After their second disbandment in the mid-2000s, it felt like the Fugees were likely never to reconnect again. The split between Wyclef Jean and Ms. Lauryn Hill was both personal and professional, rooted in conflicts of paternity and propriety, with Ms. Hill scorching the earth with earlier breakup songs like “Lost Ones,” Jean stoking flames with a tell-all book, and Pras Michel casting his own doubts when he said in 2007, “Before I work with Lauryn Hill again, you have a better chance of seeing Osama Bin Laden and [George W.] Bush getting a latte.”
So when the New Jersey trio finally took the stage last night, just after 10 p.m., the tension that had been building for the nearly 15 years since their last performance was instantly released, and the rush was nearly overwhelming.
The setting was the rooftop at Pier 17, a relatively new facility at Manhattan’s South Street Seaport with stunning 360-degree views of New York’s harbor. The show was in support of Global Citizen Live, a charity festival set to stream online September 25, featuring events and performances from across seven continents. But for Fugees fans it was a sneak preview of their forthcoming Diaspora Calling tour, an 11-date jaunt spanning the United States, Europe, and Africa.
Nearly four hours after the originally scheduled set time, a 21-piece band emerged, strolling through an instrumental intro built around the guitar melody for the title track to their world-conquering 1996 album The Score. Then Wyclef Jean’s voice rang out across the rooftop: “Pick up your microphones….” As he waltzed across the stage in a black tux (with a hat to match), the crowd exploded. Pras Michel and Ms. Hill, resplendent in a ruffled red dress with shoulders taller than her head, followed, and they ripped through the first verses from “How Many Mics.” Usually a laid-back cipher track, the massive band expanded the tune considerably, and each member was equally hyped up to match the energy from the crowd. Those first moments were chaotic; the anticipation crested into a surging wave of energy that came crashing down all at once.
But rust accumulates over the years, and, at the start, the group felt somewhat out of sync. The rappers occasionally tripped over each other's words and were soon visibly out of breath. Yet it was clear from the start that the atmosphere on stage was both warm and supportive. Jean and Ms. Hill took turns playing hype man, helping each other finish their bars, and in the process offering brief moments to breathe. By the time they got to the third song, “Zealots,” they had settled into a groove, and Ms. Hill began to add a little swing and bounce to her verse, offering a glimpse at the effortless, jazzy cool they exported around the world in the ’90s.
The most raucous reception of the night was reserved for “Fu-Gee-La,” the group’s breakout single and blueprint for the new sound the Fugees had developed after their debut LP flopped. The crowd’s roar almost overpowered Jean’s iconic exultation of “WE USED TO BE NUMBER 10! NOW WE PERMANENT AT ONE!” So he ran the track back and started over again. By this point the rust had been fully shaken off—a sight to behold. For a moment, it felt like they had never left.
Still, at 46 years old, Ms. Hill’s voice is clearly not what it once was, revealing just how incredible it is that she was ever able to bring her virtuosic studio performances to the stage. Fortunately, the support she got on that rooftop—from Michel, from Jean, and from the crowd, who filled any gaps in her vocal runs with a 3,000-part harmony—was inspiring. Her voice still swells with emotion that few can match.
Halfway through the set, the band slowed things down—“I think it was old people catching their breath,” Ms. Hill admitted—and Jean took center stage for a topical freestyle, his hat removed to reveal a Haitian flag bandana wrapped around his head. He called on President Biden to step up and help the Haitian refugees currently trapped on the U.S.-Mexico border and being deported en masse. “You can reverse that policy with an executive order,” he said. “You can give our Haitian people a pass like you did for people in Afghanistan.” He then briefly wished death upon the mounted border patrol agents who were photographed whipping migrants with their horses’ reins before quickly walking it back, anticipating blowback from “Fox and CNN.” Acknowledging that he had let his emotions get the better of him, he distilled his thoughts into a simple message: “Haitians shouldn’t have to live like that.”
When he was done, he urged Ms. Hill to drop a freestyle like one she recently posted to Instagram. She declined the invitation to freestyle, choosing instead to recount their origin story, in which a 12-year-old Lauryn Hill auditioned for Prakazrel Michel and met “his crazy cousin.” The group’s dynamic was heartwarming, both jovial and supportive. When Ms. Hill teased Pras (“What made you think I was singing just for you?”), it felt comforting and familiar, like they just picked up where they left off 15 years ago. The alchemy of those personalities—Wyclef’s goofy charm, Ms. Hill’s inherent swag, and Pras’ sturdy stoicism—is what made the Fugees great. It’s been a long time since we’ve been able to witness it, live and in person.
As Ms. Hill looked back on the whirlwind of the group’s rapid and colossal success, she appeared to be at peace, devoid of anger and resentment, resolute in her decision to walk away and reclaim the youth she gave to her career. “The Fugees have a complicated but beautiful history,” she explained. “There’s destiny in coming together, destiny in people being inspired, destiny in creating a movement. We dreamed big and toured long…. We were responsible for moving hip-hop across the globe. What I’m saying is, respect the miracle.”
And the experience truly did feel miraculous—both in 1996 as it happened, and 25 years later on that Manhattan rooftop, long after many had abandoned hope of ever experiencing it again. The music was familiar but the circumstances were unique. As Wyclef closed out the show with his cover of Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry,” he called out to the crowd from behind his white hollow-body guitar in a morbid yet unifying exhortation. “If you lost somebody to COVID, put your hands in the air!” he cried, as large swaths of the 3,000 onlookers raised their arms.
Since live music returned from its pandemic-driven absence, I’ve noticed a shift, a near-elimination of the kind of expectation and entitlement that permeates big shows like this. Right until the moment the show began, some of the more experienced members of the crowd were skeptical that it ever would. But it didn’t matter. Because after 15 years of waiting—the last two spent mostly indoors—we were just happy to be there, each moment a gift.
