"Big Daddy Kane has entered the building," says the MC at midnight to roars from the crowd. New Yorker Antonio M Hardy - alias Kane, which stands for King Asiatic Nobody's Equal) was once the crucial fourth man to Chuck D, KRS-1 and Rakim. With his smooth yet intense delivery and the Marley Marl-produced hard funk of his records, he bridged the gap between early rap's primitive bluster and the gangsta (NWA), militant (Public Enemy) and conscious (Jungle Brothers) styles of the late 1980s.
A mixture of young and old hip-hop fans have come to see what rappers were like "back in the day". By 12.20am, they find out: the erstwhile rap lothario (his debut LP sleeve saw him being fed grapes by female minions), now in his 30s and more than slightly filled out, slouches onstage in what appears to be designer prisonwear (a grey boiler suit), and with a gold goblet, presumably containing alcohol, held indelicately in his right hand. The reaction is warm to say the least.
Compared to the rapacious narcissism of Puff Daddy, Big Daddy Kane's was a benign form of self-assertion. He was a sort of People's Rogue with a penchant for what used to be called "edutainment" - he used to go on speaking tours of black high schools in Detroit. Tonight's Lyrical Lounge programme (BDK plus support from singer Mary Pearce and rapper Ty) has a similar spirit, having been assembled by Urban Development, an organisation funded by the Arts Council and London Arts via the National Lottery, to promote black artists and black music in London.
There is even a "freestyle" section of Kane's show devoted to encouraging raw talent: several aspiring microphone fiends are pulled from the audience to prove their MC skills. Over a simple machine beat courtesy of turntable maestro DJ Pogo, a procession of young hopefuls expose their aggressive but whiny voices as Big Daddy smiles benevolently from centrestage, as if suddenly realising the symbolic baton will not be passed on just yet. It is like amateur night at the local youth club. Maverick US rapper Jeru the Damaja joins in the fun, emerging stage left to acknowledge his debt to Kane before making a bizarre reference to northern English homosexuals.
Kane injects a note of solemnity when he pays tribute to "the fallen soldiers of hip-hop": Notorious B.I.G., Big Pun, Tupac Shakur and Freaky Tah from the Lost Boyz, all victims of rap's gang culture. Before things get too grim, we are instructed to "make some motherfucking noise!" and Big Daddy, assisted by DJ Pogo, treats us to a selection of his greatest hits - not the whole songs, just the opening bars to Raw, Ain't No Half-Steppin', Wrath of Kane and Smooth Operator. It's like a glorified Beat the Intro competition, adding to the party atmosphere.
After an hour, Kane heads towards his dressing room as MC Ty, onstage throughout the performance, prostrates himself in a "We are not worthy" fashion. So he brought our childhoods back with a Proustian rush. With a Best Of collection and a brand new album on the way, it remains to be seen whether this avuncular ghost of hip-hop past can still cut it in today's cut-and-thrust world.
At Creation in Bristol on March 1.
