FouKi strutted onstage, pearly megaphone in hand, eclipsing a pattern of melting pizza slices. Amidst tinny drum beats, he limboed under an inflatable joint. Someone came onstage to hold up a cellphone for this lyric: "ring ring."
His spitting droned all the way to the last song, "Guap": "Donnes-moi du guap / Gimme the money." Musing about money is a tried and true rap tradition, but there must be a way to be more than a caricature — some way to signify cash flow other than by making it rain with scraping palms or rubbing fingers.
The crowd was the best part of FouKi's set: They knew the words; they danced. But there is a difference between good music and little more than bass that shatters your bones. The few good songs — "Makeup," "Gayé" — weren't worth losing your hearing over.
His spitting droned all the way to the last song, "Guap": "Donnes-moi du guap / Gimme the money." Musing about money is a tried and true rap tradition, but there must be a way to be more than a caricature — some way to signify cash flow other than by making it rain with scraping palms or rubbing fingers.
The crowd was the best part of FouKi's set: They knew the words; they danced. But there is a difference between good music and little more than bass that shatters your bones. The few good songs — "Makeup," "Gayé" — weren't worth losing your hearing over.
