by Ja Rule
The West Coast MCs had a different flow from the East Coast. The West Coast was laid-back with their shit. It wasn’t always about hustling. It was more about enjoying life in the hood. You could hear the sunshine in their tracks, which were funky and danceable. The Chronic was the muthafucking shit and when Snoop got on the track, people didn’t know what to do. It was so different and so new. A year later when Snoop came out with his own shit, it was unforgettable. Hip-hop’s bar had been raised.
Nas, Biggie Smalls, and Jay-Z from the East Coast were also showing me the power of the greats. I wanted to join them someday.
These artists were releasing the gold standard of albums which defined an era. Every time there was a new release, muthafuckas were on the edge of their seats. We never knew what to expect. Who would have the most ill sound, the most violent video, the most clever idea? We were celebrating the creative energy of the music.
IN SEPTEMBER 1996, it was all over the news. Tupac was dead. It had been a year since Brittney was born and things were moving along with my music. When I heard about his death on the news, I thought that it was some kind of a joke.
I remember the first time I met Tupac. It was at Queens’ Day, which is a festival where they also have concerts. It’s held in Flushing Meadows–Corona Park, where they have the 1964 World’s Fair Unisphere. Tupac was performing and he was with some of my homies from around the way—Stretch, Madge and Nichols. Stretch and Madge were part of a group called Live Squad. I would always hear stories about all of them hanging with Pac on Hollis Avenue, but I had not gotten the chance to meet him. That day, it would all change. I saw Pac walking toward the stage. My friend Nichols was headed in the same direction and he introduced us. I shook his hand. I was happy to be in his presence and to meet him. Never could I have imagined that day, that one day, I would be mentioned in the same breath as Pac, even compared with him.
The next time I got a chance to see him was one night in The Tunnel, a legendary nightclub in Manhattan. He was there with Big. This was before all of the East Coast/West Coast beef. Tupac and Big were at the bar, and Pac had a line of women just wanting to touch him, be in his presence, or whatever. I remember thinking, I want that. I want to be large like that.
The death of Tupac shook us all to the bone. We had just lost Easy-E from NWA in March 1995 and death seemed to be creeping up on us as young Black men in the hood. Like I was telling Aisha, muthafuckas were getting killed every day around the block. Now, even famous young Black men like Easy-E. But not Tupac. He had sold 75 million albums worldwide. He was considered one of the bestselling artists in the world. He wrote songs that were reflecting the consciousness of Black people. Tupac was a chameleon. He knew how to adapt to his surroundings. He was hard and soft at the same time. His impact was powerful in the hood.
LOOKING BACK AT MY VERSE, I realized that Tupac was a fallen angel like I mentioned in my rhyme. He was a proud Black man and his passion for Black people, which I felt in his music, made me think long and hard about the neighborhood and the condition of our people.
Everyone was rhyming about the hood, but Tupac’s shit made me think about it a little harder and a little deeper. Just seeing his face flash all over the TV screen with only twenty-five years between his birth date and his death date made me shiver. On a random day in September, the news of Tupac’s death could have been the news of any one of ours: mine, Rich’s or O’s. It could have even been Gotti’s. The hairs on my arms were standing again. I closed the notebook and went out on the fire escape to chill.
Neither Irv, Black nor O expressed anything to each other about Tupac’s death except “Damn.” We smoked a little extra weed and poured the ceremonial Hennessy out onto the concrete, into the cracks filled with emptied crack vials. Tupac was another reminder that in this so-called thug life no one was safe. Not even if you wanted to do the right thing, even if you were talented or famous. Fame couldn’t hide from death. Not even if you just had a baby. . . .
AS I WALKED DOWN the street headed for the studio, I looked at how grayness shrouded everything around us, even though the sun was trying to shine. I stumbled over the concrete, which was only full of lost dreams. I looked around at the other people on the street. Some bruthas were smoking, some drunk, some hustling and some were ghosts because the drugs had won. All of them were scheming about how to get the next dollar or the next hit.
I thought about the fact that it wasn’t so long ago that Black men were considered only three quarters of a man. Maybe, the problem is that we’re all looking for the other quarter of ourselves. I heard Tupac’s “So Many Tears” blasting out of a car stopped at a traffic light. The slow syrupy beat and low bass shook the car slightly.
Hip-hop was lifting the veil off of our pain. Hip-hop was our slave narrative. That’s part of why the music is so powerful and has longevity. Not just the conscious songs, but the music as a whole. It is reflective of our reality, which is not all the same.
AS THE TRAIN NOISILY RAMBLED into the city I could hear my crew in my head. I could hear them chanting my new shit in unison with no music behind them. I wanted the sound to be stark and raw. I pulled out my tattered notebook and scribbled:
Yeah, been a slave too long
All my murderers
Let’s march my niggas
Lord can we get a break?
Lord can we get a break?
We ain’t really happy here
We ain’t really happy here
Take a look into our eyes
Take a look into our eyes
And see pain without fear
And see pain without fear
I knew Irv would love it, even though it wasn’t even a rhyme, really. It’s just something I wanted the world to hear. Ever since I saw Glory with Denzel Washington and Morgan Freeman, this shit had been ringing in my ears. In the movie, they were singing a battle hymn. Hip-hop needed its own, that’s what gave me the idea.
Irv was standing outside. I told him of my idea of the battle hymn and he was with it. Irv trusted my instincts and I trusted his.
“It’s dope. Let’s make it the intro for the whole album. Niggas will go crazy! No one has done no shit like that!”
“Word,” I said. My music was starting to happen.
SADLY, WE’RE TOO eager to throw ourselves out there, because we Black men don’t see ourselves as living a long time. There is so much violence in our lives—whether we are watching it on television, witnessing a man beating on a woman in our own home, our homies getting shot—we get numb to it. In the hood, thirty-eight and thirty-nine are considered old. Most men don’t make it to that age. Death is expected because of our experiences of young people dying around us. In the hood we say, “It get hot, somebody get shot.” Our living conditions, past and present, from slavery to segregation, from the civil rights era to today’s kids believing that racism doesn’t exist (but can’t identify where their sadness and lack of self-belief come from), make a lot of us believe that life isn’t worth living. We need to start to respect and cherish ourselves and what we have to offer. This will allow us to learn to live, and expect to live long lives, and plan to live. Other races plan for tomorrow. They got 401(k)s and we’re still trying to figure why we need that. We don’t want to die and imagine someone else spending the money we saved. It’s important to live long and live strong. And, it is a blessing to be able to leave something for the next generation.
*
July 22, 2011
I’ve reached the last spot on my Jail Tour. LOL. Midstate Correctional Facility, the best spot of them all. This is truly not jail, it’s a camp. My first day was a feel-out process, like everywhere else kinda just getting use to my new surroundings. The inmates seem pretty cool. Most of them came up and introduced themselves like it was the first day of school or some shit. I was only back at Oneida for 2 days after coming back from court and the dreaded Green Monster. Speaking of court, I finally had my day and I can gratefully say I am happy wit the verdict. It felt like d
ays sitting in the back in the holding cell waiting to come out, like a lion trapped in his cage when he should be out in the wild roaming free. That’s just how I felt, like an animal, as they brought me out in my yellow Fed jumpsuit, chained up hands and feet. I could barely walk. As I enter, doing the old jailhouse shuffle, I look out into the courtroom full of reporters and news people. I spot Ish. Her face was all puffy eyes, red and swollen. I could tell she’s been crying. I look to her side and see my Mom with the same face. I felt like a piece of shit. I look further down and see Tina, BJ and Gutta. BJ and Gutta was smiling and that made me feel a lil better. Men have a funny way of communicating even though this was no smiling or laughing matter. I knew what the smiles meant—hold your head, my man, this too shall pass. But the moment couldn’t be more real. Those tears in Ish and my Moms eyes were because they knew what I knew, that I could get 36 more months ran consecutive. The moment of truth was upon us all. As the proceedings started, everything went silent for me for a moment. All I could hear was my own thoughts. I was thinking about how I’m letting everyone down, my family, my friends, my fans. Then I heard the words that melted my cold heart, “daughter’s graduation.” My body became unnumb and finally a tear rolled down my left cheek. I thought for sure there was no way I was gonna get out in time now, to see my daughter graduate. The hurt turned into anger and more tears started to flow. I look at the judge. She looks unmoved by Stacy’s testimony. I had to do something. The only thing I can do is speak before the court. I wipe the tears and prepared what I wanted to say in my head. Then I spoke, still a little choked up, I said my peace. The judge looked at me intently, as I spoke from the heart. She felt my pain and sentenced me 28 months to run concurrent wit my current conviction. THAT WAS LOVE. I’ll be home in time to see Britt graduate, THANK GOD.
*
EIGHT
160 Varick
IRV, O AND I HAD SAT IN THE LOBBY OF DEF JAM FOR FORTY-FIVE minutes, not saying a word. “How can he have us waiting all this time? To hell with this guy. I’m not waiting any longer,” Gotti finally burst, as he stood up to leave. “If he doesn’t think that we’re important enough to meet, I’m out!”
Desperate to calm him down, I said, “The man wants to meet us. That’s why we’re here. He may have gotten delayed with some other business, but he invited us. I’m sure that—”
Just as I was buying more time, his assistant, Kat, suddenly appeared in the lobby to get us. She was an older white lady who was really sweet.
“Lyor wants to see you now. Sorry for the wait,” she said as she led us down a long hallway to Lyor Cohen’s office, which sat at the end of the hall with an enormous picture window with a breathtaking view of Manhattan from the twentieth floor.
I could see workers on both sides of us as we made our way down the hallway to the corner office. Assistants on the left in gray steel cubicles and executives in their glass offices on the right. Both sides were blasting their favorite joints. The energy was raw and real. You could hear the thick beats of the Def Jam roster thumping out of every office: Method Man, Redman, EPMD.
I was a kid in a candy store. I wanted to touch, feel, smell and hear everything that was swirling around me. The stench of weed seeped out of everyone’s gear, ’fros, and ’locs. The Def Jam office was filled with the sleek shine of stainless steel and the ruggedness of exposed brick walls. In every corner of the office, young Black men were holding up walls, some sitting, some standing, all listening to Def Jam’s newest joints.
“Please! That shit’s wack, that’s why Def Jam didn’t sign him!” one guy would say.
“This style is crazy, yo!” someone else called out.
All around the floor you could hear the opinions and love for hip-hop. They were arguing and defending their favorite MCs or trashing the beats that didn’t hold up. Some bounced shamelessly to the sounds that wouldn’t let them sit still.
Only a place like Def Jam could sell millions of records. Def Jam wasn’t just making hip-hop, they were re-creating culture. The souls of Black people were in the room. Everyone’s head was bobbing as they worked, getting knee-deep in hip-hop. This was the first time I’d ever felt the power of youth in my heart. This was the only place where young Black men could just be who they were and still be treated with respect.
The rip of cardboard boxes being opened sliced the air. Boxes of new product, promotional T-shirts and posters came in a steady stream throughout the day. The assistants were stripping down so that they could put on the newest shirts, fresh from the boxes. The interns mounted posters of their favorite artists while the boxes with the vinyl were being sorted to be shipped to the best club DJs around the country. There was even a pile labeled “International.”
I was surprised to see Bimy from back in the day opening up boxes. He was A&Ring at Def Jam. I hadn’t seen him in a while. Everyone was trying to be down with hip-hop in any way they could. Bimy hustled mainly, but liked hanging around the business in case an opportunity popped up. Bimy couldn’t rap at all but he wanted to be down with the industry, nonetheless. Bimy saw me and greeted me with a “What up.” The look on his face showed that he was impressed to see me there, walking towards Lyor’s office.
You could see each worker mouthing the words to their favorite joints as the joints spilled out of the speakers. The walls, already covered with posters, were redressed in order to make room for the newest posters, without taking anyone down. Every image was bigger than life, just like the music. This is what I’m talking about . . . Def Jam was where I belonged.
On the real, it was my dream in living color. I had never been inside of Def Jam, but I knew this is how it would be. Hip-hop was electrifying everything it touched. My rhymes were no longer something that I wanted to keep to myself or keep in the studio or even share with my homies on the block. Hip-hop was all about fearlessness, attitude and Black rage that the world hadn’t even seen yet. Hip-hop was revolution. Hip-hop was daring the world to be down with us, despite how the industry tried to censor us. Everyone knew what was up. Finally, something was about young Black men and what we saw, what we thought and most importantly how we felt.
RUSSELL SIMMONS AND LYOR COHEN were industry legends. Lyor was a tall, gangly Jewish kid who emigrated from Israel to America and Russell was a middle-class Black kid from Queens who loved music. Lyor’s piercing blue eyes, loud voice and bumpy Israeli accent startled most people at first, but he knew his shit. Even though Cohen was white, he was just like the Haitian and the Jamaican immigrants that flooded America, looking for all that America had to offer. He was an outsider just like everyone else, but found his home in the beats like we all did. Although Lyor had studied global marketing and finance, he was smart but also determined to move Black culture into the mainstream. Russell’s laid-back persona, million-dollar smile and his unique talent of bridging the gap between cultures made him an icon. Hip-hop was considered on the fringes because of the street element. Russell brought it mainstream and made it highly commercial. Russell seemed meek with his whispery tone, yet he was a powerhouse, not to be fucked with.
It was the genius of Russell and Lyor combined that made it possible to pair rappers up with mainstream brands like Adidas and Coke and make it edgy but still cool. That shit was unbelievable to me, that America was ready to let young Black people sell them shit.
Lyor Cohen knew exactly what he wanted. It never mattered what anyone else wanted—and that’s how he ran his business. His loud, incomprehensible rants, throwing papers in the faces of his staff and pounding his fists on desks made him infamous. “It’s not good enough!” “Do it again!” “You spent how much?” Thrown and broken phones became his trademark. When he would slam down a phone or throw it across a room, he would always end his calls with, “And, fuck you!” Every MC wanted to be down with Def Jam, no matter what they heard. The roster was filling up fast. The only true competition in hip-hop for me existed inside these walls.
Hip-hop was the new legal drug. As if it were the new s
heriff in town, everyone treated it with respect and placed the type of value on it that America hadn’t seen since the beginning of Motown. Hip-hop was threatening life as we knew it. The raw pain of urban America was no longer a secret, the music was real time. What we were rapping about was actually happening in the streets and the truth hurts. The millions of records that Def Jam was selling every week had the other labels scratching their heads.
White people were becoming terrified because their children were showing the ultimate sign of rebellion, by listening to hip-hop and wanting to be like niggas. Rappers were irreverent and suddenly seductive. Young white boys wanted to be us and little white girls wanted to fuck us. At that time, everyone was fiending for a piece of hip-hop. Every music executive desperately needed to get in some way or other. Lyor Cohen had people to see and deals to make.
It was 1996 and I was nineteen years old. I was confident that after this meeting, Lyor would have the power to end the TVT nightmare. He was known for being a cutthroat muthafucka. And if it all went right, I would be the next MC walking these halls with a poster of myself behind everyone’s desk. When we finally reached Lyor’s office, he offered us some water but we declined because we were eager to get right into it. Lyor sat back in his chocolate brown leather chair, looked at us squarely and said, “I only want the little guy.”
