Wu-Tang Clan's iconic "W" emblem is indelibly seared on New York hip-hop. RZA's off-kilter, refracted beats-- his chilly minor-key strings, bombastic horns, and sampled film dialogue-- have become the template for NYC beatmakers, and countless Gotham MCs, if not shamelessly jacking Raekwon's ghetto Mafioso lexicon and hard-bitten cadences, have a least a couple Wuisms tucked away in their repertoire. Wu-Tang were among the first emcees to capitalize on New York's mythological qualities, inflating mundane street narratives to epic bildungsromans by couching them in the tropes of their beloved Kung Fu movies and Kurosawa's Wuxia interpretations. By reincarnating the philosophical allegories of ancient Asian drama in 20th century Staten Island (a.k.a. Shaolin), they created a rare music that could touch both thugs and suburban fantasy buffs, each on their own terms.
It's been a while since we've received a unified statement from Shaolin, so a quick roll call's in order. The RZA, a.k.a. Bobby Digital: shogun and CEO, the bipolar spitter of metaphysical knowledge and shit-talking battle raps. Inspectah Deck and Masta Killa: the steely growlers ballasting the more flamboyant personalities like sandbags. Method Man: the larger-than-life MCaricature with a bottomless bag of catchphrases. Raekwon: arguably the inventor of organized crime rap, who was cutting and flipping rhymes like weight long before every street hustler began to imagine himself a mafia don. Ol' Dirty Bastard (RIP): a deranged parody of a soul singer, a profane, gaudy libido coming unglued. Ghostface Killah: a gifted storyteller weaving densely coded slang, crushed out heavenly in yellow Wallabies and Wu-Wear fleece. The GZA: a candid lyrical prodigy meting out devastatingly precise similes. And finally, U-God: the most esoteric member of the collective, sometimes a crowd-moving party rapper, other times a dextrous prose-spitter, spinning inscrutable word collages in a velvety baritone.
Amid long-running rumors of a break-up, on July 17th, 2004, the dormant Wu reconvened at the Rock the Bells festival in San Bernadino, California, and committed to tape the 27 tracks that now constitute the career-spanning live retrospective Disciples of the 36 Chambers: Chapter 1. Live hip-hop albums are rare, perhaps rightfully so: Hip-hop relies so heavily upon careful production techniques that live performances can be like tabloid photos of a sex symbols caught unawares on a trip to the beach: no make-up, cellulite showing. And how many times have you gone to a rap show only to wait three hours for half the group to appear and watch them walk off 20 minutes later?
Miraculously, all nine original members showed up (plus a few auxiliary men, including Cappadonna). Even the famously erratic ODB was present, and even seemingly lucid, remembering all his lines and delivering them with charisma and flair. Dirty's recent passing is especially sad because it seemed as if he was finally getting his life back on track after all the drugs, rehab, incarcerations, and high-profile public meltdowns. Considering the unusual amount of restraint he shows here, it's a small but pleasant consolation that his final mark upon the world was so pristine. Regardless, each member of the Clan fell effortlessly into his role, and instead of the anonymous collective shout that live posse cuts can often become, the Wu skillfully traded lines and allowed individual members to shine, only occasionally merging into a monolithic roar that, interestingly enough, makes for a strong counterpoint to the solo verses.
Disciples of the 36 Chambers's first six tracks are a medley from Wu-Tang's classic debut, Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers). Beginning with RZA inciting the crowd to chant the group's name, the sampled voice describing Shaolin shadow-boxing that opens "Bring Da Ruckus" elicits an audience howl that persists until the song morphs into early single "Da Mystery of Chessboxin'", then onward through "Clan in Da Front", "C.R.E.A.M." (the most famous and obvious of Wu-Tang's many embedded acronyms-- e.g., ever notice that the oft-repeated lines "Positive energy activates constant elevation" and "Protons electrons always cause explosions" spell "P.E.A.C.E."?), "Wu-Tang Clan Ain't Nuthing ta Fuck Wit", and "Shame on a Nigga". Wu-Tang's early work was their most skeletal and grimy, brimming with crackling electricity and an intuitive call-and-response factor, and the medley gets the crowd so amped that they could have coasted for the rest of the set.
Rather, the Wu stay on point throughout, working through classics from Wu-Tang Forever ("Re-United", "It's Yourz", "Triumph", etc.) with unremitting energy, peppering those cuts with more obscure favorites from their numerous solo albums. Raekwon turns in a faithful reproduction of "Incarcerated Scarfaces"; his partner Ghost shines on "Criminology", "Ghost Deini", and a reworked version of "Run" that follows Cappadonna's original version of the same song. The GZA concisely recreates the first verse of his classic "Liquid Swords"; Meth struts over crowd-pleasers like "Ice Cream" and "Method Man"; Dirty checks in with remarkable performances of "Brooklyn Zoo", "Dog S**t", and "Shimmy Shimmy Ya". Wisely, the Clan only break the furious momentum of their set a couple times to address the crowd (usually to remind them that they're witnessing an historical moment of "real hip-hop, in its purest form"), and only draw two of the best songs from their somewhat diluted later work, "Y'all Been Warned" and the fizzy bounce track "Gravel Pit".
It's also inspiring to hear prolific rappers who are entering a relative middle age outshine their younger imitators. On Disciples of the 36 Chambers, the Clan sounds hungry as ever, vicious and confident, and nowhere near depleted. Is the Wu about to make a big comeback? The signs are there: In his closing statements, RZA asks the crowd if they'd like to hear another Wu-Tang group album, a prospect that seemed lost to solo projects, acting roles, and deodorant commercials. The inquiry is met with a roar of undiluted enthusiasm.
It isn't clear how Ol' Dirty Bastard's passing will effect any potential reunion plans-- it could either scupper them entirely, or galvanize the Clan to greater heights, as sudden tragedies are sometimes wont to do. Either way, I know I'll sorely miss one of the most ostentatious and original personalities in hip-hop, and Pitchfork's heartfelt condolences are extended to his friends, family, and fellow Killa Bees. To borrow a Dirty quote, the performance documented here is "as high as Wu-Tang gets", and it's comforting to know that the Dirt Dog got a final chance to bask in the spotlight that was both his lifeblood and his adversary.
