As much as I’d like to stifle the most-likely frightening turnout for 2007’s highly anticipated FallFest — which should see record-breaking attendance, if body count pays any worthy tribute to the headliner’s brain-exploding range of ability — there is no place you could more beneficially locate yourself this Friday night than in RIMAC Arena, snuggled up to a stage full of players that will hereafter lift our musical present onto the good-’ol-day pedestal. Now, if only for the sake of our legacy-hungry grandchildren, we must lay aside all on-campus, A.S. snubbing (because let’s face it, they done very, very good), and do ourselves the favor of bearing witness to what might possibly be — step right up, one night only — the greatest fucking show on earth.

For all the torrents of critical and fan-sent praise the
Roots have waded through since their straight-outta-Philly arrival at the end
of the ’80s (trotting in easily after socially conscious, alt-hip-hop
predecessors like A Tribe Called Quest and De La Soul), the studio hasn’t
always proven their ideal environment. Most of the Roots’ seven full-lengths
are spent in a somewhat self-conscious limbo, fumbling for common ground
between balls-out avant-garde and the beats/rhymes/life boom-bap they emulated
as youngsters. Each album requires a more focused listen than your average
backpacker is usually willing to give — demanding full attention and a good,
hard chew — also telling of the stress that goes into their creation. Then
there’s the fact that perma-member Black Thought (the Roots MC who didn’t get
booted for dabbling in heroin) isn’t the most memorable of wordsmiths, not
known for turning the trickiest of phrases — even occasionally falling below
the curve with simplistic state-of-the-world commentary like “It’s like a game
of roulette, the barrel revolving/ They only wanna see us occupying a coffin.”

All this would mean certain death for any other
middle-of-the-road, lineup-fluctuating posse. But here’s where a critic’s
babble fades and the Roots take the stage.

Thing is, these guys can play. Their standard jewel-case
routine serves only as an industry buoy, and a way to keep their live setlists
fresh. Black Thought’s every last forgettable lyric becomes a brilliantly timed
placeholder, coming to life over a rich instrumental backdrop: currently,
Kamal’s keyboards, F. Knuckles’ exotic percussion, Captain Kirk’s retro guitar
and, most famously, ?uestlove’s helter-skelter drumset assault, taking a
natural life of its own under its master’s wiggling afro.

There’s a reason the Roots are the go-to name-drop for every
case defending hip-hop as musical, unpredictable and otherwise equal to the
rest of the genres: These are not mere hip-hoppers but brimming sponges,
working to recreate every nuance of every radio hit and moment of intrigue
they’ve stumbled across in a lifetime.

With each performance — neon lights darting off Black
Thought’s aviators, remix building upon remix for a James Brown-like majesty —
the Roots draw closer to an untouchable cult status not unlike that of the
Grateful Dead (sans decaying complacency, of course), complete with their very
own set of Deadheads. But unifying stage-side awe is not just for the tie-dyed
stoners anymore: These royalty of rap-rock manage to appeal to practically every
ear with even the slightest appreciation for virtuosity — and a damn good beat
to boot.