• Dirty

On Sunday night Reader digital content editor Tal Rosenberg and I hit up the Wu-Tang Clan show at the Congress Theater. Having experienced a number of Wu-Tang shows in the past, I’d give this one maybe three Wu-Tang hand signs in the air out of a possible five. There were some high points (Method Man’s floor-length fur coat with matching hat, the group making it onstage before 2 AM, “C.R.E.A.M.” still being a buck-wild jam), but they were largely canceled out by the negatives (the guy dressed like Ghostface turning out not to be Ghostface, Raekwon not being there, Ol’ Dirty Bastard still being dead). While the bafflingly broad demographic composition of the audience—we saw everything from 14-year-old mall-punk girls to thirtysomething office drones—and sheer energy in the room were an emphatic reminder of just how well-loved the group is, the performance itself was only a notch or two up from simply going through the motions. By the end of their set I was concentrating more on the towel situation onstage than the music itself.

But man, do you remember back in the day when the Wu-Tang Clan was young and ferociously hungry and more than a little dangerous? The FBI sure does!