LA Got Aloha: Sage Francis
Los Angeles, California
Photos by: JRD Image
What started out as a unknown name at the top of a list of the best rappers in the early oughts, has become something of a religion. A cult, if you will?
I ordered a CD from a rapper previously unknown to me. His name was Sage Francis and the record was called, Sick of Waiting Tables because so was I.
Fourteen years later and Sage Francis is one of my all-time favorite humans on planet Earth.
I know there are people who aren’t into his emo/wordy/smart/white style. I heard him called everything from not hip hop, to everything that is wrong with hip hop.
But Sage Francis does something on stage that only one other person pulls off. In the lineage of Jello Biafra or Gigi Allin or Jimi Hendrix, Sage Francis and Ceschi are the two preeminent performers when it comes to cult rap. I say “cult” rap not as a reference to the occult. But as a description of the kind of following these two artist command. It is feverish and only satiated by the holy gospel of hip hop as professed by these two burning rap entities. I am a full-fledged member.
Sage Francis was coming to town. Out here in LA that doesn’t happen as often as it might to our North Eastern peoples. So there was somewhat of a buzz. The show, LA Got Aloha, was being presented by Hawaii-to-LA brand Rising Sons Independent at their old haunt, The Dragonfly. Rising Sons Independent is a promotion collective that dabbles in the arts, design, T-shirts and skateboards, and anything you might find at the Foot Soldier’s hangout in the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. A real Pleasure Island without the jackasses. With a history of quality events, I was giddy to see Uncle Sage booked to play by such good peeps.
Their lineup was strong and a sufficient nod to both the RSI-affiliated and the vibe in the city. Local rap DeathLA folk hero and cultivator of Bananas, VerBS “Hey Ma’d” us. CloudMakers brethren Kid Presentable and Besatree took turns sharing some quality new material and reminding us why we love them. RSI head honcho, Analog Dive has a great set, as well. But nothing could stop us from wondering how long it’d be before we would get our fix.
There are few things that can describe a Sage Francis show to the uninitiated, the ignorant, or the openly spiteful. Sage Francis is an overweight, balding but bearded, white dude from Providence, Rhode Island who SHOULD BE the guy who stopped playing local crash pads years ago, and occasionally drops an EP or two online for his oldest friends and fans. But that is not what happened, and the reason is pure genius.
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Photo by JRD Image and used with the permission of RSI
Photo by JRD Image and used with the permission of RSI
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Photo by JRD Image and used with the permission of RSI
Photo by JRD Image and used with the permission of RSI
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Photo by JRD Image and used with the permission of RSI
Photo by JRD Image and used with the permission of RSI
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Photo by JRD Image and used with the permission of RSI
Photo by JRD Image and used with the permission of RSI
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Photo by JRD Image and used with the permission of RSI
Photo by JRD Image and used with the permission of RSI
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Photo by JRD Image and used with the permission of RSI
Photo by JRD Image and used with the permission of RSI
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Photo by JRD Image and used with the permission of RSI
Photo by JRD Image and used with the permission of RSI
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It's Brando! Photo by JRD Image and used with the permission of RSI
It's Brando! Photo by JRD Image and used with the permission of RSI
Instead he's forged a career hell bent on independence. He's put out record after record that seem more like memories than music. Poems more than songs. He's run Strange Famous records and saw to its ideals in all things Metermaids to Curtis Plum. He's become our relative, Uncle Sage fucking Francis.
And the reason. The reason is pure genius. Sage Francis is a mother fucking genius. He got and is still getting his money. It might be what I respect about him most. Sage Francis, wrapped in his Strange Famous banner, with a wicked grin and a devilishly childish stare, stirring up a high-pitched whir of energy from a crowd eager to hang on every hook. We hollered like the holy spirit, and finished lines like the all too familiar, “I ain’t saying shit! And I’ll respect it.” We laughed with Sage. We felt his anger. We understood his sadness. And for that moment, we stood triumphant over it. We got it. We were him. He was us. It was something more than a concert, just like it always is.
Words and Mr. Francis are well-acquainted. Sage Francis can control them in a way as to make them multipurpose. They can be bricks upon which a foundation can be repaired. They can be weapons which slice as only the tongue can. They can be a megaphone pointed at the powers that be. They can be mirrors with reflections that bite. They can be a white-guy high-five. They can be a hug for when the gray days make for solitude.
As Sage stepped off the stage directly into the crowd huddled at center stage, he hugged each and every fan who waited patiently to be anointed appreciatively by the wordsmith of wordsmiths.
It was good fucking night.