Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Music review Matisyahu rewards the faithful

Monday, September 11, 2006
LEE WILLIAMS
The Oregonian

Natan Brownstein, 17, and buddy Gabe Herbs, 14, thought they'd hopped on the wrong bus to Edgefield on Thursday evening. The two friends made a bit of worried noise while riding the No. 77 bus from Portland to Troutdale, their goal being Edgefield's spacious concert lawn.

But, like the performer they had tickets to see, Hasidic reggae-rapper Matisyahu (pronounced something like Modest-yahoo), the boys kept the faith. That hourlong ride on TriMet from their homes in Southwest Portland dropped them off right in front of the historic manor, in fact.

Why did the Brooklyn-born Matisyahu attract these two to Troutdale? "Who's the last Jewish rapper who made it big?" asked Brownstein. "The Beastie Boys? This guy is from Brooklyn, but he represents all of us. And he makes us proud."

The boys were joined by about 2,500 other fans of the 27-year-old artist (real name: Matthew Paul Miller) for the all-age outdoor concert, which drew in Jews, gentiles, hippies and the chosen few still working at Intel as well.

Two summers ago, Matisyahu gained national attention after a set on Carson Daly's late-night show. This spring, a live version of his single "King Without a Crown" broke Billboard's Top 40, achieving the rare feat of bringing faith onto a mostly secular pop chart.

True faith is what divides Matisyahu from a novelty act: There's no doubt, as proven under the concert's harvest moon, that he feels every joyful rhyme he lays out. Backed by two guitars, keyboards, two drum kits and a light show to rival any indoor rock offering, his inspiring words also got the lawn hopping: "Moonlight enlighten my way at twilight from the heights of my roof/ I send praise then poof/ I'm looking up at the night and ask for help to get up and get up and get it right!"

This is more exhilaration than evangelism. And Matisyahu even managed to invoke some humor and faith into the theme from "Rocky" ("Gonna Fly Now"), sputtering out a string of sounds into Bill Conti's famous 1970s instrumental.

When he launched into "King Without a Crown," the grounds of the Edgefield shook from 5,000 thumping, jumping feet. Folks seemed to be reaching for that glowing moon while simultaneously being steered back inward. Led by one voice, the night was a journey of joy, certainly worth the wait -- and the tiny burden of a bus transfer.

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