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The years 1996-'98 have been relived thrice this week, with Fugees, Natural Resource, and a Black Star set at Talib (lyrics stick to yr ribs) Kweli's pre-record release. (The Emmy award-winning star of my favorite fairy tale, Mos Def, was short, sharp, shocked, and off-key as ever. Met him briefly; he is even finer in person, which is head-and-heartbreaking, but his handshake is flimsy like Nova Lox. Dude, you are Mos Def; where's your grip?!) On Sunday, Prince Po and Pharoahe Monche reunite Organized Konfusion at the Knitting Factory. It's all so rock & roll. As Trick Daddy's driver pointed out, people hit their 30s and get nostalgic (see: the amount of Bell Biv Devoe spun in the last week), and hip-hop is definitely hitting its 30s, but it also reeks deep of Clinton-era wish-listing, when everything was gonna be all right (but absolutely wasn't).

Nostalgia is lovely escape from the dismal present, but it's also a world-class wrecking cru. Folks need some quality time in a Russian spa with a cognitive therapist. I say dig for fire and listen to "Ooh Child" by the Five Stairsteps (the Valerie Carter version is lovely, as well, but the Stairsteps cut is definitive), for a moment of sweet baby-coddling. Then aim your eyes up the next block and move.