Minor-key melodies, trap hi-hats and rich bass spilled onto the street from the Majestic’s neon facade. The line inching toward the entrance was saturated with sloppily intoxicated millennials, time travelers from an era when triple XL airbrushed t-shirts and enormous sagging jeans were still cool.
Inside, contemporary and indistinct trap songs washed over a rowdy audience, filling all areas of the Majestic for Waka Flocka Flame’s sold-out Friday show. Assorted youth — who were decidedly not Waka Flocka Flame — galloped around the stage and exhaled loudly into microphones. Some briefly ventured to actually shout discernible lyrics, but these efforts were soon abandoned in favor of simply producing loud noises. This deafening ensemble diminished to a trio of DJs who pretended to spin disks and adjust nobs while playing the standard version of ILoveMakonnen’s “Tuesday.”
The three young DJs furiously fiddling with a mountain of turntables and wires seemed unnecessary for the simplicity of the task, but the audience seemed to enjoy the act nonetheless. The loud, inebriated group of adolescents in the audience was evidently content to waggle their arms about and sweat on each other as hits like “Don’t Like” and “Hot Nigga” poured out of the speakers.
One of the introductory DJs mumbled some departing words as the audience cheered affectionately for a group they’d never remember. As a sizable pre-Waka lull dragged on with no stage presence, eyes sank into smartphones and loud drunk conversations ignited as many audience members seemed to forget why they were in this sweaty, throbbing hall in the first place.
Waka Flocka Flame
Aaron Hathaway/The Badger Herald
Nearly two hours after the show was scheduled to begin, earsplitting air raid sirens and gunshot sound effects signaled a jarring transition to Waka’s set. A new DJ took the helm and shouted pump-up clichés at the audience as he ruthlessly abused the air horn sound effect. The mounting excitement climaxed when Waka Flocka abruptly appeared onstage, clad in tight black joggers and a black long-sleeved shirt, bellowing into the mic in rhythm with successive EDM-style beats.
Waka popped a Dom Pérignon and sprayed the contents of the bottle across the front section, lobbing fistfuls of dollar bills into the frenzy before him. He started his set with electronic beats, a curious choice considering his banging trap tracks were what brought him to fame. His impressive mop of dreadlocks whipped over the audience. A pack of photographers orbited around him and snapped constant pictures, as though they were a National Geographic crew doing a sea life special on Flock-topi. A grown man wearing a fedora blew smoke across the balcony, casting a disorienting haze over the intense atmosphere Waka was creating. He transitioned to tracks like “Hard In Da Paint” and “Karma,” bringing Waka Flocka back to his roots. Waka’s bejeweled Breitling watch reflected the pulsing pink lights of the Majestic as he sporadically bellowed lyrics.
While Waka did a poor job of actually performing his songs, he did a good job entertaining the audience. He happily handed out high fives and borrowed phones for legendary selfies, at one point even putting the music on autopilot to leap into the audience and join in the revelry himself.
Although the artistic performance aspect felt underdeveloped, it seems unfair to expect such a thing from Waka. His style and personality hardly seem to emphasize finesse. Instead, he rages right along with the churning audience, making it seem more like we were partying with a celebrity rather than passively viewing his performance. As the show tapered off, viciously maladjusted treble and excessive gunshot sound effects punished eardrums while the caustic odor of a vomit/beer hybrid wafted up from the howling audience.
Waka ended the show rather abruptly, thanking the audience and expressing his fondness for Madison before disappearing. The harsh house lights snapped on and Buddy Holly era music came on, forcing a fast and rather confusing return to reality as many were unsure of whether or not Waka had gone for good.
Artistically, the show was underwhelming. The opening acts didn’t perform original music and Waka’s tracks periodically bordered on painful because of piercing treble and smothering volume. Yet holding Waka to the same artistic standards as the London Philharmonic seems unfair. The two attract different audiences who seek different experiences from the show, and Waka delivered exactly what was expected of him by orchestrating a thunderous, intoxicated, no-holds-barred rager.
