I was itching for a sold-out show and implored my editor to dispatch me on such a mission. It didn’t matter who or what, just when and where, and Masego was the hot ticket.
This Masego is pretty popular. His press release heavily emphasizes his Grammy nomination and touts his four billion online streams. Obviously in high demand, this cat’s content has never circled its way– or bought its way–into my bubble or my algorithm. So his concert at The Roseland Theater in Portland would be my first impression.
The Roseland Theater’s neon sign glowed blue and harmless, a dim beacon for the thirsty like a broken lighthouse. The line at the door was a frustratingly long chain leading to a metal detector. The faculty, like prison guards, grimly patrolled in neon yellow shirts. After some drama, or what seemed to be some yellow shirt fever, I was handed the correct pass and ascended the stairs toward the stage.
I was welcomed by the warm embrace of opener Ogi’s voice: the kind of voice that fills the stomach with butterflies. A simple act of two performers and a backing track, Ogi owned her space and made the stage seem small. Her mezzo voice, like silk, felt like a consensual tickle bringing me goosebumps. Even from the back, the music was infectious.
Her set felt like burning incense for the soul, like a breathing exercise for centering the self. A refreshing act of joy, her set was filled with merry and momentary accents of sexiness. Her relatability, her openness, and her crowd interaction seemed sincere. The ease with which she sang resonated with chill and invitation. Impeccable songwriting showed off her talents with elegant motifs that exploded into massive climaxes of vocal runs that made you beam with delight and agreement. It was a powerful and elegant performance that deserved more attention than she got.
Once Ogi finished, the crowd poured in like a raging river for Masego, and I found myself in a puddle of pretty people. I stepped out for some air.
A busker outside impressed me, and I bummed a light.
“It’s not just reggae or blues. I don’t put no labels on it, man…”
I nodded in agreement.
“Look man, we could be dead. Life is about happiness. Whatever people like, it doesn’t matter to me.”
The situation was becoming heavy, and the crushing weight of Masego’s 808s rumbled through the window. It was an excuse to interrupt the wisdom and head in.
Masego was on and already had the crowd under his spell. Magical energy rushed through the onlookers and caused a dancing frenzy. Hips moved suggestively. Some were popping. Most were swaying. The upper balcony looked like a curated wave, ebbing and flowing their extremities like seaweed in a turbulent ocean.
Masego was accompanied by a multi-instrumentalist and a drummer. The drummer brought a sense of swing to the performance that masked the backing track, while the other added accents and musical sprinkles.
Masego’s confidence dominated the attention of the set. He’s a personality who comes off as larger than life and has enough charisma to seduce the devil. When Masago takes up his ax and blows a mighty tune, the allusive “it factor” shines through him like a sunrise on a monolith.
Masego can be described as cool. He wears sunglasses inside, dresses well, smiles a lot, and slays the sax. His blend of “trap house jazz” has a seductive way about it. Deep, primal, rhythmic foundations bate us into the throng of a thirst trap like rats in a cage: frustrated, titillated, and hypnotized.
Relatable and singable with gigantic hooks, the fans scream every word, every chorus, singing every saxophone melody like it’s involuntary. Masego spewed honey and caused a hive of buzzing and friction.
It’s not just music. It’s an aphrodisiac, like oysters or viagra, a glass of red wine, or a bath bomb. The crowd was morphing into a sauna of sweat. I found myself sticking shoulder to shoulder with a pair of grinders, grinding away on their zippers like cars on a rollercoaster. Things were getting rowdy.
“Good night?” I asked, like an idiot.
Luckily the man to my right couldn’t hear me and just bit his lip and doubled down on the boogie. The man to my left though, he heard me.
“Will be.”
He proudly lit the blunt that was hidden behind his ear. He waved at me to come close, and I obeyed, pinched the blunt, and then smelled like grapes, cloves, and stank the rest of the evening. His grinding partner joined, and the blunt was passed to the next person and the next person ’til it was out of sight.
As the THC rushed through my bloodstream, the complexity and nuance of the music overcame me. What I heard before was only its live energy but then, then the music opened up to me. A masterful blending of hip-hop and R&B with the feels of jazz and reggae. Familiar melodies supported with add 9s and 13s and sus and subdominant chords, sick poly drum fills, funky bass riffs, and a bunch of other musical jargon. Masego’s act was tight, the musicians served the songs, and the band performed masterfully that night. Worth the time, worth the money, and worth a listen if you want to groove.
