By Ashley Toland Editor

OK. This one guy (who goes by at least three, maybe four names – not really sure why) came to council last week to express his displeasure that Ludacris was going to play at BayFest again this year. He was concerned about Luda’s “obvious, vulgar, tasteless lyrics” and the fact they would be amplified out on city streets at a festival partially funded by the city. He thought the council owed the community an apology. (Eye roll)

Look, yes, a lot of his music is profane, but I’m certain if we did a lyrical analysis of all the musical acts who wanted to play BayFest and booked only good, clean wholesome G-rated ones, we would only be left with the gospel stage, and then the atheists would be pissed, so come on Four Names and your “Uncle Henry” caller ilk, give me a break.

If you’ve got two legs, walk away from the stage if it offends you. If you’re legless, have someone wheel you away. If you’re a parent and you don’t want your kids to hear it, make sure you got to BayFest with them and take ‘em to see LeeAnn Rimes or a Baptist church choir. I’m fairly certain no one is being chained to the fences and forced to listen to any particular act.

And apparently the contract with Ludacris stipulates it must be a PG-show anyway. (So I’m assuming all references to “hos” will be replaced with “prostitutes” or “ladies of the night,” “African American” will replace “nigga” and “witch” will fill in for “bitch?” )

See, no worries, honey. Everything is all good.

The funniest thing about this whole thing was to watch council members Reggie Copeland, Fred Richardson, William Carroll and the Rev. Clinton Johnson defend “Mr. Ludacris,” as CJ liked to call him.

Reggie was like, “if I even go down there, I’ll just go see LeeAnn Rimes.” He suggested Four Names do the same.

Fred had printed out what he considered were equally disturbing Alice-n-Chains lyrics and was prepared to read them, at which point I was convinced I had died and gone to heaven (or maybe hell). You can’t make this stuff up. He went on to mention Ludacris received an Osacr nomination for the movie “Crash,” which I’m not exactly sure what the relevance of that was, but whatever. Then, he asked Four Names if he thought a person who had gotten a DUI could be a town’s chief of police, to which Four Names responded he would hope not. Fred then asked, “well what about the President of the United States because he was arrested for it?”

Died and went to heaven.

Then Willie Carroll said he thought, “Ludacris is a great guy.”

(Does he play tennis with him or something?)

William’s argument was that “Puff the Magic Dragon” is taught to our school children and he said, “we are teaching our kids how to puff.”

Pure heaven.

The Rev. Clinton Johnson was not going to judge “Mr. Ludacris” and felt no one should.

“My job is to preach the gospel, not to judge a man’s life,” he said. “I think Mr. Ludacris will perform in a very dignified, decent way.”

I’m not sure how he came to this conclusion. Perhaps his Oscar-nominated performance in the movie “Crash?”

It’s usually white folks, like Four Names, who bitch about rap. Look, it’s not my cup of tea either.

In fact, when I was reading over some of his lyrics in preparation for this column, one says “you shit out wheat chex, and fart out deep breaths, while we toss out darts at the bottom of y’all v-necks.”

I really have no idea what that even means. I don’t try to.

But I do know it and the library of his other songs means something to some kid who grew up on the same streets and was plagued with the same problems as “Mr. Ludacris.”

That’s the absolute transcendent beauty of music; it’s a reflection of our cultures and generations. It’s universal, yet so very personal. It captures the most extreme joys in our lives, and it expresses our deepest sorrows. But we all don’t share the same experiences or vernacular, so those emotions come out in so many different styles and packages.

My mother – my only parent, my rock – is so sick right now. I sit by her hospital bed and I hold her hand and I watch her struggle to take one breath in and let one out, and I just pray the next one will come. And just about the only comfort I get each day is when I’m driving to and from Knollwood, listening to my music.

And I tell you, if I could write a song about just how absolutely heartbroken and angry and sad and lost I am right now, it would probably make Ludacris blush – it would just include a lot of metaphors, weepy guitars solos and sad harmonicas because that’s the kind of music that speaks to me.

But when Ludacris was sad about his mom he wrote in his song “Freedom of Preach,” “Lord, please forgive me for the mistakes I’ve made/And thanks for keeping my mom safe when she wrecked my Escalade/ See I could replace a Cadillac but I can’t replace my momma.”

You certainly can’t, Luda. You certainly can’t.

The bottom line is – the city council doesn’t book the bands; they make a comparatively small contribution to the festival. If you don’t like the line-up, do as many other Americans have in the history of music festivals, don’t buy a ticket. Or as “Mr. Ludacris” would say just, “Move bitch, and get out da way.”

I think we have more important things to worry about. I know I do.

Ashley Toland is Lagniappe editor. Contact her at ashleytoland@lagniappemobile.com.

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