By Ben John Smith (Contact Ben)

A change going to come.

Fair enough, it's ripped from the modest hit by Sam Cooke, but Obama knew it was a selling point. A change is going to come.

Change always comes, where else is it going to go?

People love bite-size lines like that. Quotes broken from sonnets and songs and emblazed on a chest pin for the hippy men and women with bit, fat, chucky, diced beef hearts. People on Facebook with "Fuck off Japanese, leave the whales alone" groups. They have absolutely no idea what's going on, but for god sakes they want to be a part of it. That's the divine comedy of our generation; the ease of communication that gives too many stupid hopeless fools, like myself, a forum of heads to bounce from. Left to right, sing it now, right to left—Obama and his porn star mum, Palin and her 15 seconds of fame before we made her a whore, McCain and his broken, little, white heart . . . 

A change is going to come, a change can't exactly stay.

So the day before the first black man is crowned hero, in a sweet twist of irony, Snoop returns to Melbourne to blow the proverbial smoke up the ass of the free world. Now I have to be honest, I am not what one might call a raging Snoop Dogg fan, and I kind of feel a little Ho Hum about most gangster rap that gets passed for lyrical beef these days. I'm a skinny white kid, bandanas made me look like I have Down Syndrome and watered-down gang signs make me feel like i do.

The concert is at Rod Laver Tennis Center. I share a joint with a good friend of mine, while he tells me about a story from a 50 Cent concert at the same venue, and as I get high, the anxiety eats me away. He has his hair slicked back and he has a mambo T-shirt on. He dropped a tab of acid at the 50 Cent show and "lost [my]self outside looking for [my] retarded brother." He's never had a brother, of that I'm sure. This strange group of individuals are tense and uneasy, Big T is looking for his lucky hat, we can't leave without his lucky hat.

I tease the acid dropper; we say he needs a nap.

He doesn't need a nap; he is just excited, Thank God for the Odd. He just wants this to be perfect. Big T tries on different hats. I contemplate going home.

I already know this isn't your typical pop concert, the skin of the thick burns with that simmering self contempt in the fans of the "gangster rap," especially the rich white kids with Hummers, the poor kids too, but it's more depressing the other way. It's not going to be like the two fat, eighties throwback, best friends. The fatties who got their period together, got their ears pierced on the same day, watched Dirty Dancing and cried alone with them wet, doughy, female eyes. They would track to Vegas to hear Manilow waltz out some good old swing showboat tunes on their 50th anniversary. They know what life is all about, the rest of us riff raff just pretend we don't care.

Rod Laver seems quiet from the outside, all sorts of fat and skinny zombies up the stairs outside. Inside it's different, the egos are clashing here and mass hysteria with weed makes everyone want to "out front" one another. Most people are drunk, with their tops off, lining up for a cigarette outside. Girls are dressed to the nines, boobs jiggling in halter neck tops and Chinese chicks with no asses to hold up their mini skirts. It's the hood, the sad and the fugly.

I can hear Bone Thugs double timing in the distance, to my right some geeky looking Caucasian is screaming "Beeerrrrat" and pointing his fingers like a gun at the air. I'm pretty sure he loves his Grandmother, eats at home most nights of the week and takes his sister to the park on weekends . . . Nothing to be ashamed of, a change going to come.

Bone Thugs are great, a lot of spirit and they hype up the girls with their baritone and soft squeaky sex vibe that they jibe to; you know what I'm talking about. Like losing your virginity to Ginuwine - "Pony." It's a short set and there is a long break in between. After a smoke I find Big T at the gate 10 entrance. I want to sit down and the scattered junkies and white men possessed by the anger of black oppression frighten me out in the foyer. Our seats have been stolen by three fair-sized Samoan gentlemen; they are the only quiet and calm section of the crowd, which is immediately threatening. I sit in the seat next to him and he moves one away; we play this game at least twice before Ice Cube walks on the stage and totally burns the place down.

"No smoking signs, whose fucking concert is this?"

Ice Cube is very, very, genuinely Hip Hop. One of the first "Niggers With Attitude" to understand exactly how much money could be made from this rap shit (see N.W.A and Easy E beef). "Natural Born Killaz" sends the general admin crowd into a sweating frenzy, but I have to take a piss so I walk to the toilet. Someone has blocked all the sink holes with toilet paper, so the floors are flooded with piss and the white cloggy cum of the mushy T.P., how VERY gangster of them. Back at my seat a classy dude with no teeth is getting arrested, his pants around his ankles and a T-shirt tied around his head in a "doo-rag," some fat African woman behind us is vomiting on the floor and on her sweater while St. John's medics pat her head with a cool cloth. Ice Cube finishes with a N.W.A cover, showing the first LP to the very pleased crowd.

The intermission is broken up with a very annoying dickhead rapping the hooks of other people's rhymes. An advertisement for Snoop Dogg's reality television show "Fatherhood" plays on the big screen above us; it makes me feel a little bit sick. There are two pretty girls dancing to the tunes, getting photos with boys who walk past and are gormless enough to ask for a happy snap. Some take photos of themselves and their friends. You see that shit all over the Internet. Groups of clowns in dopey colored rags taking photos of themselves with their Christmas allowance. Watered down gang signs, faded green tattoos, stoned violent eyes.

I'm not bitter, and hip hop has always been a passion of mine. Emcees like Immortal Technique, Big Punisher, Jedi Mind Tricks, Ill Bill, Biz Markie. I just hate the scene.

Snoop comes out in a blue jumpsuit and looks like an old man who could have been a plumber. His set is fucking horrible, half cut radio songs without the co-celeb next to him to sing the other verse. He hand selects the prettiest and soberest chicks from the crowd and they dance sheepishly in the corner of the stage, cat eyeing each other with daggers and controlled lava lamp booty crumps. Two of our party leave when Snoop starts jabbering like a geriatric with Alzheimer's.

"what's my name?" — "Snoop Dogg" x 20 . . .

It's only a few songs in when Todd taps me on the shoulder.

"I think I've had just about enough of this." —Poor Todd, Todd who just wanted this to be perfect. I agree and we leave mid set.

It's funny the way things work out. A black man in charge of the world, another black man on stage holding his dick and singing "Sexual Seduction." In charge of all these parentless ragamuffins, sick sheep mixing with the pigs from Animal Farm. The new age of passive aggresive revolution and shoot up your school and office type danger. Nothing stays the same . . .

Hip hop has changed, the world has changed, oppression has changed. And regardless of that heavy silent swing we all remain hopeless and fucked. Peaking from minor pops in socialism, fantasy fun and rhymes from reality blurred by shiny candy pink Cadillacs and big white Louis Vuitton sunglasses. Like Palin rapping her ass off while her daughter gets a slippery one inside her, face pressed and all rubbing up against the steaming window of her uncle's Volkswagen. Even if we had a choice we wouldn't know what to do with it.

If a change does come, I'm pretty sure it will be far, far too late.