By Sean Moeller

P.O.S. w/Dessa, SIMS and Mac Lethal at Gabe’s Oasis, Iowa City

How it got in there may never be known, but an 8×10 autographed glossy photo of “Cheers’” Diane – Shelley Long – is stapled to the back wall of the dirtiest and most notoriously great bar in the entire state of Iowa, right next to pub pics of Smog and Los Straightjackets. She’s a complete misfit hanging there, pearly and prim. The personalized note to someone, whose name has since been blacked out by someone who might have had to wait through three local, posturing white boy hip-hop groups to survive to the deluxe squad of Rhymesayers and Doomtree acts, reads: “Let love and light prevail, Shelley Long.” No kissy marks or drivel, just a little dash of meaningfulness on a slice of shiny paper. Now Minneapolis’ P.O.S. – Stef Alexander to his friends, Stefon to his mother – probably didn’t scan the walls well enough to see Shelley up there, but he seemed to blindly obey her cursive suggestion. Other things he let prevail in an hour-long set of mountain shattering, ocean-parting hip-hop: his tenderly young brilliance, a versatility and utilization of a voice that would drop Mariah Carey dead from shock (he rapped, he sang, he screamed bloody murder and he charmed the hell out of every tasty hook and melody) and a knack for cutting out the superfluities when there was no point for them.

Everything the 24-year-old phenom did was needed and welcome – to kill is to kill is to kill. He got the hardcore kid out of his early with a little “Yeah Right!” off of his ungodly splendid debut record, “Audition,” out at the end of January and sure to be taking breaths away for, oh, who knows how long. Guitar wails and more energy than a busted open fire hydrant lapped against both sides of every song as Alexander wrapped the mic cord around his tattooed forearms and chewed into it. His instincts and engaging personality – encouraging the mostly white audience to him their teeth and regularly talked to them like they were close buds, not playing the showman (sometimes this is questionable) and the paying customers game that can often happen at hip-hop shows. When he sang, “Life’s too shallow on the surface,” late in his set, it summarized what he wanted to change. Most of the songs that the pop star (opener Mac Lethal’s claim earlier in the night) did reveal some light, shying away from pessimistic visual and deriding the clambering that goes on daily for what’s behind the mystery door or what’s on the other side of the fence (always perceived as a greater prize). He sang of personal harmony, loving/understanding thy neighbor, hardships that forced him to be a man and certainly through some political discourse into the room to stir the drink, but it was done softly, making the passion behind it not solely connected to the hot button issues that are getting worked and worked over. Were I forced to give a blue ribbon to any one portion of the show, I still couldn’t do it, feeling it cruelly unfair to not insist on a three-way tie between the rousing rendition of “De La Souls,” when Alexander sings the chorus, “No one will ever be/Like me,” with everyone in the house, loud enough to give you chills and explains the line by saying, “This isn’t about me doing super special things. It’s doing what I can with my brain and you doing what you can with your brains.” Then there was Alexander truly sounding like a Michael Jackson a la “Thriller” days going apeshit, laying it on thicker with a little more lung. And finally, in the middle of a song well after 1 a.m., declaring three thumb wars and winning all three without a contest. He throws out a challenge that if anyone beats him he’ll give them something free from the merch table and then warned, “I have not given anything away in the two months on tour.” He has given away part of his soul – each and every night – however, with the way he throws himself into his performance. Safe to say, he’s got so much more in the tank. It’s unthinkable to not see this man perform if he’s anywhere near you.

Kansas City’s Mac Lethal made a point to disclose that he was wearing Ol’ Dirty Bastards shoes three different times and ODB/Baby Baby Jesus/Dirt McGirt, however you like to think of him in your prayers would have loved Mac Lethal – a conglomeration of snippiness, brute force, immeasurable imagination and a mad craving for anything Taco Bell (especially items involving chipotle). He’s tubby and irresponsible in his lyrics and came across as indie hip-hop’s next big star – a Henry Rollins for the rap crowd that gets into hating things in the same amusing ways that Stewie or Lewis Black do and watches a lot of Adult Swim. Speaking of “The Family Guy,” Lethal slid over behind the turntables, paused his song and sang the entire show theme song a cappella with the aid of the willing crowd. He got those in the front row to do the Elaine dance from that one episode of “Seinfeld” and spoke from the heart when he rapped, “Tell Andy Warhol I disagree/I want a new Portishead album to come out.”

SIMS preached and preached. He worked his ass off and not every song was a call to disarm or to wake up and put a foot down, but it seemed like it.

Dessa, a beautiful Puerto Rican and one of P.O.S.’s Minneapolis neighbor just a few houses down was a pistol and a pedal. She interspersed exemplary spoken word pieces with her rhymes of doomed and fretful love, sinking into her time on stage and living it. She does this smile that could hurt you and burn your legs off. FYI: she likes rum and cokes.