All photos via William Eller
William Eller is a shit-talker, Mr. Wrist Breaker
On November 28th, 2016, before performing in Austin on what was to be his first Chitlin’ Circuit tour, detectives arrested Kentrell Gaulden, p/k/a NBA YoungBoy, and charged him with two counts of attempted second-degree murder. According to court documents, YoungBoy was accused of firing a gun multiple times during a drive-by shooting in the 2000 block of Kentucky Street on November 2, 2016. The report indicates that Gaulden was one of three passengers in the vehicle.
Miraculously, YoungBoy managed to walk away from those legal troubles with a relatively light sentence, a slap on the wrist, if we’re being honest, considering the severity of the accusations. So when news broke earlier this year that NBA YoungBoy would be headlining a nationwide tour, his fanbase responded exactly how you’d expect: with pure, unfiltered bliss.
To the YNs all across America, NBA YoungBoy is bigger than The Beatles. He’s the most polarizing artist of his generation, a lightning rod for attention and controversy. The Baton Rouge artist doesn’t need the Top 40. He’s the reigning king of YouTube, holding the title of most-streamed hip-hop artist for five years straight.
While his music is categorized as rap, I’d argue his sound leans closer to the blues, a modern-day Muddy Waters, just with federal gun charges (so maybe more like Leadbelly). YoungBoy’s sound is as soulful as it is raw; his pain bleeds through every record. Every note sung and every bar rapped drips with anger, aggression, and sorrow, wrapped in melody and vividness that have captured the admiration of an entire generation.
The Make America Slime Again Tour marks NBA YoungBoy’s first ever arena run, a full-circle moment for an artist who’s spent much of his career confined by court dates and house arrest. The name itself is a nod to our current president, who famously pardoned YoungBoy’s two-year federal gun charge sentence back in May.
Without question, the MASA Tour is one of the wildest live experiences I’ve ever attended. After anxiously waiting a week for media passes, I finally got them at the last minute and scrambled to the arena. Unfortunately, by the time I arrived, I had already missed DeeBaby, Toosii, Mellow Rackz, a surprise performance from Benji Blue Bills, and the D.C. legend himself, Shy Glizzy.
Major bummer, but it be like that sometimes.
I was escorted to the side of the stage, where I thankfully caught Offset’s full set before YB came out. It was about 9:15, and YoungBoy was scheduled to hit the stage at 9:30. This was the calm before the storm, and you could feel the tension in the air thickening. I took a second to look around and soak it all in. The curtain was still drawn, keeping fans from seeing what was behind it, but from where I stood, I had a clear view of what was to come.
Hanging mid-air was a casket, the very one YoungBoy would soon rise from. The stage was surrounded by tombstones, his dancers dressed in army-green uniforms, and at the center stood a literal broken home, a house split down the middle, which I assumed to be a replica of his childhood home. It was theatrical, haunting, and deeply symbolic.
As I looked around, I quickly realized I was standing in the friends-and-family section with YoungBoy’s entourage. Behind me stood Jazlyn Mychelle, YoungBoy’s wife, holding their son, Klemenza. Lil Dump, a rapper and close friend of YoungBoy, was moving presidential in and out of the section. He clearly had an all-access pass and could go anywhere he pleased. I’m 6’5”, so I tend to stand out, and the entire time, various members of NBA, or Never Broke Again, including Dump, were staring me down in a way that silently said they couldn’t wait to beat my ass if I moved wrong. Honestly, I didn’t expect anything less.
At one point, as Dump passed through again, he hit me with an “accidentally on purpose” shoulder check. I took that moment to ask if I could get a picture of him. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “No.” Two other NBA members with him, who I couldn’t identify, were a little more social. One of them asked, “Who the fuck are you, nigga?” I told them I was a journalist. The other one looked at me and said, “What’s that?” Eventually, they convinced Dump to let me get the picture, which actually turned out great. After that, a few more members of YoungBoy’s entourage started asking me to take their photos, too. At that point, I had somehow become the unofficial photographer for NBA.
Then, 9:30 hit. The curtain drew open. The crowd went absolutely ape shit. I’ve never seen anything like it: The energy in the room was unfiltered chaos, the kind that makes your chest vibrate. The casket holding NBA YoungBoy suddenly flung open, and the crowd exploded into a deafening, high-pitched scream. When that casket cracked open, it was resurrection.
The crowd’s reaction wasn’t just hype, it was spiritual. People weren’t cheering; they were testifying. You could see tears in some faces, arms raised like they were at church, phones glowing like candles in a vigil. For the YNs, this wasn’t a concert. It was a communion.
YoungBoy rose from the coffin like a prophet who refused to die, and as the casket slowly descended to the stage, YoungBoy launched into “MASA,” a cut from the album of the same name. I could feel the energy pounding through the floor. What surprised me most, though, was how hyped the friends-and-family section was, everyone was rapping word for word, jumping, filming, living in the moment.
A few songs in, YoungBoy hit “Bitch Let’s Do It,” one of my favorites. By that point, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I was rapping along to every word about getting hooked on heroin and having my opps mom at the precinct every day telling on me, lyrics that sound wild on paper but, in that moment, felt like scripture. Normally when I’m stage side, there’s this unspoken pressure to stay composed, to not act like a fan. But not tonight. There was no room for ego.
“No Smoke” was next, another one of my favorite YoungBoy songs. The moment that opening beat dropped, it felt like the entire venue shook. The DJ cut the music at just the right time to let the crowd take over, and they knew every word by heart. The place erupted all over again, voices overlapping in chaos and harmony, like everyone in there had lived those lyrics themselves. There’s something about that song, the defiance in it, the hunger, that captures exactly what makes YoungBoy who he is: it’s not just aggression, it’s survival. It’s that refusal to fold, that chip on his shoulder that every fan in the room relates to on some level.
From my spot near the stage, I watched fans spill out onto the sides of the floor section, waving their green flags like battle standards. I’ve seen street n**s damn near in tears, rapping through emotion so heavy it looked like release. Every flash of light from the phones in the crowd made it feel like both a warzone and a worship service. It wasn’t just music anymore, it was testimony, catharsis, and chaos all colliding.
The energy of the night stayed sky-high for the rest of the show. Unlike some of the chaos you see going viral online from other tour stops, Washington, D.C. knew better than to do anything that might disrupt the performance, no bottles, no hats, no green flags flying onto the stage. The respect was mutual, but it also came from an unspoken understanding: playing with any member of NBA, especially YB himself, would be the dumbest decision anyone could make if they planned on leaving the venue untouched.
The setlist rolled on, and I’ve got to say, the sheer number of songs YB performed puts him in the league of the big dogs when it comes to touring artists. In total, he ran through 49 songs, and the crowd knew every single word. That’s devotion. Then, as if the night couldn’t get any more electric, YoungBoy brought out an unexpected guest, Lil Boosie. The second “Wipe Me Down” dropped, the building shook. There’s a negro spiritual connection between Boosie and Washington, D.C. that’s hard to explain; I’ve seen him booked here multiple times, and every single appearance feels like a homecoming. The crowd’s reaction that night only confirmed it.
As the concert began to wind down, I wanted to move around the venue, catch a few different angles, and maybe sneak backstage to see if I could land an exclusive interview with any of the artists. While I had hoped to secure a few conversations, the opportunity just never presented itself. Unlike other cities on the tour, the artists weren’t as visible or accessible tonight. I had my sights set on connecting with DeeBaby, Offset, OG Three3, or even Birdman, who’s been accompanying YoungBoy on tour and playing the role of road manager. I actually had an interview lined up with Mellow Rackz, but that one didn’t come together in time. I’ll save that story for another day, hopefully we’ll get the chance to connect again. Mellow was also scheduled to perform at the afterparty, which kept my night far from over.
After a quick pit stop at Taco Bell Cantina for a spiked slushie, we made our way back to Abigail, the club hosting the afterparty. We still had a few moments to kill, so we sat in my car and enjoyed a D.C. tradition of Sheets, za, and funnel. The MASA show was a success, but in the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but doubt that someone with YoungBoy’s rap sheet could ever truly co-sign Donald Trump, pardon or not.
On August 11, President Trump declared a “crime emergency” in the nation’s capital and vowed to “make the streets safe again.” As a result, the National Guard and FBI are now “assisting” local law enforcement in “taking violent criminals off the streets.” From where I stand, all I’ve seen them do is harass people outside my job when the clubs let out, and tonight is no different. As we sit in my parked car, listening to Young Slo-Be and debating who’s the best rapper in EBK, no fewer than three police cars, both marked and unmarked, creep past, peeking into my untinted windows, flashing their lights as if to tell us to move along. America’s hard-earned tax dollars at work, right?
The MASA Tour wasn’t just a concert, it was a masterclass in spectacle, energy, and the unpredictable nature of hip-hop at its highest level. From the stage theatrics to the chaotic backstage maneuvers, every moment felt like being inside a living, breathing narrative of NBA YoungBoy’s life and legacy.
By the end, I was left exhilarated, exhausted, and deeply grateful: for the stories, the access, and the reminder that the magic of hip-hop isn’t just in the music, it’s in the people, the chaos, and the chase. The MASA Tour was a reminder that nights like this are fleeting, rare, and worth every step of the pursuit.
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