No, that's not my picture, but it's the closest one that I could find, on Google images, that looks like Buck did when he played the opening concert of London's Home County Folk Festival. "Wha wha whaaaaa?" you might say, "What is this rapper doing befouling our banjo-laden clusterfolk?" Before the show began, the Festival's artistic director, Catherine McInnes came out to explain just that by quoting (and I'm now paraphrasing but might have gotten it right) Louis Armstrong: "All music is folk music. I ain't never met a horse that could sing." That line was charming enough to relax a few of the older folky folks in the crowd, but most of the house was filled with people who knew exactly what they were getting into.
I want to focus on those few who didn't for awhile, though. I consider myself to be among them, but I don't quite fit into the ignorant demographic that I noticed so readily. There were people in attendance, mostly in the first three rows, who I would guess (rather safely) were only there because they always go to every Home County show. Unlike those up in the balcony and in the back who had already decided that they were going to love everything that happened on stage, cheering, shouting requests, and even giving Buck 65 instructions on the balance of his sound equipment, these people had likely never heard of Buck 65, never been to a hip hop show, and invariably left liking the genre a little better.
Buck 65 may be the ideal ambassador for getting hip hop to middle aged white folks. He's an attractive 30-something Nova Scotian with a penchant for self-deprication, plaid shirts, and the tossing of sparkly confetti (which he calls razzle dazzle). He plays the banter game, providing insight into the music that he is playing. He took the time to explain how scratching works, making the process all that much more real and impressive to the layman. His performed-to-perfection awkward dancing spits in the face of the shyness that generally keeps white dudes off of the dance floor. His less-than-serious songs; like the ones about Hallowe'en, Zombies, and his own attractiveness; open up a world of discovery to those who assumed that rapping was all about shooting up ho's and whatnot. And the heavier, serious stuff affirms itself with simply great backing music, so that even if the lyrics aren't getting across, you desperately want to believe that the words are as incredible as you think they are.
The whole time, there were heads bobbing and toes tapping. These are people who didn't know the rules for how to respond to what they were seeing except for universal polite applause. These people were enjoying what they were seeing with fresh, uncontaminated eyes, in a way that even those 20-somethings who had discovered Buck 65 back in the early 90's likely couldn't have. These are men and women who have spent their lives listening to a certain kind of music, and, thanks to their devotion to a festival were seeing something that was both new and wonderful.
I know all of this because it happened to me too. For the three hours I spent at this show, and about two hours after that, Buck 65 was the greatest musician I had ever seen live. It might still be the case, but I'm not as fanatically certain as I was while the live-music aura was still surrounding me.
Assisted by Valery Gore, who sings like Feist but plays piano like Owen Pallett, Buck, quite possibly without meaning to, planted a seed inside of a lot of people. I wouldn't be surprised if many people in those first three rows went home, decided to find out what this Youtube thing was about, in order to keep the rush going. This show was an experience, it was a newness that had nothing to do with novelty, and it definitely made Buck 65 a new fanbase inside the London Folk community.
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