The Plot Against Hip Hop (11 page)

This year’s HHH lineup was rich in possible beef. There were a couple of old-school New York pioneers on the bill, many of whom thought today’s upstarts used “Mickey Mouse rhymes” and argued that the young rappers should be “paying a tax to the creators.” There were MCs from Atlanta and Miami who gave lip service to “respecting the pioneers,” but really didn’t give a shit what these graying New Yorkers thought. Luckily, there were no Miami-versus-Atlanta troubles—MCs seemed to move between these two Southern cities with ease.

However, within these two towns there was beef galore. Who was really king of the South? Who was really the boss of MIA? Local beef between artists with national followings could explode into violence if scheduling and security were not well designed. (Trick Daddy was going on early in the evening to keep him away from DJ Khaled and Rick Ross. Though T.I. and Ludacris got along, relations between elements of their entourages were tense.)

These were just a few of the issues D and his team sat discussing at a round table in the basement of the Hammerstein Ballroom. Times of arrival and departure for talent. Where’s T.I.’s dressing room? Where’s Gucci Mane’s dressing room? How do we keep the talent’s security guards from eating the crew’s meal? The latter sounded like a joke but it was a potentially volatile situation. Teamsters and production staff got agitated when non–crew members, particularly brothers in white T-shirts, filled plates from their dinner-break buffet.

Fisticuffs between teamsters and personal security often jumped off at music video shoots. That could get ugly real quick. So this issue took up a considerable amount of time before the meeting adjourned.

After another quick walk-through, checking out the key entrances and exits for talent on stage right and left, D walked into the high-ceilinged ballroom, gazing up for a minute at the cherubs floating up and then down toward the stage where a rehearsal was in progress. A medley of Atlanta hip hop hits was underway with Asher Roth, a young white MC with a strong college following, negotiating the tricky cadences of Big Boi’s rhyme on an Outkast classic. This was dangerous ground for any MC, much less a white kid with only a couple of hits.

The stakes were high for Mr. Roth since this HHH, like every year, the final rehearsal performances were watched by a who’s who of MCs coming, going, hanging out, and quietly critiquing their peers. It was D’s favorite part of the day, since it was MC on MC, everyone stripped of their pretension and ego. Very communal and also very serious. He’d seen Melle Mel watch LL perform one year and marveled at the two possible rivals giving each other dap. He’d seen Big Daddy Kane perform lazily at a run-through and heard Fab Five Freddy give him a pep talk that may have inspired the most electric performance in the show’s history. Today, as Roth walked to the edge of the circular stage, D noticed Bun B, one of the most lyrical Southern rappers, nodding his approval. Roth saw this and they made eye contact, a silent acknowledgment of his skills.

It was a moment that made D remember why he’d once loved hip hop. That exchange wasn’t done for a Flip camera or YouTube. It wouldn’t be chronicled in the
Source
or blasted across the net via
AllHipHop.com
. For D it was as genuine as hip hop once was and always should have remained. It made D smile.

His BlackBerry buzzed and he saw a text, a New Jersey number, and his mood grew even lighter.
I’ll be there. Can’t wait.
It was Amina. She and a girlfriend were coming as his guests and D was giddy. Sure, she was the widow of a mysterious East Coast/West Coast thug who was somehow tied to a close friend’s murder.

But damn, she was fine, and they had mad chemistry. D hadn’t felt this excited about a woman since his ex Emily some five years ago. If he was really a detective this would be dangerous, but D was just a guy asking questions, a very lonely, curious man. He could make people feel safe. Yet no one held him when he was tired and his tears always dried on their own. His HIV status made relationships complex, but his desire to be loved was so, so elemental.

As the casted audience of good-looking folks filled the orchestra floor and an older group of friends and music biz types sat down in the balcony, D wandered between the television production trucks behind the Hammerstein on 35th Street and the backstage area, listening on his headset to the chatter of production assistants, floor managers, and his security staff. Reports of red-carpet arrivals, delayed town cars, and revised script pages came in nervous waves. The production offices were filling up with marijuana fumes wafting over from a nearby dressing room, which was doing nothing to calm the growing anxiety as the clock moved inexorably toward taping time.

And then D was running toward the stage, excited voices filling his earpiece. “Altercation stage left!” Flo Rida, maker of pop-rap ditties and tall enough to be an NBA point guard, was not happy with DJ Khaled, the de facto king of Miami nightlife, maker of party anthems and close compadre of rap giant (in sales and size) Rick Ross. Along with several associates, the two men were having a heated argument.

During the performance of one of Flo Rida’s hits, Khaled, who was DJ/musical director for the medley, had let a recorded voice intone
“Maybach music”
two different times. That “Maybach music” phrase was synonymous with Rick Ross. Flo Rida and his peeps saw this as some kind of dis, while Khaled said it was a simple mistake. Whether intentional or not, D knew that from small disagreements big guns sometimes emerged.

A scrum had formed stage left. There was some scuffling. A few “motherfuckers” had been exchanged. Many hard stares. D arrived. Cooler heads. Calmer words. Beef squashed. A truce for tonight. Back in Miami, who knows? Not D’s problem.

The dust-up turned out to be just the prelude to a rocky night at a normally smooth-running show. There was an edge to the evening. Not exactly a mean edge—more like a sense of joyous anxiety, like anything could happen and wouldn’t that be fun? Which isn’t great for television but is fuel for the fire of a real hip hop show, since it lets the street into the building, connecting the highly professional to the culture’s unpolished roots.

Like a boxer, D was on his toes a lot during the taping, bouncing from backstage to the front of the house, admiring how Bow Wow, seemingly too young to understand nostalgia, tapped his childhood for a dynamic version of Kris Kross’s “Jump,” and being amazed at how enthused a New York crowd could get for Dirty South hits like Juvenile’s “Nolia Clap.”

D’s favorite part of the evening was peeping up into the mezzanine where, looking so sexy she belonged on stage, Amina sat at a front-row table in a low-cut top, gladiator sandals, and brown legs for days. From various angles of the Hammerstein, D gazed over at her, while also clocking her very attractive caramel-colored girlfriend with long braided hair and an older black man, fiftyish, vaguely familiar, who shared the table with them.

Toward the end of the taping, which ultimately looked smoother on the tube than it felt behind the scenes, D moved through the crowd of dancing fans, took a side staircase that carried him past honorees like Luther Campbell, Jermaine Dupri, and the three producers of Atlanta’s Dungeon Crew, and then went up to the VIP-laden mezzanine.

People were standing and dancing next to tables (and on a chair or two) as Khaled and Rick Ross, resplendent and ridiculous in a waist-length fur coat, proclaimed “We always win!” from the lip of the Hammerstein stage. Amina, twisting her hips like a snake through sand, waved D over and embraced him warmly.

“I see you’re having a good time,” he greeted.

“Thanks to you,” she said sweetly.

Amina introduced her friend Courteney, who looked even better up close: a light-skinned beauty with her braided hair, very snug blouse, and leather pants over some arresting curves. Courteney shook D’s hand and then Amina said, “And you must know this man.”

“Amos Pilgrim,” D responded. “It’s my pleasure.”

Pilgrim, a record business legend, one of the heroes of Dwayne Robinson’s
The Relentless Beat
, stood next to Courteney, swaying old–black man style, self-conscious about his age but absolutely happy to be there. Short and dark brown, Amos wore a Rolex with enough diamonds to make Kanye jealous and a well-tailored, casually expensive tan shirt, brown slacks, and leather loafers.

“Hey, my brother,” the man said, and took D’s right hand into both of his.

“So D,” Amina said, “we’re going to the Rose Bar for a drink. Please come join us.”

“I have some housekeeping to do, but give me an hour and I’ll roll by.”

She gave D kiss on the cheek. He took in her perfume, hoping some attached to his suit. Except for the Miami performers and their various entourages, most of the acts had already left the building, off to the official after-party and various soirées around town.

As the audience filed out of the building, D and his team locked down the backstage and various dressing rooms, which were scattered in the basement, the eighth floor, and in tour vans parked on 35th Street. Some artists, big dawgz like Timbaland, had never even entered their assigned spaces, rolling in just before taping, lingering a bit backstage, and then SUVing away as soon as their section of the show had taped.

In contrast, many of the less-heralded acts had grabbed water bottles, gobbled down every bag of Doritos, and even swiped a towel or two from the restrooms. For some of the artists on HHH, this was their first national TV appearance and/or first time getting any significant New York City shine, so as far as they were concerned, everything was up for grabs. By the time the team had completed its rounds, D was among the many with a contact high from the variety of herb, chronic, sticky icky (and any other name for marijuana one could employ) that floated through the now empty spaces.

It was more like two hours when D finally arrived at the Rose, a Lexington Avenue hotel bar, which had become an instant Manhattan hot spot when it opened in the early 2000s. The heat on it had cooled, as things do in NYC nightlife, but there were still enough boldface names in the room to fill half of Page Six. The doorman had once worked for D, so getting in for this black noncelebrity was no hassle.

Though there was no smoking inside, there was a hazy, smoky quality to the room’s light. D peered through it, seeing models, Euro-trash, and trustafarians aplenty. Over on one of the Rose Bar’s minisofas sat Amos and Courteney, while Amina perched on a stool sipping champagne. Aside from a couple of tall, dark, short-haired models, they were the only black folks in the room. D settled down with them, a bit wary of Amos’s reaction since older rich men were never keen on having young, muscular types around when they were getting their cougar on.

But Amos was relaxed and laid back, seriously kicking game to Courteney, who he was impressing with his knowledge of Apple’s longterm business plans. Seemed he had a supertight relationship with Steve Jobs and was telling her about their next magical machine. D would have liked to eavesdrop on Amos’s info but Amina was picking his brain for gossip.

“And why didn’t Janet introduce Jermaine Dupri for his tribute?”

“Hey, I just do security. I’m not privy to every decision.”

“Hmmmm, I know you know.”

“I really don’t. But you’re right, that’s not info I would volunteer.”

“But you’d tell me if you knew, right?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? Maybe’s no way to woo a lady.”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“I thought that was what you were trying to do.” They both laughed. “But let me tell you something: I like secrets. You share with me and I share with you.”

“Oh,” interjected Amos, “what’s going on over here.”

“My friend D is being a little stingy with the backstage gossip.”

“That’s the man’s job. How can a man do security if he’s telling the secrets of the people he’s securing. That’s not how you keep someone safe.”

“Well, you can take his side if you want to, Amos. But one thing I know is that there are no secrets. Not really. Everything done in the dark eventually comes to light.”

“Whoa,” D said. “That’s scary but true.”

There was a lull in the conversation, so D jumped in and asked how Amina had met Amos.

“Out in LA, wasn’t it?” Amos replied. “You were with Malik.”

“Yes, it was some fundraiser out at your place in Malibu.” To Courteney she added, “He has an amazing house right on the Pacific. You should see it.”

“Perhaps she will,” Amos said with a rakish smile.

Amina was clearly in cahoots with Amos. But D’s mind wasn’t at the Rose Bar; it was on the West Coast. Amina had gone out there with her late husband. She had to have known at least something about his activities. More to ask her about later. Quality time with Ms. Warren-Jones was definitely essential, though he wanted to kiss her more than ask questions. Either way, the ghost of the late Mr. Jones would have to be dealt with.

The ladies needed to head back to Jersey (“Some of us have normal lives,” Courteney said more than once, so everyone hopped into Amos’s SUV and accompanied the ladies to a Midtown parking lot. While Courteney and Amos had a private car-side conversation, D and Amina spoke a few feet away.

“So I guess my question is, am I gonna see you again?”

“And why wouldn’t we see each other?” She was messing with D, batting her eyes and touching his jacket lapel.

“My insecurity, I guess.”

“Most men aren’t honest enough to admit that.”

“Maybe. I don’t know about other men, but I was very excited you came.”

“Well, I owe you for the tickets. Dinner at my home this weekend?”

That was an easy yes. Hadn’t had a home-cooked meal in a long time. They embraced again—this time deeper—and then she signaled over to Courteney, who was still fielding Amos’s latest offer. Courteney gave the black millionaire a chaste hug and a peck on the check before the ladies headed back to Jersey.

“How’d you do?” Amos asked after their car had pulled off.

“She invited me over for dinner.”

“Nice,” he said. “I’m headed down to a spot called Greenhouse on Hudson to meet Andre Harrell and some other people. You wanna roll?”