by Nikki Turner
Also by Nikki Turner
NOVELS
Ghetto Superstar
Black Widow
Forever a Hustler’s Wife
Death Before Dishonor
(with 50 Cent)
Riding Dirty on I-95
The Glamorous Life
A Project Chick
A Hustler’s Wife
EDITOR
Street Chronicles: Christmas in the Hood
Street Chronicles: Girls in the Game
Street Chronicles: Tales from da Hood
(contributing author)
CONTRIBUTING AUTHOR
Girls from da Hood
Girls from da Hood 2
The Game: Short Stories About the Life
This book is dedicated to every person
who has ever had a dream to make it big!
Dreams do come true!
DEAR LOYAL READERS
First, I would like to thank you so much for all of the ongoing support that you, my readers, give to all of my Nikki Turner Original novels as well as my Nikki Turner Presents!
It took me a while to decide on a theme for this edition of my Street Chronicles series. Then one day, I got a call from an artist insisting that I come and hang out at his show. I agreed not realizing how much I would be inspired by that night’s events. The show was fantastic, and I enjoyed it from my seat out front before venturing backstage after the show. This wasn’t my first time backstage but it was the first time that I really observed how the front of the stage was the polar opposite of what was going on backstage. Everything is picture perfect (most of the time) from the fans’ point of view, but backstage it is a horse of a different color. It’s like an underworld of some sort. Nothing is too strange or too bizarre. From half dressed, low self-esteemed girls looking to get “wifed” up to aspiring artists looking to get put on and everything in between (feel free to let your imagination run wild). And the most insane part of it all is that the people backstage treat this world as normal, as if nothing strange is going on.
In the days, weeks and months that passed, I got acquainted with some of the power players and became friends with various people from all aspects of the music industry. I was able to get an inside glimpse into that world and realized that behind-the-scenes of the business was more treacherous than backstage of a concert. This was a side of the business that some of my readers may never get to see. That’s when a light bulb went off: I wanted to try to put together five different short stories, each giving different points of view of some of the things we, the fans, may not get a chance to see: the love, the hate, the struggles, the highs, the lows, the snakes, dreams coming true and dreams being destroyed … all in the blink of an eye.
Now that I had my direction all I had to do was come up with the right combination of authors and/or musicians to complete the task at hand. I began to think …
I wrote “Gun Music” around the time I wrote A Project Chick. “Gun Music” is far from my regular style of stories but at the time I felt like I needed something gangsta in my life. When I was given the opportunity to work with 50, I thought it would’ve been the perfect fit, but 50 wanted a female main character, so “Gun Music” was once again tucked away into my files. That was until now; this was the perfect time and place for the story that was waiting to be heard.
KRISTA JOHNS is a really sweet girl I met at Book Expo of America. She sent me her novel and Young Buck called me up to profess that she was nothing short of the truth and I needed to check out her book right away. I did, and I gave her my vision for her story and she rocked it.
HAROLD TURLEY II and I have been great friends from the early days of our careers and he was just a phone call away.
LANA AVE is a close friend of my homeboy and radio personality, Mike Street. He asked me to mentor her and I agreed, and we clicked immediately. I shared this project with her and she had a story a week or two later.
ALLAH ADAMS is a guy that I met at a friend’s birthday party. Once he heard I was going to be there, he was there with two books in hand. Because he is an aspiring rapper, I thought his experience would add flare to the project.
I would like to take this opportunity to thank all of the authors involved in this project for being so patient and easy to work with. And Dana and Styles P for putting your pieces together so quickly for me!
Now the moment you’ve all been waiting for: here is the All-Access, VIP Pass into the entertainment world. Feel free to rub it in your friends’ faces or pass it on so that they can share the experience with you as well.
Enjoy!
Much Love,
Nikki Turner
CONTENTS
Dear Loyal Readers
Introduction: The Day I Signed … | Dana Dane
I’m Good | Krista Johns
Chasing the Ring | Harold L. Turley II
Stolen Legacy | Allah Adams
Lose to Win | Lana Ave
Gun Music | Nikki Turner
Outro | Styles P
Acknowledgments
Liner Notes
Introduction
THE DAY I SIGNED …
When Nikki asked me to write the intro to this book I was a little reluctant. These stories hit home for me because I know what it’s like to be in the unforgiving world of the music and entertainment business. At first I attempted to write a short story to add to the book, but with the intense preparations for the release of my debut novel, Numbers, time slipped away from me. But Nikki and I felt it was my duty to provide some insight into my thoughts as a young aspiring rap artist. In essence, take you backstage.
I vividly remember the day—more than twenty years ago—I signed my first recording contract. It was summer in the mid-1980s. I was barely out of my teens when I went to the lawyer’s office to put my John Hancock on the recording agreement with an independent record label that was as they put it “taking a chance with rap music.” No, I do not remember the lawyer’s name; in fact, he wasn’t my lawyer. He represented the man (we’ll just call him “Sir”) who procured the record deal opportunity for me. I didn’t know much of anything about the music business at that time except for what Sir had taught me, and that was virtually nothing for the most part. I probably could have learned more about the business if I’d done my research and/or if Sir knew more about the music business, but I didn’t and he didn’t. Or maybe he did and provided me with as much information as he wanted me to have. There are some people in this business who want artists to have only limited knowledge in order to take advantage of them. Even worse, they may not be very knowledgeable themselves and perpetuate ignorance.
The day I signed my recording contract, I was young and naïve and without a doubt eager to make a record. I didn’t understand the price of fame, I didn’t know much about double-talk, and I surely didn’t understand the pitfalls of the music game. All I did know for sure was that I wanted to put out a record, I wanted to hear myself on the radio, and I had my own distinct flow. My naïveté led me to believe that when people said, “Trust me,” they really meant, Don’t worry; I’ve got your back. I found out later that “Trust me” in this business of music means, I’m going to try to exploit you for all you’re worth and give you as little as possible in return. It also meant, As long as you don’t know, I can take advantage of you. The mind-set was “You’re the artist. You’ve got us around to take care of the business aspect of your career. You just take care of the creative side.”
“Hey”—I can still hear their voices in my ear—“we wouldn’t lead you wrong, Dana, we’re in this together … trust me.”
“Is this a good contract?” I inquired. There were no negotiations; the lawyer and Sir had me believe it was this contract
or nothing (which might have been true). They explained that this was the standard contract (remember youngins: There is no such thing as a standard contract). The lawyer went over the contract with me briefly. It took all of ten minutes. Of course, after the very short 600 seconds, I still didn’t understand the magnitude of the paperwork I was about to sign. But it wasn’t too hard to convince me to sign since I was unaware of the value of my name, likeness, and music.
I could never have imagined that after that day my career would be such a crazy roller-coaster ride. I could never have thought that not long after my song “Nightmares” was the “World Premier” on one of the hottest hip-hop shows in NYC, the “Mr. Magic Show,” with Chuck Chillout and Red Alert, it would become an instant hit and classic. I could never have imagined two years later when my first LP, “Dana Dane with Fame,” was released it would be one of the fastest debuting hip-hop albums of its time—going gold and selling 500,000 units in a little over three months, all without a video.
When I think back to the day I signed my first recording contract almost two decades ago, I would never have thought that I would still be trying to get royalties due to me from that agreement. I could not have fathomed that in the year 2000 other rap artists would be performing covers and remakes of my songs without compensating me. I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel used and betrayed by that record label and my other handlers, but at the same time I’m not wasting my energy holding grudges. I was afforded an opportunity of which most people only dream. I appreciate the good and the bad people who have crossed my path in the past; they’ve helped mold me into the great man I am today. Everything has not always been good, but the experience has been great! Hey, I wouldn’t have been able to share this scenario if it wasn’t for the day I signed my first recording contract.
There’s not much integrity in this business of music. But you can find that out for yourself, you don’t have to trust me.
I hope I’ve shared enough to enlighten someone, but let’s now look to the present … the future … the next installment of Nikki Turner’s Street Chronicles: Backstage. It’s time to turn up the volume, time to make it move, time to make it shake. Although the stories depicted in this book are fictional, they do have merit. And it is my sincere belief that you will be thoroughly entertained, but it is also my hope that you will be enlightened as well. Nikki is a powerful storyteller and has the great ability to locate exceptional writing talent.
So the dressing rooms are stocked with all the rider requirements, the lights are cued, the sound check is complete, and you’ve got your VIP pass. It’s finally time to take you Backstage!
—Dana Dane, hip-hop icon and author of the novel, Numbers
Mic Check … One Two … One Two
Let’s Take It from the Top
Coming to the Stage … Krista Johns
I’M GOOD
by Krista Johns
ou ready to rip it, Yummie?”
“What the hell you mean? That’s all I know how to do.” My face twisted up like the nigga had shit on his face or he was speaking foreign.
He said, “Then get your doodie ass and let it do what it do. Talking to me like I’m a nothing-ass nigga. This ain’t yo daddy.”
“Who the hell you think you talking to? Nigga if it wadn’t for me yo mama would still be selling fish sandwiches out her house to pay her seventeen dollars a month rent that she stay being late on, hollering it’s hard times.”
Ziggy usually would go on and give me what I wanted: ammunition. That’s how we did before every show, straight shit-talked. I always wanted him there. Anybody else—like my nigga, Bone, or my bitch, Kai—would come with that gay-ass shit like “Let it do what it do.” And that’s cool, but why did “I love you,” always have to follow? I ain’t singing R&B, I be coming with that gangsta rap. By no means did I want that soft shit before a show. I grew up with Ziggy, and he could destroy someone’s self-esteem—have you round here ready to kill ya self. BOOM!
I stood onstage and my eyes zoomed on Winky who was in VIP where I knew he’d be. His face seemed different tonight. He looked like he had something on his mind, but who don’t? I was so high that I could have stood there in a zone and tried to figure out what’s wrong with ole boy, but I caught myself, even though the weed that I had been blowing was so good that I could have forgot all about the crowd that paid fifty and better to see me and some other cat.
Some people look at me and say I’m acting sadity
‘Cause I’m pretty but they don’t know I’m putting dope in my city
I’m too shitty to be confused with an everyday bitch
Flip the script to get my chips
‘Cause my goal’s to get rich kind of quick
The crowd went bananas. I did eight of my best songs and walked the stage just like a man. And I had lyrics like a man, but I was too beautiful and feminine to reach down and shift balls that were without question not there. I walked in my heels like they were a pair of Air Force Ones. The iced-out hand medallion around my neck revealed a middle finger that swung like “fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you, too!” The world wasn’t ready for me. BET had seen a few imposter broads claiming they were ‘bout the business but there were always rumors they had ghostwriters. Their careers flashed so quickly that they were invisible just like their writers leaving you with thoughts of a Boost Mobile: Where you at? Me … I was too serious about this to be a memory.
I walked to my dressing room with an entourage like a heavyweight champion. They were screaming my name, “Yummie! Yummie!” My face softened like an R&B singer. Oooh! I loved that! I closed the door behind me and found my room flooded with roses. You would think I had a bunch of admirers but that wasn’t the case. I only had two who competed with each other for my love. Male and Female. Bone and Kai.
I smiled without bothering to read their deepest feelings on the little itty-bitty pieces of paper that accompanied the flowers although I was curious about who had won by sending the most. But there were too many bouquets, and they all looked alike. After all, roses are roses.
Winky had abandoned the VIP and was now in my dressing room. He was a big light-skinned dough boy. There was nothing sexy about him, not even his smile—his teeth were stacked on top of one another showing every bit of his thirty-two teeth.
“Yummie, your lyrics are getting tighter and tighter. Most rappers rappin’ another niggas’ lifestyle. Not you, Yummie.”
I stood proud like, “Yep, that’s me.”
“You say what you mean and mean what you say, Yummie. What they don’t know, Yummie, is that you really putting dope in ya city.” He chuckled.
I looked at him, but I ain’t say shit, trying to figure out what the fuck was wrong with him.
“Huh, Yummie?” He turned around to unzip a bag as he sang words to my song. “I’m putting dope in my city. I’m too shitty to be confused with an …”
“Winky, what you doing, and why the fuck you keep saying my name?”
He turned around with one brown-wrapped kilo brick of pure cocaine in his hand and more where that came from. “What you talking about, Yummie?” Like he had no clue whatsoever.
“What is you doing?”
He looked at the brick. “I’m bringing your stuff.”
“Huh?”
“Your dope.”
Maybe it was the beads of sweat on his forehead in a well air-conditioned room, or the bricks of cocaine in my dressing room, or the repetition of my name … but something made me come to the conclusion that something wasn’t right. People think when you high it hinders your judgment, but a scientist who probably never smoked a day in his life came up with that theory. From a weed junkie’s point of view, you think better.
I looked around for hidden cameras but I couldn’t see shit but a bunch of damn roses. He noticed me looking around and he started looking like, “Is this a setup?”
“Winky, I don’t know what you talking about, Winky. And what you doing with that dope, Winky?” I was c
alling his name as many times as he called mine. Saying it loud enough for the hidden cameras if there were any to hear me and set the record straight.
“Yummie, me and Chanae got into it,” Winky explained. “She went on one ‘cause she found out me and Catrina still messing around. You know they stay beefing. So I packed all my shit and I couldn’t keep this there.”
I knew both of them broads and knew it had to be only money ‘cause no dick in this world was that good to make you fight over Winky’s ugly ass. To each his own and there is somebody for everybody. Regardless of the foolishness he had going on, he still was out of order for bringing work up there. I mean, how was I going to take a big black duffel bag of coke along with my bag of clothes out of there? I’m a celebrity with fans, and some of them stayed around afterward with high hopes and expectations just to see me.
I took a deep breath, exhaled, and walked to the bag counting each kilo to myself. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 … “Gimmie my shit,” I said as I snatched the one out of his hand. “Twenty.”
I zipped up the bag and started to put it under my vanity set when the door flew off the hinges. The noise scared me more than anything. I love my fans, Lord knows I do, but sometimes they could be so persistent. They seemed to be everywhere. You couldn’t eat or shit. That was the price you paid for being famous. But it wasn’t my fans this time. FBI, baby. They handcuffed me and stinking-ass Winky.
The newspapers, TV, and magazines had a field day with me. They painted a picture of this greedy female drug dealer/rap star who had it all yet wanted more. What did they know? Since I had been with Hym8nenz (High Maintenance) Records, I had not received one royalty check. I had signed a fucked-up contract. How was I supposed to know the videos and studio time and limo rides came out of my money? I thought the record company got it like that. Why not cater to your stars? Contract? All I remember is the pen and the million dollars. The money I did receive seemed like a fortune at first but it slipped through my hands just like water. I only sold drugs to maintain my rich and famous lifestyle. What sense did it make to be pushing a Continental GTC Bentley and you pulling up in a McDonald’s drive-thru scraping up change for a number ten? Humph! Sound like a damn fool.
