Fanmail: Dear J. Cole (Short Review of “What Dreams May Come” Tour)


There are plenty of rappers I’ve wanted to fuck.  There have been plenty of rappers who’ve come out with some hot ass beats that I can turn up to in my Kia during my morning commute even though I clearly didn’t give a fuck about what they were saying.  There have even been rappers whose lyrics left me feeling inspired, amazed and amused all at the same time.  But when it comes to rappers whose character I respect, well I’m not entirely sure if that’s happened too many times…until last night.

I’ve been looking forward to the “What Dreams May Come Tour” ever since this past summer when I rushed to the TLA on South Street after work.  I was hype with my dollar and a dream only to end up walking away with a naked wrist sipping on a Blue Bayou in Fat Tuesdays seeing everyone else turned up with their fluorescent wristbands. I thought to myself, “That nigga Cole stay on his ‘give back’ shit having discount concerts on weeknights.  Don’t dude know I gotta work from 9-5 for my damn dollar?”  I was clearly hating, but I just knew the next time you came to Philly I would have my ass in the audience.  Shit, I’m from Philly, so I was pissed when I learned there were people from D.C., Jersey, New York sitting front row in my city.

So Fourth of July comes and I learn you’re going to be at “Wawa Welcome America Festival” on the Parkway.  I’m like, here Cole goes again with these free concerts, but that’s kind what I love about you.  So I was like I’ll risk my life trying to see you even though I knew the ratchetry I would encounter (I watch the fireworks from Spring Garden St. every year for that reason).  Needless to say all I got was a free Corona from some cool Temple undergrad named Vince, a bruised ankle after a stampede damn near broke out when two dudes started fighting (what can I say it IS Philly) and my best friend ended up two-stepping into some vomit even though I told her ass not to wear flip flops.  The vomit kind of fucked up the night and we left only seeing enough of a view of Jill Scott to know she looks beautiful in red and The Roots when people got excited over Black Thought until they learned he wasn’t Kevin Hart.  I don’t know how you can claim Philly and don’t know about the Roots, but I can’t really blame them.  Everyone was there to see, guess who?  Light-skinned Jermaine.  From what I saw on the blogs the next day though, your performance was great, as expected.

Two times you were in my city this summer and I missed it, so when I learned about the WDMC pre-sale one early July morning, it was the first time I had been on time to work in months and the first thing I bought with that Friday’s paycheck.  And I must say last night was well worth the wait. The rasp that accompanies “Got me up so high, trynna get a piece of that apple pie,” in “She Knows”, the appetite for the mic you can hear in “Rise and Shine” that made me fall in love with you as an artist, the way you can talk about slavery, sex and infidelity all in the same song with no unnatural transition is what had my ass in Orchestra B, Right Center, Seat 26 putting Coffee Coolattas on credit for the past week.


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