Get In The Van, Get In The Ring: Monday Night RAW with Smoke DZA

"We're about to go on another adventure," Smoke DZA says, smiling conspiratorially as we make our way down the block and towards the curb. He gestures at his friend, doing a solid by giving us a lift to Brooklyn, loping four paces ahead. “You see, he used to have this ambulette, but now he has a bigger one.” Mere steps from Morningside Park, we pass coveted Harlem brownstones as dusk sets in, until we come upon a grey monolith of a van. Only then do I fully understand what's facing me. The mind conjures visions of being thrashed about the back, like some old rag doll amid the panoply of construction tools and miscellany. As the crew makes room for me in this convenient death trap (which Smoke lovingly nicknames "The Smokemobile"), the rapper remains jovial.

Yet I feel unbelievably calm, perhaps the positive byproduct of pre-gaming uptown with Smoke and some other hospitable Harlemites he's known his whole life. The trust he places in these men, all “raised right around here,” comes across with quiet confidence, an inherent respect built undoubtedly on mutually shared experiences. A child raised on PSAs, I reflexively buckle up for safety as we head down the Henry Hudson Parkway.

Even with roughly a week until the release of Dream.ZONE.Achieve, his latest and arguably best album, Smoke can’t seem to contain his excitement for the main event on tonight's agenda: Monday Night RAW at Barclays Center. “I wonder if Hulk Hogan’s gonna show,” he ponders from the passenger seat and, vaguely recalling the Hulkster’s appearance on one of the local morning shows, I suggest that it’s definitely happening. An unabashed wrestling fan since childhood, he briefly places his head on the dashboard in delighted disbelief then returns to deconstructing a Dutch.

Unlike a lot of the barely legal rappers currently on the come up in New York, Smoke DZA seems to know what’s up. He’s not some grizzled or embittered veteran, but rather a passionate, positive figure born and raised in Harlem. A co-founder of The Smoker’s Club, he gained traction with a series of weed-themed releases with features from known tokers like Action Bronson and Curren$y, ultimately endearing himself to the High Times set. For Dream.ZONE.Achieve, however, Smoke wanted to “do something different,” branching out musically and topically without abandoning his base or going crassly commercial. On the drive to Brooklyn, when prompted for my thoughts on the record, I mention that my favorite track on the record is “Robin Givens,” a soulful cut bolstered by Motown freshman BJ The Chicago Kid. His surprise is palpable. “You chose that one first? Wow. That means a lot."

The driver, murmuring about the abundant police presence and lack of a decent drop off spot, drops us at the first available opportunity outside of the arena. Smoke emerges from the van decked out in a black Wrestlemania 29 varsity jacket, a souvenir he acquired at last year’s rumble at MetLife Stadium in New Jersey. “My wife got me the tickets as a surprise,” he proclaims, reminding himself to thank her again for the ones she scored for us to tonight’s event. Once inside, he makes a beeline for a colorful merchandise booth, quickly taking inventory. Smoke points out a bright yellow Hulkamania throwback tee, and nods. “Definitely getting that,” he says. Dissatisfied with the disorganized line, we walk to a second, larger store closer to our seats, where he picks up a few shirts, including a neon-themed “You Can't See Me” John Cena one for his young son, another wrestling fan.

My wrestling knowledge more or less ends in the early 90s, leaving me dependent upon and deferential to Smoke’s opinions on the night’s personalities, including flamboyant heel Fandango (“I hate him as a wrestler.”), WWE Diva Tamina (“She’s Superfly Jimmy Snuka’s daughter!”), and a clan of backwoods goons called The Wyatts (“They’re real.”) A tag-team matchup pits Jack Swagger and Cesaro against The Shield, and Smoke is deeply engaged, only speaking to alert me to Cesaro’s “signature move,” after which he nods satisfied with the reversal of fortunes in the ring it signifies. In a four-way bout between Christian, Alberto Del Rio, Sheamus, and Dolph Ziggler, he favors the latter, a crowd favorite. (“Ziggler and Big E have history,” he assures, referring to the subsequent challenger, looking on ringside.) When Christian then pulls off a stunning upset, Smoke takes it as hard as the rest of the room. He’d been so sure of the outcome before, legitimately interested in seeing how Ziggler would have fared against Big E, who incidentally Smoke had actually DMed via Twitter earlier in the evening. Still, he remains in good spirits, unlike some of the palpably angry goons howling with rage a few rows behind us. Nobody’s happy to see Triple-H. The crowd can’t decide if it loves or hates Cena and neither can I. Much of my knowledge of contemporary wrestling comes from T-shirts I’ve seen at airports, so the factionalism and favoritism leaves me too paralyzed to root for pretty much anyone.

In between fights, he recalls his long infatuation with the sport. “My first time seeing it live was when I was 13, at the Garden. Back then, they’d actually be out where the pictures are [taken].” The enhanced corporate feel he refers to doesn’t appear to detract from his enjoyment, but it certainly enhances mine. Someone dressed as Scooby-Doo makes an appearance, as part of a WWE cartoon movie tie-in, one of the many offerings advertised on the venue’s many screens, provoking “Scoo-Bee-Doo” chants almost identical to the “CM Punk” ones. Toy commercials follow for Slam City and a Lego rip called Stackdown. After the fifth interstitial promo for the WWE Network—a pay-TV service that offers behind the scenes coverage and original programming like the Big Brother reminiscent Legends House—I ask Smoke if he subscribes. “If I wasn't here, I'd be watching.”

Then suddenly, that music, undeniably Rick Derringer’s finest hour—”Real American” booms from the PA, heralding the emergence of none other than Hulk Hogan. Smoke and I woo in unison, whipping out our phones to snap as many pictures as we possibly can. The arena swells with Hogan chants, and for a while he stands alone in the ring, basking in the adoration of generations of Hulkamaniacs. It is a genuine moment of joy, and the already good-humored Smoke beams. Shortly thereafter, Joe Manganiello and Arnold Schwarzenegger join him, shilling effortlessly for their new movie Sabotage. “It’s wonderful to be back again,” the Governator extols, recalling his catchphrase just enough to send the crowd into hooting hysterics.

From across the way, Smoke spots someone. “Is that Rosenberg?” he asks, referring to the Hot 97 radio personality Peter Rosenberg, “And Wale?” Sure enough, the pair are ringside. Pleased with himself, Smoke chuckles, “A couple of marks.” Later, he informs me that the Flatbush Zombies are also in the building. The mood changes as they announce the latest inductee to the Hall Of Fame: Razor Ramon. Scott Hall, the troubled man who formerly embodied the role, didn’t emerge to accept the honor, but Smoke assures, “That's why they gave it to him tonight, to help him up.” I peer across the arena back to Rosenberg and Wale, somewhat surprised to see the latter there. I entertain a scenario in which the two are actually in the ring, their personalities perfectly aligned with those of professional WWE fighters, competing for some title or settling some squabble from the prior week. I imagine Smoke has had even more elaborate wrestling daydreams, and that in them, he wins.

Smoke steps away to charge his phone, inadvertently missing part of an elaborate set piece where The Undertaker emerges from a coffin to intimidate his Wrestlemania 30 opponent Brock Lesnar. When he returns, he’s got yet another bag of merch in his hand. “Of course I had to buy more shit for my kids,” he admits, though from the way he says it I suspect there’s something in there for Smoke as well. He turns stoic, transfixed by the funeral scene, the hooded monks, the Gregorian vocalizing. It’s a spectacle that somehow transfixes a crowd that has spent the entire night being as boisterous, disruptive, and participatory as possible. For a brief series of moments, in this arena of thousands, somehow I can’t help but feel incredibly alone.

Leaving Barclay’s Center with Smoke, that isolation dissipates completely. “I’ve never been here before tonight,” he reveals, something we apparently both have in common. Like wrestling, hip-hop tends to favor pretty outsize and outlandish figures, but Smoke DZA somehow balances between being both down to earth and larger than life, imposing and accommodating. He makes me want loudly boo at anyone who stands in his way. After three hours of heroes and heels, I finally had someone to root for.

Gary spent another night waiting for Chinx Drugz to perform at Perfections strip club last week, too.

Gary Suarez is all the way the fuck out of his comfort zone. He's on Twitter - @noyokono