To shed light on 50 Cent’s much-publicised finances, I have brought Josh, an accountant, with me to the O2 Arena. Josh speculates that 50 Cent has put one of his companies into chapter 11 bankruptcy (the restructuring kind) as a stalling tactic. A court has ordered that he must pay $5m in damages to Lastonia Leviston – who has a child with 50’s rival MC Rick Ross – for leaking a sex tape in which she features. Fiddy may be betting that Leviston will settle for a smaller sum, rather than wait out a process that could take years.
Where would 50 Cent (real name Curtis Jackson), the man who had a worldwide smash with P.I.M.P., have got the idea that women are disposable objects in a contest between male protagonists? We get to see the P.I.M.P. video in full, by way of a reminder. Jackson does not squander money he purportedly hasn’t got on production values: a light panel for the DJ and a video screen behind him replaying old clips represent the most advanced low-budget technology of 2004.
That song is a belter, though, and one of several. For all the violence, sleaze and braggadocio in his lyrics, 50 Cent is one of the poppiest acts to make it big in hip-hop. The definitive quality of his music is its bounce. When he and G-Unit line up, rhyme and croon, there’s unmistakably something of the doo-wop group about them. This 50 Cent is no surly street ogre, but a smiling entertainer who’s just pleased to be here for his audience.
He approaches the set like a mixtape, switching in and out of numbers, rarely settling for long on anything. He never lets energy fritter away into the soul-sapping hollowness of this concrete bowl. It is, in Josh’s expert opinion, “a solid show”. I concur.
