The streets are alive and they’re shouting the Doggfather is in town. Word of mouth is that anarchy would ensue. But Snoop Dogg was the solidifying sticky icky green by which he drew the diverse crowd of all colors through the imposing metal detectors and small mobs of anxious police. This anarchy he brought were intentions not to war, but to party. As the apathy of the crowd rose during a supporting reggae act, Pepper, the drug policy of Centennial Garden turned as lax as a Dutch coffeeshop, during the Feb. 27 concert.

“You know Bakersfield we’re all up on hip-hop,” I overheard. I made friends with a fast-talking eastsider and part-time MC, named DJ Gumby Rocks. He embodied the spirit of the underprivileged struggling through the system, a struggle not unlike that of Calvin Broadus, a young teenager fast-talking his way out of the prison system after selling crack to a record deal before age 18.

He told me that at last year’s Snoop Dogg “Up in Smoke” tour he had a friend OD. And the only thing Snoop Dogg has ever been guilty of is smoking too much weed, but we all know you can’t OD smoking the sweet sinsemilla. “Snoop’s a hero to his people I can assure that, he’s got support from all races and cultures,” the DJ said.

The debauchery never stopped. The Dionysian hedonism flourished between the friction of grinding loins, girl on girls, white and black, young and old. For every scandalously skanky skirt came the hungry barks of the young gangsta bucks. Snoop Dogg left no rhyme superfluous. Dressed in prison blues, he is a minimalist, a mobile party, with a freshly burning chronic blunt and his signature drink, gin and juice. The bars were closed early specifically for this event. What was the reason, who knows. What was the answer, concealing uncounted gallons of Hennnesy, gin, vodka, and rum under the baggy jeans and loose-fitted Ben Davis slacks. The police were expecting a riot, but all they got was the dancing, screaming, hand-waving, sign-throwing, nonchalant attitude of a gangster. According to Snoop, Bakersfield was a town run by gangsters, and the cops weren’t about to stop the party. They, along with all security present, wanted a piece of the action.

Bare chests, blazing blunts, pimps and hoes and a fog effect provided by the crowd that was slowly disintegrating my journalistic objectivity continued in wanton frivolity.

That night at the Holiday Inn, no one noticed a Curtis Mayfield checked in, but the whole ninth floor became his own private domain. However despite Snoop’s apparent pseudonym and desire for privacy, he was still a man inclined to iron his own shirt before the show.