By Cole Johnson Copy Editor This past March, my friend and coworker Aidan invited me to a concert for 50 Cent, which he planned to attend with several of his friends from Philadelphia. I didn’t consider myself a fan, but I wasn’t going to turn down a free ticket. The event’s location at Encore Boston Harbor was an immediate red flag. The hordes of middle-age addicts pouring their savings into slot machines didn’t exactly get me in a partying mood. On our way into the Mémoire Nightclub, a bouncer stopped us. Aidan wore an Eagles jersey, and his brother, Brian, wore a Celtics jersey. The bouncer said the jerseys weren’t allowed. We were in disbelief - middle schools don’t have dress codes that strict. It’s a nightclub, sure, but I’d hardly expect fans of any rapper to come to a show in business casual. We tried again, with Aidan now in an Eagles quarter-zip and Brian in a Celtics sweatshirt. A second bouncer informed us that Brian couldn’t wear sweatpants, and I couldn’t wear shorts. They eventually caved when we told them they didn’t mention it the first time and it’d be a 90-minute drive for us to get another change of clothes. To say the least, we entered miffed. My bad - next time I go to a rap concert, I’ll make sure to dress like a frat boy. I worried we’d miss the starting time of 10 p.m., but Brian assured me there was no way the main act would start on time. His prediction would prove comically accurate. Had I known how long we would be waiting, I wouldn’t have stuck around. If your idea of a good time is hours of standing shoulder-to-shoulder in place while awkwardly bobbing your head to generic DJ music, great - I hope we never meet. The selection of music included 2000s radio songs that I’d successfully repressed until then, artlessly backed with cookie-cutter club beats and bass levels bordering on assault. This was interspersed every 15 minutes or so with conga lines of club workers, holding up champagne and tailored signs for VIP service. The female employees, some sitting on the shoulders of their male counterparts and all in the same revealing leotards, looked universally miserable. Ninety minutes in, I started wondering if I was being gaslit. Feel free to fact check me, but I don’t believe 50 Cent is renowned for being a DJ. Not once had anyone so much as mentioned his name, and at this point I half-expected to go the whole night with no appearance. After two hours, I cracked and bought a drink from the bar. For a place whose water tastes like it came out of a McDonald’s drink machine, it’s probably safe to assume the vodka and soda I got was nowhere near worth $20, even ignoring the fact its volume was probably three-quarters ice. 50 Cent got on at 12:38 a.m. There wasn’t even an opener. The backing music he rapped to was poorly mixed with his vocals, and the smoke machines aggressively blasting every few minutes would drown out the song completely. After about 15 minutes of blaring bass that would’ve rendered any performer irrelevant, the rapper left the stage. I threw up my hands and went out. I emerged from the venue a new man - a 50 Cent hater. I didn’t expect him to crush the performance, but I did expect a performance. What we got was so utterly worthless, it borders on a scam. Dude couldn’t even be bothered to finish “In Da Club.” If anything, it’s impressive how accurately this “concert” managed to recreate the patented casino feeling of spending obscene amounts of time and money for a profoundly vapid experience. On the escalator back down to the casino, I heard a couple saying they didn’t even know 50 Cent would be playing that night. When I told them the advertised show time, their jaws dropped. We got back in the car at 1:30 a.m. As we pulled out of the parking garage, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” by the Rolling Stones started playing on the aux. “I didn’t plan this, but I thought, ‘f**k it, it’s the vibe,’” Aidan said. No one could argue, and shortly after, the whole car was singing along. My ticket was paid for, so I’m relieved to say 50 Cent can’t get a dollar out of me. Knowing that, Aidan still apologized for wasting my time. The poor guy spent almost a grand on tickets, but I guess it wasn’t enough to get 50 Cent in return. Rating: F Gambling genuinely would’ve been better