When it comes to rap, Miami's got the rep. And everyone knows that Atlanta has it big time. Tampa's never boasted much of a hip-hop scene — at least not in the eyes of the New York- /L.A.-based music industry. That hasn't stopped nine local artists calling themselves the Umbrella Corporation from trying to change all that.
Several members of the crew, including the night's headliner, Jersey, performed last Friday at Crowbar in Ybor City, not the typical venue for their brand of thug rap. In terms of showmanship and execution, each man proved capable. However, the subject matter rarely veered from the hardcore genre's stock themes — with threats of bodily harm wearing thin by night's end.
When Jersey finally arrived on stage around 1 a.m., he immediately alerted audience members that he was not a man to be messed with. The Tampa (by way of the Garden State) rapper who calls himself the "King of the 813," blasted away with the requisite boasts and taunts. "Got a problem, nigga?" he snarled. "Then bust a move."
Ominous beats — heavy and sparse — reinforced the menacing message. Jersey cautioned that anyone stepping to him would be sent home in a "closed casket." The gangsta act, while convincing on some level, was not exactly terrifying — or particularly insightful. But Jersey did exude a magnetism that made it hard to turn away from his performance.
For the most part, he delivered his rhymes with panache, usually giving them a melodic lilt that was easy on the ears — even when issuing threats. There's a gravel in his voice that he uses judiciously to accentuate certain zingers and emotive confessions. Jersey has the kind of distinctive voice that would stand out on the radio.
The crowd was thin last Friday, with only about 50 people inside the 300-capacity club. But Jersey brought most of the attendees to the front of the stage with an unrelenting performance that found him joined by fellow Umbrella crew members, most notably Larcen, who jolted the crowd with an intense set of his own. Jersey alternated between gangsta platitudes and bare-bones reflections that proved more compelling than anything that transpired throughout the evening.
About halfway into his set, Jersey told the DJ to kill the backing music. The artist then rapped a cappella, sounding like a man pleading his case to St. Peter at the gates of heaven. All the gangster trappings were gone. Jersey rhymed about wearing a "fresh white T" not because it was hip, but because it was the only thing he could afford. He fretted about paying the rent and being able to keep up appearances. The rapper exorcised his demons in a manner that was at once riveting and real. It's a direction I would like see Jersey and his fellow crew members explore further.
The lawn was closed and only about a quarter of the covered seats were filled when Lyle Lovett and k.d. lang, two artists that have worked the fringes of country music for a couple of decades, played the Ford last Thursday.
But what the crowd lacked in numbers, it made up for with enthusiasm. Lang, the Canadian pop-twang idol, drew hoots and whistles as she took the stage for the opening set. When she eased into her 1992 crossover hit "Constant Craving," the sun was setting, a breeze blew and all seemed perfect with the world.
After lang drew a standing ovation, Lovett and his Large Band took over. The witty singer/songwriter wove his soft voice in and around fiddles, cello, horns and the rest, which at times evoked the swing era as much as honky-tonk. "I grew up on the Gulf Coast, too," Lovett, a Texan, said to the fans. "When I'm in Florida, I feel like I'm home."
—Dawn Morgan
This article appears in Jun 20-26, 2007.