As the beats grind to a halt Zaakir disappears to the back of the stage and re-appears clutching an empty can of Red Stripe.
"You don't throw this shit," he admonishes the audience. "You wanna do that you can come and see me afterwards. You all know what I look like. But I ain't playing with this shit – ain't no-one going to get hurt here, not on stage or in front of the stage."
For a brief second we're reminded that Jurassic 5 know how to walk and talk it, but instead of glorifying violence and materialism, they preach against it – even at the level of throwing beer cans.
The lecture over, J5 bounce back into the irresistible party. The LA2 is packed with a mixed (gender, age and fashion wise at least), crowd who hang off every beat and word that drips form the J5's lips.
For once the notoriously absent Chali 2na is in the house, having only just recovered from tonsillitis.
Mid set turntable technicians Cut Chemist and Nu Mark are left alone, swapping between each other to hold the rhythm down or chop across the beats, they work down to a four four kick drum and build to an afro-Latin percussion break.
When the MC's return they begin the old school chants, using all the old tricks – "everybody in the house say…" you know the ones. But delivered with un-fakable delivery, even the stage gimmicks feel genuine.
2na towers over the other MC's, frequently taking centre stage, while Akil's wiry frame twists frantically between the other players. When Zaakir takes the mic he pumps his words out Rambo style.
The end of the set comes suddenly and the band leaves the stage after clasping a sea of outstretched hands. They return for two more encores, each time repeating the routine and clasping the ever eager palms. Their final encore turns into a freestyle jam. Mid rap 2na slips off course and recovers with a freestyle line of self mockery – "I can't do it full, so I'll hand over to someone more capable." When Akil gets his turn, he drops the beats and flows into Last Poets territory.
J5 may sing "We ain't no superstars", but by the end of the night they leave behind the bizarre spectacle of hip hop fans crushed against the stage rails with hands held out hopefully for a touch of the roady's trousers.
