Digital Underground Surfaces

A sloppy, silly, sometimes stupid affair like Digital Underground’s poorly attended show Friday at the Galaxy Concert Theatre might not seem like the stuff of history.

However, the 200 or so fans who saw the past-its-prime rap group here may have witnessed the dawning of ‘90s hip-hop nostalgia. Its arrival before the decade’s end would be in keeping with the accelerated pace of the rap world.

Digital Underground came out of Oakland in 1990 with a million-selling album, “Sex Packets,” and its major hit single, “Humpty Dance.”

The group, which included a then-unheralded Tupac Shakur as a secondary member, had a bit of staying power: In 1991, it managed two gold-certified follow-ups, “This Is An E.P. Release” and the full-length “Sons of the P.” But sales dwindled from there, and Digital Underground went underground in 1993.

Last year, the band, fronted by naughty-rap humorist Gregory “Shock-G” Jacobs and his little Sancho Panza sidekick, Ron “Money-B” Brooks, reappeared with “Future Rhythm,” a CD that tried to mix light but relatively mature social commentary with a typical diet of sex-obsession. The band usually keeps its sex-centeredness funny, and the playfulness prevents it from rolling into rap’s wide gutter of crudeness-bordering-on-brutality.

The public hasn’t bought into a more mature Digital Underground, even though “Future Rhythm” sports a nice, laid-back take on George Clinton’s elaborately semi-chaotic P-Funk production approach. Lucky to get a second at-bat, Digital Underground decided to unspool the highlight reel at the Galaxy, more or less ignoring its most recent album.

The 45-minute performance lacked the tightness that good nostalgia acts strive to achieve. Shock-G offhandedly admitted the sloppiness, remarking that the band hadn’t rehearsed for this inaugural tour gig.

At least the set was eventful. The lanky Shock-G paraded about in peacock plumage, like a cartoon vision of a 19th century European emperor. In this guise, he became Humpty-Hump, the comically urbane, large-nosed alter ego he created for “Humpty Dance” and other numbers. The crowd was treated to, or, more accurately, showered with the fallout from an onstage food fight involving popcorn, Silly String and gushes of beer from shaken bottles. Then two female dancers joined the fun, shedding their tight clothes and gyrating as sprays of whipped cream were applied for erotic effect.

“We weren’t sure what these ladies were gonna do,” Shock-G demurred, after they had done quite a lot.

The striptease put the band at least halfway into the aforementioned gutter. It came during “Freaks of the Industry,” which on record is ribald but entertaining, thanks to such devices as a humorous multiple-choice exam about what to do in various amorous contexts. Shock-G administered the quiz on stage, but most in the house probably found it hard to focus on anything but the whipped cream.

After much crowd-priming to ensure a response, Digital Underground finished with a new, unreleased song, “Wind Me Up.” It was an effective, if simplistic stage number, notable for a catchy refrain and a good, funky beat. With a lot of luck, the song could be Digital Underground’s ticket out of the cliched--if mildly entertaining--nostalgia circuit.

The second-billed act, King, played a good set of traditionalist funk and contemporary soul balladry. Main man Jonathan King--tall, limber, clad in silky threads and a helmet of dyed-blond hair--confidently engaged the crowd when not singing, playing keyboard licks, or sliding and sashaying around the stage.

The Huntington Beach-based King has a self-financed CD, “Delicious,” that includes production help on some tracks from the Dust Brothers, who were his cronies before they became famous producing hits for Beck. The album’s strength is its balladry, and King’s gritty baritone mustered believable soulfulness on the romantic “More Than Just Moments” and on “Fly Away,” an account of the dangers of being black in Huntington Beach, a city troubled by the predations of racist skinheads.

King’s strong, five-man backup band offered more than standard funk, thanks to the blues hues dabbed on by guitarist Howard Westbrook. Two female backing “singers” were on display; lacking an exceptionally rangy or full-bodied voice, King could have used the added character and variety of accomplished supporting singers.