They’ve queued outside the Olympia since the afternoon to see The Game. They wear red so they can pretend to be a Blood like Game. And the really, really dedicated fans here know the words to all his tracks – even the obscure mix-tapes that are almost singularly devoted to taking the piss out of the gargantuan joke that is 50 Cent.
That’s why the Game’s fans love him so much: because he’s not 50 Cent. Moreover it’s because he hates 50 Cent, because he realises that 50 Cent exemplifies all that’s wrong with modern gangsta rap. Whereas Fiddy has quickly become lazy and pointless, the Game is a personified statement of ruthless intent. Fittingly, his set starts with ‘Westside Story’, the most insistent and aggressive song on his debut LP.
In a genre that specialises in ball-grabbing bullshit, this is ball-grabbing bullshit that’s a cut above. Dre’s beats are pounding, but there’s a ferocity from Game tonight that belies his previously disappointing live performances in Ireland.
He barely pauses for breath between the hits and equally impressively delivered tracks like ‘Higher’ and ‘Put You On The Game’. Even the previously insipid and radio-friendly ‘Let’s Ride’ kicks along nicely in a live setting.
But then it all goes a little bit – and by bit I mean a lot – wrong. There’s an interlude, where Game chugs a bottle of Hennessy in one go.
Kudos for his drinking ability, but witnessing it is like watching an aging tennis pro charming the crowd at Wimbledon one last time. There are moments of doubt that he can make it, but in the end he gets there, to a notably muted cheer. And from there, the show plummets into mediocrity.
Game starts to give confusing requests to his DJ, messily knocks back a pint of Guinness, and worst of all, encourages yet another interminable Olé Olé chant. For some reason, he ignores the two singles he worked with Kanye West on, and before long the show is over.
He fits a reasonably tight ‘One Blood’, but it’s just not the same. These fans still love him, but for anyone else encouraged by his attacks on Fiddy, the end of the set is a disappointing descent into cartoon gangsta territory.
Pic: Naomi McArdle