Apparently, I deduced, Prince has more pull than I thought, if he can coerce the most enigmatic and reclusive performer this side of Sly Stone to step onto his stage—as a headliner, no less. Hill has played with the on—and—off—reunited Fugees a handful of times since 2004, and she served up an unannounced three—song set at August's "Rock the Bells" hip—hop festival in San Bernardino, California. But a full—on solo appearance? In a cozy nightclub setting? For real?
It certainly appears so as I stroll through the Rio around 7:30 Saturday night, 30 minutes before doors for the 10 p.m. event are slated to open. Hill's name flashes in orange letters on the marquee above 3121's entrance, her photo adorns postcard—sized fliers advertising "An intimate, impromptu performance by Ms. Lauryn Hill" and printed tickets—$65 for general admission, several hundred for VIP tables with bottles—await concert—goers at will—call. As I stand in the long queue that twists three times before stretching down one casino wall, the air is thick with excitement. The group directly in front of me ditched work to drive in from Los Angeles. One breathless woman appears ready to faint as she speaks of the special place in her heart Hill's music still occupies, even though the once—acclaimed singer/songwriter hasn't released a studio album since 1998's Grammy—winning The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill.
Eight o'clock becomes 9 and then 9:30 before doors finally open, but no one seems to mind much. They're busy romanticizing what lies around the bend: Hill's singular blend of hip—hop and soul, the rich voice that rang true as ever on an emotional "Killing Me Softly" in Dave Chappelle's Block Party, the songs she might sing, the band that will back her, surprise guests who could join her. Maybe The Fugees will show! What if Prince hasn't left town yet? The night holds endless possibilities, chief among them that long—awaited next step down Hill's wildly erratic career path.
As the club fills, the DJ serves up a playlist loaded with hip—hop and R&B, from The Jackson 5's "I Want You Back" to Dr. Dre's "The Next Episode." By night's end I'll hear several songs two and even three times; I just don't know it yet. I do know that the dance floor is hoppin', two girls near the front are chanting Lauryn's name, and some dudes in VIP are high—fiving like they've already hit their Super Bowl parlays.
Sometime after 11, a male voice from the great beyond informs us 1) 3121 is a nonsmoking venue; 2) photos of any kind are strictly prohibited and—here we go—3) Lauryn Hill will be coming on soon. I'll admit, I've doubted. Hell, I even predicted a 40 percent chance of no—show early today. But my fears are melting away as we inch closer to what's starting to seem very, very real.
Until it doesn't. Around midnight, the dance floor starts getting sluggish, folks at my table begin looking antsy, and I'm pretty sure the woman seated behind me has fallen asleep, her head resting uncomfortably on an adjacent chair back. At 12:30 I count fewer than a dozen people dancing, unless the high—fivers' fist—pumping can be considered a dance, which would bring the total closer to 15. Heads everywhere are down, some faces showing temporary disbelief, others resigned to total surrender.
At 1 a.m. 3121 appears half—empty, most of the holdouts huddled in anxious conversations. With the now—familiar music still pumping, I can't hear their exact words, but I don't need to. It's over. One by one, they come to grips with that sad reality, accept it and leave.
I wander to the adjacent gift shop and peek into the casino, now echoing with angry demands for refunds. A Rio usher is shaking his head, repeating the mantra, "It's just sad. It's just sad." Back in the club, a woman in a white bridal gown refuses to submit, appearing to fight back tears as her apparent groom tries to soothe her raw emotions.
It's now 1:30, and as attendance dips below 50, I call it a night, though not before chatting with one Rio employee who delivers this shocking news: He personally witnessed a two—plus—hour soundcheck by Hill and her band before doors opened—she sounded "great," he says—and several of his co—workers also saw her test out the room that morning. "I have no idea why she's not here," he says,
Close to 2 a.m., as the crestfallen line up outside the club again, this time for refunds, someone finally informs anyone still inside that Hill won't be performing tonight. Really?
Not surprisingly, attempts to reach Hill's booking agent and Columbia Records publicist go unanswered on Monday. The Rio declines to comment. 3121 issues a brief statement, chalking the fiasco up to Hill's "travel difficulties." Maybe she got lost on her way back from the bathroom? One member of a Prince fan community gossips that Hill was overheard yelling at her band during soundcheck, capping the bulletin board post with "Mad as hell ... waited 4 hours for nothing."
Ultimately, I don't care much why Hill didn't show, and though I'd like that chunk of my life back, I can imagine worse ways to spend a Saturday night. Mostly, I'm just angry at myself. For surrendering, however briefly, to the hope that Hill might do anything other than what's most expected.