Brian Slattery Photos
Puma Simone.
At the beginning of Puma Simone’s set during a three-act bill at Cafe Nine on Thursday night, she and the club’s sound engineer carefully worked out how to properly amplify one of the club’s tables, which she had brought on stage. In just a few minutes, Simone would play it like a drum. Very soon after that, someone from the audience would take over for her.
Born and raised in New Haven, Simone announced at the beginning of her set to the crowded house that she would “go with the flow.” She motioned to the table. “If you want to add some noise, do what you do. This is as much about you as it is about me.”
She was as true as her word. With a simple rhythm tapped from the table, Simone brought out clapping from the crowd that quickly formed an intricate rhythm. She revealed that she had spent a little time in jail. “It wasn’t so bad,” she said, “because I was locked up with some beautiful people.” One of her fellow inmates taught her an activist chant that she taught in a second to the crowd.
“Show me what community looks like,” she chanted.
“This is what community looks like,” the crowd chanted back.
Simone spat bar after bar as the audience kept time. They quieted down when she slipped into spoken word, then brought the beat back again with a simple direction from Simone, tapping on the microphone. Simone’s lyrics spoke of searching for identity and purpose, with a probing intellect and sardonic wit, all shot through with a cool defiance.
“I won’t apologize no more,” Simone rapped. “What should I do? Should I just fall to my knees? Should I conform? Should I just do what I want?”
“Do what you want” someone shouted from the audience.
“They won’t get me,” Simone finished. “I’ll just do what I please.” She invited audience members to come up and use the microphone as well as the table. A couple audience members took her up on it, leading chants of their own while the crowd kept the rhythm going.
Simone dedicated her last song to Jayson Negron, a teenager shot and killed by police in Bridgeport in May 2017, explaining that she had taken part in an event recently in which they congratulated Negron for graduating, as he was supposed to do this year. It was a quiet, searing moment in the set.
“We all we got,” Simone said.
Mooncha.
“My name is Mooncha, and I make all these beats on my phone,” the New Haven-based musician said as she started up her set. Her music — atmospheric yet insistent — combined with her explosive performance style brought a crowd of people up to the stage’s edge to get closer to her.
She tore through song after song, keeping the audience hooked. Somewhere near the end of her set, her shoes came off. In the last song she made a chant out of her name.
“When I say ‘moon,’ you say, ‘cha.’” she said. “Moon.”
“Cha,” the crowd responded back, right where Moocha wanted them to. She made a backbeat out of their response. They continued chanting “Cha” as she removed coat, hat, and goggles and stood before them, revealed. The audience gave her an appreciative round of applause.
Radio Stevie.
The place was now more than warmed up for Radio Stevie — a.k.a. the New Haven-based Stephen J. Grant — who beamed out a smile as soon as he was in front of the microphone.
“Can I kick it?” he asked. The audience responded with an insistent yes. So he did.
“It’s been a while since I’ve done a show,” he said. “And my shows are all about freedom.”
Radio Stevie then delivered a powerhouse set that showcased his twisting rhymes, his sharp delivery, and above all, his message of dramatic acceptance. Even his lyrical boasts felt more celebratory than aggrandizing, full of humor and fun. The feeling that he poured into the microphone pervaded the room.
“Turn the music up and get down,” Stevie said, and the audience did not need to be told twice. When he reached the end of his set, he announced with a grin that “this one’s got no vocals, so we can just dance for the next three minutes. Can we do that?” The audience was more than fine with it, and Stevie got down off the stage and onto the space made for a dance floor to join them. But before he left the stage, he reminded the crowd of where they had started.
“This is what community looks like,” he said into the microphone. The audience repeated it back, agreeing and affirming.
