The Plot Against Hip Hop

by Nelson George

  CHAPTER 21

  AS THE RHYME GOES ON

  D was in a meeting with a representative from Sprite and a commercial production company when his BlackBerry buzzed in his pocket. He was gonna ignore it but the meeting was winding down and he felt certain that his company would be providing security at the shoot in Los Angeles in the next few weeks. So he took a peek.

  The text was from Danielle Robinson: Good news. I found part of Dwayne’s book. Please come see me.

  After wrapping up the meeting as quickly as he could without seeming rude, D had a brief talk with Danielle and ordered a town car. Ninety minutes later he sat on the Robinsons’ living room sofa looking down on four composition books stacked on an end table. Good old black-and-white books with lined pages that generations of American children had utilized for readin’, writin’, and ’rifmatic. On the cover of each, Dwayne Robinson had written his name, a year, and a month. Paperclips bound sections of the composition books together.

  “He wrote everything in these kind of notebooks,” Danielle said. “Often he’d rip out pages he’d written on, type them into his computer, then tear them up and toss them out. Usually the only things left in them were his diary entries.” She paused. D said nothing, figuring this was her first time expressing any of this out loud. “He would stack them up in a box in the bottom of our bedroom closet. I guess that’s why that thief didn’t find them. They go back years—some to when he was in college. I’ve been reading them lately.” Another pause. “There are a lot of lovely things in his diaries about you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. He loved talking to you. Said you kept him in the mix.”

  “He was such a cool guy. Always teaching, you know?”

  “When I was reading through the notes, I found some pages that I think are from The Plot Against Hip Hop. Sometimes you can’t make out what he’s written—it looked like chicken scratch when he really got going. But maybe you can get a sense of the book from them. Maybe there’s some kind of clue.”

  “You think so?”

  “I do, but I’m not a hip hop fan like you and Dwayne. What I can see is that he really did believe there was a conspiracy to try and manipulate hip hop culture. He describes some pretty terrible things. How he knew them and what he could prove, I don’t know. I supported his writing but didn’t pry. Maybe I should have.”

  “C’mon, Danielle.”

  “No. I’m all right. You read these books.” She stood up. “Let me know what you think. Just go to where the paperclips are and you’ll see the Plot sections.”

  As soon as Danielle left, D grabbed the book dated September 2009 :

  Is there any question hip hop is dead when the hottest young rap star is from Canada and the dude has a bum knee? What’s that got to do with trading verses, break beats, and ciphers? That’s right. Zero. On the strength. Word. There’s no shooting the gift anymore. No one’s going for mine trooper. I don’t think anyone’s kept it real since maybe 1997.

  Nas was right (as he often is) and hip hop is as dead as Cowboy, T.R.O.Y., Eazy-E, Biggie, and Pac. But I’m afraid it’s too late to revive the body. Gone like eight tracks, hi-top fades, and Sugarhill records. And I’ve found the perpetrators. What follows is the record of my investigations, which constitutes a secret history of hip hop.

  A few pages later there was another fragment from what sounded like the introduction:

  The thing about conspiracies that people don’t understand is that they never run as planned, that even when the goal is achieved there are usually a raft of unintended consequences—and that the wider the conspiracy, the more likely it wasn’t a real conspiracy but a single well-planned event followed by a series of fortunate accidents.

  So to destroy or change something is not to make it disappear or obliterate it completely. The idea is to alter its DNA so that a person, institution, or movement evolves in ways that benefit the manipulator and, fundamentally, undermine the original principals. So a welldesigned conspiracy is one that takes the long view and identifies forces that can be manipulated without having to formally engage them in one’s enterprise.

  This was it for that particular notebook. The next one was dated November 2009. It felt like it was the end of a chapter.

  Their network of operatives was wide and easy to manipulate. In the world of hip hop, which was just a microcosm of black America, people were anxious to get paid, needy for fellowship, and extremely jealous of those more successful than themselves. These character traits, all connected to a stunning sense of insecurity, made the plotter’s job very easy.

  Within every organization in hip hop, from Def Jam to Death Row, from Bad Boy to Cash Money, there were folks who thought they were smarter or more hood than whomever they worked for. Even before the phrases “hater” and “hateration” (the latter courtesy of Mary J. Blige) became ghetto staples, this tendency amongst black folks to envy those more successful made manipulation of people and events quite easy.

  The conspiracy never demanded that nonprofessionals do bad things. Anything serious that had to be carried out (murder, assault) was never ordered by the conspiracy. Wasn’t necessary. Now, that’s not to say that sometimes people in this world didn’t get overzealous when given certain information. You give hungry, ill-educated people a thought, a suggestion that someone who’s more successful than them looked down on them or joked about them or even complained about their attitude, well, that often results in bad decisions. I guarantee you that some of hip hop’s greatest MCs and businesspeople who could have snookered P. Diddy are in jail for overreacting to a bit of news they should have shrugged off.

  Truth be told, for every street thug who became a manager capable of working with Williams Morris and CAA, for every gangbanger who Microsoft would be comfortable making a deal with, there were five hundred brothers and sisters who were emotionally and psychologically incapable of stepping out of the hood. So it didn’t take much skullduggery to control hip hop. It was just a matter of helping the most volatile people in on the game rise to positions of prominence. Eventually they’d sabotage themselves and, in so doing, bring down scores of others. Insecurity leads to incompetence leads to negligence leads to obsolescence.

  In December 2009 D found a few pages he assumed were from somewhere in the middle of the manuscript. The heading on the top of the page was (S)ucker.

  The lady’s name was C. Delores Tucker, and she was somebody’s idea of a force to push back against the wave of hip hop washing over the nation. She was the kind of fallen civil rights–era hero the black community was full of in the ’80s. Years after the movement’s peak they’d fanned out into corporate America and political positions, increasingly isolated from the people they’d worked to serve and quietly prosperous in a comfortably middle-American way. They still liked to march—police shootings and candlelight vigils were their specialties. The civil rights generation, however, didn’t know jack about economic empowerment other than government programs, while the hip hop generation, for better and worse, was consumed with stacking chips. This led to a profound disconnect between them.

  As the hip hop generation’s power grew and disrespectful recordings became popular, some factions within the conspiracy thought a full frontal assault would cool its ascendance. So, according to multiple sources, a Los Angeles–based businessman with ties to the conspiracy identified C. Delores Tucker as a perfect tool for an operation to impact the distribution of hip hop music. The former Pennsylvania attorney general was recruited to be a spokesperson for antirap views, while several other women from the black music business were employed as well.

  She was seen as a much more viable voice than Bob Dole or Tipper Gore, Al’s old lady, who had jump-started the labeling of recorded music with the creation of the PMRC (Parents Music Resource Center). Tipper had initially organized the group after being outraged by Prince’s “Darling Nikki” and some heavy metal records. But a whisper or two in her ear and the delivery of lyric sheets of Ice-T to her Ge
orgetown residence, and gangsta rap became public enemy number one.

  An angry old black grandmother was the perfect mouthpiece.

  And that was that. Whatever else the writer thought about Tucker and her highly publicized campaign, including congressional hearings that Dwayne Robinson himself had testified at, was missing.

  The final composition book was dated January 2010. It was the longest section and the most chilling.

  The agents behind this conspiracy weren’t heartless, totally immoral men. There’s evidence to suggest that, if properly motivated, they could have done something close to the right thing. One of the many hip hop moguls of the ’90s was getting desperate. His empire was crumbling. Hitmaking producers were jumping ship. Attorneys were trying to weasel artists out of their contracts. So he called a labelwide meeting, demanding that everyone under contract and their representatives show up.

  At this meeting Malik Jones was present. He was acting as manager/advisor to one of the acts. The label boss sat at the head of the conference room table, gloating Godfather-like, before announcing that anyone who wanted to leave the label was welcome to their release. “If you don’t feel loyal to me or this family, that’s your choice.”

  Now, the artists on this label, a hardened group of gang-affiliated MCs, knew a setup when they heard one and sat mute or murmured insincere words of support. A young vocalist, however, barely legal and very full of himself, spoke up. The kid had sung the hook on a couple of hits, had been waiting since junior high for his shot at a solo album. He announced that he wanted his freedom.

  The mogul smiled, agreeing to release this fool from his obligation. Then he nodded to two of his “staff members”—big-bodied boys with bad breath and worse intentions—who came from out of a corner and snatched the singer up like a rag doll. “You can leave—no problem—but you must pay the tax.” One of the staffers unzipped his pants as the other pinned the singer to the conference table. The unzipped man pulled out his dick and yanked down the young man’s pants and, with a frightening glee, butt-fucked him right in front of everyone. Jones did nothing. He was as surprised at anyone at this brutality. He didn’t want to blow his cover, but as he watched it, Jones knew he was now complicit in something horrible.

  The staff member, finally satisfied, pulled out as the young singer’s tears filled the conference room table. Some of the women in room cried and most of the men sat back, embarrassed for the singer, though at least one attorney found it funny.

  The room emptied quickly. The mogul had made his point. Jones left with the others, mute as a mummy but knowing this event was the crossing of some line. He knew that no matter what he was ordered to do or what made strategic sense, this mogul had to go down.

  D closed the book and slumped back against the sofa. This was seriously dark stuff. Definitely the kind of info that got journalists threatened and maybe killed. Malik Jones, it appeared, was likely a partial source. This last excerpt suggested that Malik had perhaps, to some degree, cooperated with Dwayne. Maybe that tape was an earlier conversation? Maybe Malik was murdered at Rikers because of this operation? Or, D thought, am I just like Dwayne, or even Truegod: finding a few threads and knitting a blanket.

  He peered back down at the composition books and realized they were adding one more layer of frustration to his life. The writing was both precise and vague. Dwayne obviously knew a lot of things and had talked to a lot of people, but aside from Malik Jones and C. Delores Tucker, there were no names mentioned. Who was the LA businessman? Who was that rap mogul? There were so many things suggested, yet so much missing. It made the whole reading experience feel very hollow.

  These were early drafts, tiny pieces of a larger whole that was as lost as a 747 in the Bermuda Triangle. Between the Sawyer memorandum, the cassette tape of Dwayne and Malik, and these manuscript slices, D felt like he was in some Spielberg movie—D Hunter and the Search for the Hip Hop Documents. Yet D had no whip and there was no swashbuckling going on. Just an accumulation of things that one day, one way, could maybe add up to something useful.

  D had hung out on several lazy Sundays in this living room, watching sports and talking hip hop and life, which made reading his friend’s work even more poignant. He was tempted to peek into the non-Plot sections of the composition books, to hear Dwayne’s voice toss off sociological observations like some folks breathe. Dwayne and Danielle had never had any kids, so in that space they’d developed myriad friendships with young people they cared about—nieces and nephews, students and mentees. Dwayne had even joked once that he ran his very own Motown-style artist-development program, where the goal wasn’t to turn out a Diana Ross or a Marvin Gaye, but sharp, observant, analytical young people. Dwayne had been taught to think (writing being a pure projection of the mind) by great editors and he sought to share that passion.

  D wished that he was smarter, that he had the skills to pull all the pieces together in his mind, the way Dwayne did in all his books. Instead, he was just a big man who was employed because tall, dark, and scary had currency in the culture. He wasn’t the brute that some saw when they glanced his way, but their view of his body and face paid the bills. It didn’t matter what he was—only what they saw.

  The first tear fell down on the cover of the January 2010 composition book. It was big and fat, and splashed when it landed. D searched around for a napkin and ended up using a blank sheet of paper from one of the books to blot his eyes and wipe his tear off the book’s cover.

  There was a bathroom on the first floor by the kitchen. He headed there quickly, not wanting the widow to see him bawling. Once safely inside, D sat on the fluffy commode top and cried more silent tears, as much for himself as for Dwayne.

  CHAPTER 22

  CAN’T TRUSS IT

  D was packing for California when Pete Nash called with good news.

  “We know the guy who killed Dwayne Robinson.”

  “Oh shit,” D said, “when did this happen?”

  “I’ve been tracking the case since we talked a couple of months back. Been asking around. It all came together in the last week.”

  “You said ‘the guy’? Thought it was two guys who attacked Dwayne.”

  “Well, it seems like one kid did all the heavy lifting and the other was more there to help corner your friend.”

  “You have this guy in custody? I’d love to talk with him.”

  “Unfortunately he’s dead.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “Yeah, pisses me off too. Tracy Morrow was shot out on Pennsylvania Avenue in East New York the other night as he tried to steal a bike from Percy Miller, a ten-year-old kid. Turned out Percy Senior, an off-duty housing cop, came out of their home just as Morrow wrestled the bike from his son. Morrow pulled a knife, and in defense of his son’s life, Senior fired his revolver once, fatally wounding the assailant. Subsequent DNA test found traces of Dwayne Robinson’s blood on the knife.”

  “Excuse me for saying this, but he could have bought or stolen that knife.”

  “Of course, D. But when the detectives from that precinct began talking with Tracy Morrow’s associates, one of them, a juvenile named Kenny Parker of the nearby Pink Houses, made an offer: he said if his brother Chris Parker, who was in Greenhaven on a B&E rap, was given early parole, he could connect Morrow to a murder. He claimed to be an eyewitness to a stabbing in lower Manhattan. He knew enough detail to convince a couple of DAs that he was talking about the Robinson murder. It came together pretty quickly.”

  “Where is this kid now?”

  “Somewhere with his family.”

  “Can I talk to him?”

  “Neither of us can. He’s underage. But the case has been closed and everyone is happy.”

  “I really need to speak to that kid.”

  “D, we have the murder weapon, DNA, and a credible eyewitness. That’s as good as it gets for a murder case in this city.”

  “And what about a motive?”

  “This isn’t rocket science, o
r the Illuminati for that matter. It was supposed to be some kid’s gang initiation, but he froze up once they cornered Robinson and I guess Morrow wanted to show him how it’s done.”

  “I dunno.”

  “Listen. You’ve been thinking a lot about your friend’s death. What did his last words mean? What about his mysterious unfinished book? Sometimes a thing is just what it looks like. Hey, you should be happy.”

  “I guess.”

  “You know from watching cable that if a case isn’t closed in forty-eight hours or so, then most times we never find the murderer. The fact that the killer still had the same knife on him and then got his cap pulled like that is a fucking miracle. At least his wife will have some closure.”

  “Has someone called her yet?”

  “Earlier today someone from the Manhattan DA’s office did. D, I gotta go. Big show at the Garden tonight. Jay-Z and a bunch of guest MCs. Okay, D?”

  “Yeah.”

  It didn’t feel right to D. Was it all over? One phone call and it’s a wrap? Maybe it was two cases: Dwayne’s murder and the suppression of his books. Maybe the book stuff only started after his death with the robbery at his widow’s house. He wanted to call Fly Ty but the man was on vacation in Jamaica and, with the case officially closed, what was he gonna do from MoBay anyway?

  In D’s dream that night, he was in the front row of a classroom. A teacher was writing on a blackboard with his back to D. There were no other students—just row upon row of empty chairs stretching to infinity. The teacher, a tall black man in a tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows, wrote in a very precise script, each letter linked with a chain of curlicued elegance.