Bond St. District pull together holy album

Bond St. District, a group made up of rapper DDm (aka Emmanuel Williams) and producer Paul Hutson, released their first full album, A Church on Vulcan, on Nov. 4. The launch party was held last Saturday at the Ottobar.

I arrived at the bar at 8:30 p.m., and was directed from the front entrance to a shady, unmarked, locked side door. Disappointed, I squatted on a nearby rock for a couple of minutes, watching a man in an exciting combination of camouflage joggers and an oversized Pikachu sweatshirt pace around the venue.

Finally, I heard the loud click of a bolt being unlatched inside. After a short argument with the Fu-Manchu-bearing doorman about whether I was on the guest list, I stepped into the dark bar a few dollars lighter.

The event called for your Sunday best, so most people dressed absolutely flawlessly. Men with slicked hair and tight suits wandered around the bar sipping their drinks, while women in beautiful dresses and flamboyant church-hats strutted around.

Of course, there was a lot of digression from this prototype. There were several aged, tall, bearded men dressed in captain’s hats and long-johns who hovered above the other patrons. Other notable outfits: a guy in a fur overcoat, several women in exceptionally glittery dresses and a small group donning classic Bape apparel.

The openers were as diverse as the crowd. The event followed the structure of a Christian worship service. It started with Eze Jackson, the emcee for the event, running the Call to Worship. Though his first few lines were off beat, something clicked, and he worked his way into the beat. From a rambling verse, he switched into a brutal, quick-fire delivery. While the Ottobar was mostly empty at this early point, he got that small crowd moving.

Then Blacksage came on: a small, skinny man in a suit (Drew Scott), together with a glittery, lanky, pale woman (Josephine Olivia). The music was light and airy with  a very Lorde-esque tone.

Olivia whispered over the synth-heavy, drum rattling production. She had an impressive range and some very specific dance moves. If I had to use one word to describe them, I think “slither” would fit best.

Joy Postell delivered Scripture next. She lit incense and strutted across the stage. Reminiscent of early Erykah Badu, she smoothly sang over bouncing, grimy rhythms. Her pure, powerful voice was incredible live. I could see those milling about at the bar leave their drinks and wander down the steps to the stage, drawn like ants to bread crumbs.

Several people poring over their phones (myself included) let the screen lock, engrossed in her music. My favorite point of the performance was when she passed the mic into the audience and an absolutely beautiful male voice rang out, perfectly on pitch while belting some difficult, impressive trills. I craned over the throng of bobbing listeners to see who the source of such heavenly noise was. It was the man in the Pikachu sweatshirt. Small world.

Chiffon was the last act — a pair consisting of a portly man in a leotard (Chase O’Hara) and a small girl with a pixie cut (Amy Reid), jamming on keyboards. Both exuded unbridled energy, dancing wildly while singing. O’Hara was most impressive, weaving his body to the pulsing, electronic beats.

“I’ve been working on my stage presence,” he said, with limbs flying.

Then the lights dimmed. Stage hands ripped away the cloth covering some of the stage props. A backlit moon glowed near the back of the stage. A replica of the colorful arch from the album cover appeared, and the table for the DJ was revealed to house glowing, LED colors.

The crowd parted, split in two by a burly man with a threatening flashlight. Two white-clad women with glowing wings and LED-lit skull masks started to move out across the clearing. Behind them was a big man in a white preacher suit and a gleaming bronze-silver helmet. He stood like a king, basking in the riotous applause.

On the stage behind the DJ desk, a man in a smooth silver faceless mask appeared, hands crossed. The man walking behind the girls climbed up to the stage, ripped the helmet off, and grabbed a mic: It was DDm. The man behind the DJ desk threw off his mask to reveal himself as Paul Hutson. Bond St. District received an explosion of applause.

The lights behind the stage flashed on, projecting yellow, heavenly swirls onto the ceiling, the walls and the curtains. DDm and Hutson donned preacher hats and quickly burst into music from the album with roof-ripping energy.

The album is an innovative mix of futuristic sounds and soulful production. Hutson’s beats are crazy flips of electronic riffs and synth melodies. He contrasts gritty, grimy drum sets that are reminiscent of 9th Wonder or J Dilla, with the clean, smooth electronic harmonies. It truly sounds like an extraterrestrial church service. The instrumentals sound even more impressive live, pulsing through massive speakers.

DDm ran the stage like a lord. He flows a lot like ASAP Na$t and Ab-Soul, mixed with a clear Biggie influence. He rhymes flawlessly and effortlessly. But DDm is no simple rapper. His lyrics weave social issues with subtle braggadocio and many references to Baltimore. One could compare him to Tupac — combining frank, emotional content, with hard, powerful delivery.

“Technicolor,” one of the first songs they performed, is a standout from the album — a smooth, marimba-heavy beat with layered with powerful verses and a strong hook.

The real highlight of the show though, was when “Show Me Your Hands” blasted from the huge Ottobar speakers. DDm got the whole audience bouncing and waving their arms. People were swaying and throwing the album-cover prints distributed at the front door. It felt like an actual church with DDm running service. The crowd and performers alike screamed the hallelujahs in the chorus passionately into the air.

A Church on Vulcan is an impressive project on its own right, but seeing it performed live is a whole different experience. There is such a great energy and such a phenomenal power that I highly recommend people try to catch one of Bond St. District’s concerts.

This article was at first supposed to be just about the new Bond St. District album, but my experience brought me a greater conclusion. This is the first local show I have gone to, and it most definitely will not be the last. Baltimore is a city brimming with such talent.

Eze Jackson said it perfectly during the concert when he yelled, “This is Baltimore city; This is our music.”

I hope that some of you will join me in discovering some of the phenomenal underground work sprouting across this fascinating city.