What can one really say about HHK that hasn’t already been said here on Dope-A-Lot? Well, for one thing, how about motha-effin Saukrates showing up and busting a few? Or how about Korry Deez from IRS? Yeah, that’s right. One hell of a dope night, topped off by my main girls at MASTEES dropping a crazy new shirt! Peep all the madness here.

“I got a man” by Positive K (Performed by Lola and Sean)

Let me admit something to y’all: When it comes to Canadian hip-hop, I’m generally a bit of a skeptic. I taught myself that critical assessment of skillz has to come before hometown or national pride when evaluating an artist, and I had myself believing that, when measured by this oh-so-exacting scale, most Canadian hip-hop artists came up short. It was an arrogant attitude, not wrongheaded but probably unduly snobby, and I was pretty well convinced of the rightness of maintaining it. So it sorta bowled me over when ManifesTO came by to prove me wrong on every conceivable level.

BIG shouts an’ hollers (like HE-EY! HO-O!) go out to the muddaphuggas and muddaphuggerettes who were responsible for conceiving, planning, organizing and implementing the whole shit. Really, this was a behemoth of an event—even the small part of it I attended (Sunday’s festivities only, which is regrettable given the involvement of righteous folks like Ultra Magnus, Arowbe, and my peoples Numeric and Dalia at other times) seemed colossal, mammoth, something that could barely be contained by one afternoon-and-evening. And it turned out it couldn’t. No jive—practically every single act was so bang-on, I was beside myself with exultant joy, and even the acts I didn’t expect to go home praising won me over.

For a while, though, things looked pretty grim, I grant you. I arrived at Nathan Phillips Square around 2 PM, just in time for something called “The Cause Showcase” and a glib, didactic, well-meaning but really not very entertaining group of would-be revolutionaries called Stolen From Africa. It hurts my heart to hate on acts that have “good things to say”, but one can only afford to be hit with a sledgehammer so many times, and these dudes weren’t exactly subtle. “Pro-black”, “conscious”, “multicultural”, the whole nine; all ideals I fall in line to support, all stuff that needs being said. But not this annoyingly, declamatorily, poorly.

The rest of the afternoon was cool—smooth-dancin’ twelve-year-olds, yo! 2 Badd are the SHIT!—but things really didn’t get going ‘til around 6 PM. Wait, no, I lied: Ayah came on before then, and if there’s even a teeny little bit of justice, Ayah will soon be a star. We’ve all heard the same R&B-diva tropes drummed into the ground so many times by a hundred thousand equally talented, equally boring mistresses of melisma, and I’m not sure whether Ayah does anything much different from what, say, Mary J. would do. But never forget, Mary J. is awesome, and Ayah is aaaaawesome. She did nothing especially unconventional with her set, but she nailed every single thing about it.

There was some breakin’, some graffin’, an ill freestyle cipher, and then the real shit began. A dynamite set from Abdominal & DJ Fase, with cavalcades of rapid-fire syllables reverberating off the stage. The beautiful Zaki Ibrahim, wowing the crowd with a mesmeric, near-avant-garde stream of gorgeously full-bodied singing and bohemian scat. Shad-K, winning a bevy of new fans by being exactly as staggeringly awesome as he doesn’t seem to know how not to be. Top-shelf performances by the lot of ‘em. But other than Shad, whose music I just love to bits and pieces, I think my favourite pre-show set was by Masia One, whose show was utterly fantastic.

My reaction to Masia One was a tricky thing. Going in before the set, I kinda didn’t want to have to switch around from my last review and give her my unqualified support, because I felt it’d smack of a loss of integrity not to stick to my opinion, plus I didn’t want it to seem that I was giving her a good review ‘cause she’s so pretty. But I really did have an absolute blast at her show; it made me wonder whether I’d just been asleep last time, because in addition to her usual engaging stage presence, she also had a raft of great songs to do, and spun each one of them into gold. Truly impressive, and a big surprise for your happily curmudgeonly correspondent.

All this, and that’s not even touching the later “live mixtape” show, which purported to combine the ‘past, present and future’ of Canadian (mostly Toronto) hip-hop, who would form like Voltron to create a watershed moment in T-Dot rap history. One would have expected it to end up as baseless hyperbole; I certainly looked down my nose at the whole business at first. But no, it was astonishing; despite certain absences for the better (k-os, Kardinal Offishall) and the worse (Spek of Dream Warriors, who for those who don’t recognize real, is an absolute legend) every last performer came through.

The “future” segment was an interesting little lineup. I’d previously rather enjoyed poking fun at Eternia, but her set was commanding and totally on-point. Daetona, too, rocked the spot (I don’t remember the name of his huge hit, but that’s a really good joint, isn’t it?) The only mar was Rochester (aka Juice), who was exactly as stolid, as one-note, and as unpleasant as I’d heard he was. But ‘nuff cats all over seem to think he’s the truth, so don’t mind me. Eternia and Masia both proved me wrong tonight; maybe the next Juice concert I see will blow my brain. One has to wonder.

And it kept going. You had Brassmunk, Mathematik, Dan-E-O, Tara Chase, Saukrates. All good rappers and fine, capable performers, but no one who blew my wig back. I saved my sheerest elation for three Can-rap heroes, folks who’ve pioneered the artform straight from the start, and made an enormous impact here and elsewhere. These were Mr. Lu of Dream Warriors, Michie Mee, and the one, the only, Maestro.

As word is my life, and love is my witness, I’ma tell you straight up: All three of them were on FIRE. As much as I might have been more inclined to give props to Spek over Lu (Subliminal Simulation is my favourite Can-rap album due in large part to Spek’s introspective and intelligent spits), the man came off damn nice. I had forgotten my definition of a boombastic jazz style; how nice of Lu to help me relearn it! And I have nothing but the most glowing things to say about Michie and Maestro, both of whom were thrillingly dynamic and absolutely killed it; Michie still has every bit the energy, sass, warmth and skill to take on the younguns, and Maestro was a whirring blaze, a fireball, tearing through his catalogue of classics with the kind of ferocity and dapper showmanship I’d have expected from Big Daddy Kane. The man seems to have really developed an understanding of how important he is to Canadian hiphop history, and he’s ascended royalty’s throne with dignity and grace.

Remarkable, really, an absolute jaw-dropper. And here’s why, for me, it was so important. It taught me a key lesson, and although I’m no moralist and I have a distaste for “lessons”, I’ll absorb it and be sure to learn it well: Snobbery and holier-than-thou condescension in respect to one’s hometown hiphop scene is a crock. Hate if you must, but turn around one day and you just might be blindsided with an embarrassment of riches, ‘cause the scene will grow whether you realize it or not. So as every thatched hut can’t be Buckingham Palace, so every rap-city can’t be NYC. But we, Toronto, can do something even more valuable; we can find dope and unique and meaningful ways to be us. And that we did, in fine style. Thanks to all who showed me that.

Love and blessings go out to Rod Skimmins, for persevering through the Herculean task of putting it all together; to Strictly Tev, ‘cause he’s my motherfuckin’ man and puts up this site so y’all can read it; to Sherry P. for somehow finding a way to be awesome even in passing; and to Kriti B., just ‘cause I say so.

Here’s the thing about Hip-Hop Karaoke: Walk into the Boat on the second Thursday of any given month, plonk down five bucks, and you’re bound to see a concert that would ordinarily have been the highlight of your year. An idea originally conceived well over ten years ago, kicked off in New York City and now established in four cities in the UK as well as Montreal and Reykjavik, Iceland (which only makes sense, of course; how could it not be in Iceland?), HHK is based on a formula so simple it’s all-but-foolproof: four hosts (DJ Numeric, DJ Ted Dancin’, the enchanting DJ Dalia, and the lionhearted More or Les) lay down time-honoured rap tracks chosen from a laundry list of classics, and participants, signed up and their selections chosen, get onstage and rock that shit. No gigantic TV screen, no cheesy bouncy-ball, and only a few ever need lyrics; just that straight-up hardcore boom bap, raw and given to ya, with no trivia.

The Toronto incarnation, whose seventh shindig occurred August 9th, is unique in boasting an elite troupe of regulars who alone can turn the evening into a rafter-shaking delight; unfortunately, many of the constellation’s leading lights (Sean Ward, Buddy With The Skills, Tango & Ass) were absent tonight, but many more all-stars were there to represent. The great and garrulous Gersh, well-known for matriculating like a grand piano in LL Cool J-ology, this time chose instead to let Punks who Jump Up know they’re gonna get Beat Down; Splattermonkey, protesting that he’d be wack, threw on “Intergalactic” and “Award Tour” and soundly disproved himself. RaSoul, whose imposing six-foot frame belies a disarming sincerity, proclaimed his “hatred of carpet” (translation: “Get the fuck up here, y’all!”), brought out his main man Testament, and proceeded to kick out the true-school jams, getting all plangent and wistful for “I Used To Love H.E.R.” and tearing the house down with his specialty, dead prez’s fist-pumping “Hip Hop”.

Rant-prone preacher-man Rhinoceros tore into his three selections (the Pete Rock Remix of Das EFX’s “Real Hip-Hop”, Mos Def’s “Mathematics”, and, as the final performance of the whole night, Jay-Z & UGK’s “Big Pimpin’”) with a frenzied passion bordering on dementia; his bizarre persona has earned him something of a following on YouTube, but I’m sorry folks, I just don’t believe the hype. After a brief stumble, the homie Kagan did “Warm It Up Kane” up proper. Mindbender, having mauled Kanye West’s “Heard ‘Em Say” last month, made the second time a charm. A random Asian cat from Scarborough, ranting about the glories of the ‘90s and sporting a chain that could choke an elephant, did something like justice to Casual’s “That’s How It Is.” Marco’s “Unbelievable” was just that, and the Cookie Puss Crew took “Hold It, Now Hit It” for a spin and killed it, while a fetching lass known only as V, respected for tearing up a Rascalz joint last time, topped herself with an undeniably on-point, gender-switched “Passin’ Me By”. And I would be remiss not to mention the justly beloved Sherry P., who did Onyx’s “Slam” and absolutely DESTROYED THE UNIVERSE.

Most hearteningly, a surprising number of new jacks made the case that they’re ready to be welcomed into the fold with the best. Standing out in particular among the first-timers was a fella called Sean, who wrecked shop three separate times, most notably with Canibus’ LL diss “2nd Round Knockout”. In fact, there was hardly a wack performance all night. The exceptions were a glaring few, and hard to classify as such even then. Some plainly sozzled schlemiel wandered up to do an embarrassing if unintentionally hilarious “Shimmy Shimmy Ya” (he was as -erratic- as ODB, but I’m not sure that equals a dope performance.) Topping all in a triumph of resplendent awfulness, I-Ras ambled up to do “Ms. Fat Booty” ENTIRELY in the most tortureosly laboured whiteboy faux-patois this side of Matisyahu. With his unflappable poise and evident self-regard amid the wreckage, he recalled no one so much as woebegone, grasping Vanilla Ice, but methinks another comparison may be more apropos: ladies and gentlemen, I present the return of Snow!

And yet not even THIS clown was booed. Warm, nonjudgmental good vibes and a spirit of camaraderie permeate the whole enterprise. MAS TEES, run by HHK regulars, sold their wares at the door; fitting, because mutual respect and goodwill is all this evening is about. And yet it’s more than that. None of us are snobbish puritans, but fundamentally, we all recognize that it’s about the valorization of a dream, a utopian era of joyously pure, emotionally resonant hip-hop that may never have actually existed. In so doing, it’s almost like it lends us a greater knowledge of our dignity as people. We HHK-goers are romping around in the quicksilver playground of memory, taking ourselves out of the workaday grind once a month to bring joy to our hearts by throwing ourselves full throttle into the world and the music that matter to us.

Peep the pics from all the madness here.