This show was one of the strangest ever in the Paramount's classy confines—and the best-smelling one, too. by Dave Segal André 3000's not in the Dirty South anymore, literally or figuratively. The Grammy-winning ATLien rapper moved to LA, lost his urge to rhyme (at least with words), got heavily into flutes, and found some deep jazz cats in his area to augment his epic, enigmatic jams on the surprise 2023 album, New Blue Sun. Nearly a year later, André Lauren Benjamin's taking the spirit of that very un-hip-hop record on a North American tour, which hit the Paramount on Wednesday night. Every track on New Blue Sun has between two and 10 million streams on $p0t1fy, which is kind of shocking for such an uncommercial record on which the average song length is nearly 11 minutes. But those stats are also a tribute to the loyalty that the 49-year-old star has earned over the last 30 years as a rapper/producer for OutKast.  Before the show, birdsong-enhanced New Age played over the PA. When the lights dimmed, the disembodied, deep voice of André asked the audience to "stay in the zone without cell-phone distraction." So far, so refreshing. However, seconds after the band—percussionists Carlos Niño and Deantoni Parks and keyboardist Surya Botofasina—strolled onstage, some asshole shouted "Erykah Badu" (the lauded musician with whom André had a messy breakup after a three-year relationship in the late '90s). André appeared not to be fazed by this rudeness. Instead, he proceeded to revel in his newfound freedom from hip-hop's routines.  With Niño shaking a branch full of leaves and maracas and hitting cymbals with mallets and Parks thumping his floor tom, André played a beautifully mournful tune on a wooden flute as Botofasina channeled goose-bump-inducing, Lonnie Liston Smith-like keyboard tones. (I expected to see guitarist/multi-instrumentalist Nate Mercereau, but he was absent.) The bandleader later picked up a digital wind instrument to blurt bold, declamatory statements over rumbling toms. Even later, he achieved some fantastically rich and mellifluous timbres with a long wooden flute that may have been from South America. (Western concert flutes were AWOL.) Momentous crescendos occurred, as André kneeled to beat a rotund metallic vessel with a drumstick and tickle some chimes. All of the busy percussion didn't nullify the predominantly tranquil atmosphere. Occasionally, André blew a bird whistle and emitted guttural "HUH"s. When he warned, "no bars," he damn well meant it.  An eerie minimalism pervaded the 24-minute opening piece, making me think of the title of Brian Eno's "Juju Space Jazz" as well as Don Cherry's contributions to the soundtrack of The Holy Mountain. Along with the incense burning on Botofasina's keyboard table and a laser light piercing diagonally across the stage in various colors representing the seven chakras, the vibe was ceremonial and chill. This show was shaping up to be perhaps the strangest ever in the Paramount's classy confines—and the best-smelling one, too.  During the first "song" break, André thanked the crowd for bringing their energy from "your jobs, families, relationships... We are absorbing all that and composing on the spot." He then introduced the group and memorably attributed Parks with "heartbeat management."  As the performance progressed, it became clear that André was no Yusef Lateef or Bobbi Humphrey—or even relative newcomer Shabaka Hutchings—on the flute. Mr. Benjamin's still learning; he's still more about creating interesting abstractions than catchy melodies. And that had some heads nodding, but not in time to any beats. Some eyes were closed, not in soulful appreciation of the music, but in slumber. Some folks left early, including the couple in front of me. Early on, the blinged-out dude from that couple shouted, "Three Stacks," so maybe he was expecting OutKast's greatest hits? Whatever the case, André did finesse a variety of gripping and poignantly sublime sounds from his panoply of instruments, as well as some shrill, unpleasant ones. He's still a work in progress. He didn't seem to be plumbing the depths of his soul so much as testing his skill levels and his fan base's devotion, by privileging spontaneous creativity and the often alienating meandering that that entails. So, while André may not be ready yet for the concert hall, he is bravely venturing into uncharted (and non-charting) territory.  Near set's end, André spoke to the crowd, his voice hilariously warped with effects, in a weird, imaginary tongue that he called "Kweeku" (I think). "You should've seen y'all's faces," he laughed. It was yet another WTF? moment, but better this than another pandering shout-out to [insert city here] and marijuana. After that bizarre interlude, the band headed into an ominous finale that carried Judgment Day undertones. Going out on a grim note, André and crew remained baffling and uncompromising to the end.  Special mention must be given to the lighting engineer, who kept things subtly beautiful throughout the 95-minute performance. This wizard managed to keep the players in intriguing shadows, proving that André had no desire for the spotlight. He may be a superstar in many rap fans' minds, but in his own, he is merely a cog in this sonic-mental-health machine.  The night opened with Brooklyn solo vocalist/musician serpentwithfeet (aka Josiah Wise), who wore a floor-length coat that gave him the appearance of having four arms. His 30-minute set on keyboard and laptop was dominated by vaporous, emotionally vulnerable R&B songs about Black gay love and lust, sung mostly in a melismatic falsetto. His parting words to the Paramount were "I hope that when you leave the show, you feel a little more gentle and a little more kind."