Living on the Edge at Playboi Carti’s “Die Lit” Tour
“Honestly, I underestimated Philly. I didn’t think they’d turn out like this,” Frank said out loud, but to no one in particular. I had known Frank and the four other guys in the line with me for a total of 20 minutes. We all slowly became cool, talking about music, festivals and ways to survive this thing we were about to experience. The blooming friendship began with a simple question one posed to another, “Yo, you ready for this?”
“This” being Playboi Carti’s Die Lit tour with Sheck Wes at Philadelphia’s historic Fillmore. The line to get in seemed to never end, which wasn’t surprising for a sold-out show 30 minutes before the doors opened, but still surprised Frank and our ragtag band of friends who’ll never see each other again. Three of them had never been to a Playboi Carti show — Frank and I have.
By now, most people have at least seen what a Playboi Carti show looks like. A few days prior, Carti turned New York’s Terminal 5 upside down in a way that hasn’t been seen since Travis Scott’s 2017 “Bird In The Trap Sing Mcknight” induced the ragers to jump from the balconies. One person ended that night with a broken leg. Coincidentally, Playboi Carti opened for Travis that night.
My first introduction to a live Carti show was earlier this year at Camp Flog Gnaw. What it lacked in length, it made up in intensity. It was an emotion I haven’t felt since I went to an ASAP Mob show in New Orleans when Rocky’s latest project was Long.Live.ASAP, and Ferg’s “Work” was turning every club and festival into rubble. Throwing an elbow and forming moshpits are the requirements for enjoying a Carti show. Ripped shirts, lost shoes, and injuries are the price of admission. No one wants to be rejected to the back, where the ones who can’t take the madness look on with folded arms. Part of the fun is walking away with half a shirt and a bloody lip, letting the world know “I Survived A Playboi Carti Show.”
Outside the Fillmore, there was an air of anxiousness that floated through the crowd. The same type of anxiety you get when you’re close to boarding on your favorite roller coaster after a long wait, or when the Rock gives one of his legendary speeches in the middle of the ring. It was electric.
The line squeezes through the small venue doors, through the metal detectors that can’t beep for drugs, and towards the GA standing area. The show isn’t supposed to start for another hour, but there’s already moshpits from the DJ’s playing Kanye’s “Father Stretch My Hands” and XXXTentacions “Look at Me.” It was wild.
The crowd carried that energy until Sheck Wes hit the stage with a violent strike of lightning, rolling off hits like “Mo Bamba,” “Live Sheck Wes Die Sheck Wes” and “Do That.” Mosh pits grew randomly and quickly like tornadoes, grabbing you in and spitting you out unless you got out of the way in time. Elbows, foreheads and fists flew in a fury. It was a Royal Rumble event every time a new song started, and I ran to the ring each time.
But quickly, exhaustion started to throw me out the ring. There was a break before Sheck came out where the crowd just started pushing and pulling each other in every direction to get the best spot possible for the main acts. People were falling over and getting stepped on. It was a chore to prevent myself and the people around me from falling over.
A fight broke out because of it, and this one dude caught a combo right in front of his girlfriend. Surprisingly, security never came. Actually, once I got past the metal detectors at the entrance, I only saw one security guard for the rest of the night (more on that later). It was pure anarchy; the law didn’t exist.
The same type of aggressive jockeying for position happened to me at a Migos show and it’s the worst thing to deal with because the options are either stay and lose your spot or leave and possibly never get that close again. And when you're surrounded by hot, sweaty bodies of strangers, your legs becoming weak simply trying to hold yourself up, it's easy to see the calm on the other side of the crowd and say “Fuck this.”
I stayed and tried to last as long as I could during Sheck’s performance, but ultimately retreated to the bar for two overpriced bottles of water after the heat and jostling the crowd had taken its toll on me.
My legs were still in the crowd for all I knew. The only sensation I could feel was an impending cramp in my left leg every time I took a step. I downed my water in record time and managed to make my way to the middle of the crowd — just in time for Playboi Carti.
Sirens blared, strobe lights jumped around the room and the signature yellow smiley face shined on the LED screen adorning each side of the venue. Carti emerged and started hyping the crowd up, yelling “Psych the fuck out!”
He opened by playing the only known snippet of “Cancun,” and began going down the list of songs from his debut album “Die Lit,” his self-titled tape, and random songs that’s helped define his career. With the exception of “Broke Boi,” any song a Carti fan wanted to hear that night got to hear it. Before any song could start, Playboi needs a mosh pit to form, instructing the crowd to “Open that shit up!” Carti led his congregation of misfits and ragers to the point of destruction.
Songs like “R.I.P.,” “Flatbed Freestyle,” “New Choppa” and “Magnolia” rang off in succession. There were no breaks to gather yourself or to stop and get water. The end of one mosh pit meant the beginning of another, a vicious cycle that never seemed to end. However, the energy never wavered. Deep into his set, someone jumped into the violent crowd from the second story VIP balcony, barely missing the extended arms of the one security guard in the entire building actually trying to do his job that night.
There was no way to escape the madness and chaos and sweaty bodies ramming into me at full speed. Escaping the heat and exhaustion meant sacrificing the luxury of being a part of it all. It’s impossible to be an innocent bystander without feeling like your missing the thing you came to feel all along. It’s like paying for a massage just to watch someone else get it from the waiting room.
It was here where I fully understood what it meant to “Die Lit.” I had the time of my life on the brink of actual exhaustion. Every part of my body wanted to give up, but couldn’t. My lungs were shot, but every breath was spent shouting the lyrics to “Magnolia” as loud as I could. That lasted the entire show.
I walked away from the venue that night sweaty and hurt. I’m pretty sure some guy and his friends wanted to jump me outside because I bumped into him too many times while raging. My shirt was off and forever ruined from the pit. It was all worth it. Almost dying lit meant I lived to the fullest