JUICE JAM SATURDAY, SEPT. 15

[September 19th, 2007] If Pioneer Courthouse Square is Portland’s living room, O’Bryant Square is its dimly lit back porch—a meetup spot for street youth and home to the homeless. But last Saturday, that block at the corner of Southwest Park Avenue and Washington Street played host to Juice Jam, a day-long tribute to a culture that was born in the streets and—believe it or not—once spoke to people in as dire circumstances as those who call O’Bryant Square home. The event’s sponsored by the Juice Crew, a collection of Portland hip-hop activists.

It’s around 4 pm. Barry Hampton and Ragen Fykes are harmonizing on a funky summer jam while graf artists collaborate and compete on a large wooden wall behind the singers. At least three generations of urban fashion are on display in the crowd—from candy-patterned hoodies and flat-rimmed ball caps to high socks and brightly colored Adidas track pants. A wood-paneled floor has been laid down for the break dancers, and members of Portland crews the Vibe Tribe and Moon Patrol are taking halfhearted stabs at upstaging one another on the dance floor.

After a hearty applause, Hampton announces that he’s going to throw it back and play something for the b-boys. The drummer starts in on a tight, Latin-flavored beat, adding cymbals slowly like a gathering storm. There are raised voices on the dance floor, then a shove. Two b-boys have to be talked down from swinging at one another. They both force sarcastic smiles as the battle moves from the wood to an adjacent slab of brick, causing the crowd to cheer and crowd the circle.

A drunk staggers into the circle, strikes a cartoonish b-boy pose and falls on his ass. This is what happens when you put on a free, outdoor show. Still, spirits are high and the sun is shining as DJ Ohmega Watts brings a beat over the live drumming. He offers the breakers a buffet of throwback classics that peak with the hook of De La Soul’s “Saturday.”

The circle is broken and re-formed a handful of times before Blitz takes the microphone and makes his openers look like glorified karaoke rats. The Brooklyn-via-Ghana MC paces like a preacher, transfixing the crowd with an a cappella rhyme: “How y’all sold crack but got time to write?/ I’m so pro-black but all my fans are white...I ain’t gonna say these fake rappers sound like Jigga/ But if you’re so conscious, why you say ‘nigga’?”

The former gets a laugh from the mostly white crowd and a comic pause from the MC, but the latter gets oohs and ahhs all around. Blitz has ego and swagger, but he’s also got a lot on his mind. Around 7 pm, NYC’s Neil Armstrong, the last act of the day, takes the turntables and jumps right into Sugarhill Gang’s “Apache.” A flamboyant Fly Girl-style dance troupe starts up to rival the breaking circle as the sun drops on a near-finished graf wall. I don’t think I’ve ever had this much fun at a hip-hop show. CASEY JARMAN.