasoning. I emerged from the train station at 11:10 and got to the meeting spot by 11:15.

The first thing I noticed was the line. Everyone stood orderly, with the bodies stretching underneath the FDR Drive, as the buses idled at the curb along South Street. I sighed and walked to the end of the line. I glanced up and was unable to see even where I’d have to end up checking in. There’s nothing interesting about a line. I called and texted with my friend, feeling weak and lethargic – only natural after 3 days of no food. I didn’t outright threaten, but I implied strongly that I’d kick his ass – sick or no – if he flaked. He was somewhere in Times Square in search of fresh fruit blended smoothies at Jamba Juice and then held up by train problems. I suppressed the “are you kidding me???” and encouraged him to take the bus (“the bus,” he said, “where do I get one of those? Where does it go?” Ah, NYC newbies!), before scrapping that idea and urging him into a cab. Meanwhile, I inched closer slowly but surely. I even got the line entertainment of one girl using the garbage can like a toilet to vomit up her remnants of the night before. That was so lovely. And finally, there I was at the front of the line and the check-in table. With my friend nowhere in sight. I called him frantically and he said he was on his way. I pow-wowed with the man with the clipboard and I was permitted to wait at the side until he came instead of going to the back of the line. Along he came five minutes later and we were off to wait in the other long line. Great. The time was about 1:15pm.

In this line, I at least had him to talk with, so I was amused. Our chatter drew the attention of a guy standing in front of us going solo and we began to talk with him also. We spent the next two hours people watching as many wandered off to the nearby supermarket for food. A group in front of the three of us had such a collection of junk food that I was jealous (and hungry), but I wasn’t leaving the line for anything. I’d been standing around so long, I knew I’d probably forget what I was there for once I left and just scratch the whole trip as a loss. By 3pm, we were finally moving. The count for one bus ended right ahead of us – with our line buddy. I was seething and shot him a nasty look as he went off to get on his bus. We followed to a different one a few minutes later and were off across the bridge to Brooklyn.

The bus ride was approximately 20 minutes and I was not amused to find out that the show was pretty close to where I had passed through almost five hours ago on the subway. It was also raining and we were ushered into yet another line that led into a pen type of configuration. Right in front of the stage. The concert organizers handed out clear plastic ponchos and I felt like I was in a trash bag as I held the hood closed over my face to avoid the rain hitting it.

When we arrived, Kanye West and Freeway were finishing up. We made our way to the left side of the stage and tried to get good viewpoints. It’s a rare day that my 6’2” friend and I (at 5’5”) can see eye to eye on how tall people standing in the front of everyone else is a shitty move, but we did that day. The DJ spun a good set but between the rain and cold, we just felt miserable and packed in like cattle. The hated Dead Prez did a thankfully brief set and by then, we were contemplating leaving just because this whole day was just dragging out too long. I wandered around looking for show staff to find out some sort of schedule so we could figure out how much more we could endure. They were pretty clueless, but one chimed in that Erykah Badu was next. I almost squealed like a teenager. She’s my favorite and I never had the chance to see her live. I definitely wasn’t leaving before her.