Arriving at the Metro Theatre to see one of the United States' most enigmatic rap artists Flo Rida, the crowd has seemingly already reached fever pitch. This isn't so much a problem. However, despite the fact that he's due on stage already, Flo Rida is nowhere to be seen. Instead the crowd is getting looser by the second, listening to Jessica Mauboy perform a couple one-dimensional hits that are to hip-hop what marshmallows are to the five food groups (ie ultimately inconsequential, and if ingested too often dangerous to one's health).
Mauboy leaves the stage, yet the crowd's fervent energy does not dissipate; a half hour ticks by and still Flo Rida is nowhere to be seen. When he finally does take the stage, the already amped crowd reaches a fever pitch I've rarely witnessed at any hip-hop gig. Strutting on stage with a good dollop of homeboy swagger, the crowd goes wild as he launches into some of his most popular beats.
The bass and drums are set at soul-shaking decibels and despite the fact that much of the crowd has imbibed their fair share of booze, Flo Rida's high-octane show easily translates among the dancing masses whose desire to have a good time is as palpable as a young child's desire for love and affection. Taking the crowd under his wing, he rolls between short staccato offerings of his songs such as 'In the Ayer', 'Elevator' and 'Low', the latter of which sees Flo Rida pull a bevy of Aussie babes on stage to perform perhaps this rapper's most recognisable hit.
It's easy to postulate that Flo Rida and his hip-hop attache are just another example of America's obsession with a culture of sexist and one-dimensional artists, whose most prized assets are the slew of expensive jewellery (read: bling) adorning their toned and heavily tattooed bodies. To assume such as position, however, is simply unfair: the crowd here tonight want a good time, and Flo Rida provides this in spades.
Daniel Bloom
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