Unruly (10 page)

 

*

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 days 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 sheriff 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.”

No one knew what to say. He was clear, but what he was saying, none of us was trying to hear. For seconds, which felt like minutes, the sound of the beats from the hall had ceased. There was only the loud buzz of Lyor's cell phone, which was on vibrate. He didn't answer it. I was “the little guy,” and what Lyor was saying was that O was out of the picture. Lyor saw a future for me at Def Jam.
Only me.
What would I say to O when we walked out of there? The dream was on, but it was starting on a fucking awkward note.

Gotti took the meeting from there. Gotti was already standing up, leaning in, over Lyor's desk. Gotti was speaking fast about his new shit.

“Lyor, if you give me a chance I won't disappoint you. I have the hot shit. Ja Rule is only the beginning. I know a hit when I hear it.” I watched as Gotti sealed the deal, pointing his fingers and flailing his arms. Lyor slid his hand across the smooth leather desk, silent but giddy with anticipation of the millions he was about to make.

As a new artists and repertoire (A&R) guy for Def Jam, Irv would be able to bring all of his artists to Def Jam.

After Gotti said his piece, Lyor said, “You have until the end of the day to make a decision on what I've offered. The little guy and you, Irv. Come back before six with your answer. I'll have the papers ready for you to sign.” Lyor spoke as though O wasn't even there. It was the first sign to me that Lyor was cold-blooded. O was crushed, but he did what men do, he said nothing. When we got out on the street, the three of us walked in silence. I thought about how I would feel if it happened to me—if they selected O and didn't want me. But, really, it had nothing to do with either of us, or so I told myself. I was just what Def Jam was looking for at the time. A different day could have been O's day.

“Yo. That's all right. Rule, I give you my blessing. You go 'hed and do that shit and you and I will get back to it another time,” O said.

 

WE TOOK THE DEAL
but Steve Gottlieb and Lyor Cohen had reached an impasse. Irv got a full-time job with benefits at the best hip-hop label in the world and I still couldn't get out of my deal with TVT. Steve would not let me go, and Lyor still wanted me but he didn't have time to wait for me. Lyor needed a big act to take the ride on the platinum path that he would lay out. Time never waits when you got paper to make. Steve Gottlieb was blocking my shit. All I could do was sit and wait for my own five-year sentence to end, just like Black's. When anyone signs a group deal, it forever solidifies that relationship. This means that if something happens to one person in the group, it impacts everyone in the group. I learned that it is important to make sure that my individual creative rights are protected.

 

WHILE I WAS IN A HOLDING PATTERN,
waiting for Steve Gottlieb to realize that Cash Money Click was no longer, Lyor had no choice but to sign DMX. DMX's first album sold five million records and 250,000 copies in the first week. “Ruff Ryder's Anthem,” which was a collaboration with X's crew, was also a hit, selling another five million copies. DMX's people were The Lox, Drag-On, and another female MC, Eve. Gotti could do no wrong.

I first met X in Mulford Gardens. It was a crazy project to live in. I couldn't believe people actually lived like that. The windows were all broken out. It was crazy. X was rhyming. He had recently gotten beat up, so his jaw was wired shut. While he was rapping, the wires were popping out everywhere. We were all spitting. Me, Lox and X. Afterward, when I was done rhyming, X said, “Little nigga, get busy.” It is important to know that X don't usually give it up to no one. He's a tough give. At the time, though, the compliment didn't mean much to me because X wasn't famous yet. He was popular on the streets. X was a mixed-tape legend in Yonkers. When X first got signed to Def Jam, folks were joking, “Who is going to buy his album—dogs!” Whenever he went to the offices at the label, he would bring his two dogs inside. He was a loose cannon, but he came out and smashed it.

DMX was a good dude, and a good friend, but the drugs changed him. He was doing all kinds of shit, like missing shows, video shoots and interviews.

I remember one time I got locked up because of X. We were recording at Quad. We came back from the store. A guy downstairs was selling watches.

“What you doing with my brother's watch? That's my brother's watch right there,” X said.

Next thing I knew, X knocked the guy out and robbed the guy for the watches. He was famous. Why was he robbing people? While we were trying to get upstairs, back into the studio, the watch guy was downstairs calling the police. The receptionist warned us that the police were on their way up just in case we had weed or something. X hid behind the reel to reel. I was like, I gotta get the fuck out of here. I b-line for the stairs because I thought the police would be coming up in the elevator. As I made my move, I saw that they were coming up the stairs and were on the elevator. The police had the watch guy with them. As they run into me, they ask the watch guy who robbed him.

“Is this one of the guys that robed you?” the police asked, as they ran into me.

“Yes, him, right there.”

The police had their man. They were going to look no further. X hid and I went to central booking. When I called Irv, at Def Jam, they came and got me from the precinct.

That's just one of me and X's escapades. Another time we were out in Miami. My music was out, so we were both big. We were down there for a music conference. X wanted to go and get some weed. The man drives like a maniac. He believes he has to beat everybody on the road. There are millions of cars on the road, and he thinks he has to beat every one of them. It's like he's in a race. The police pull us over.

“This ain't really my car. It's Keizer's car,” X says.

“All that sound good, but ya'll ain't going nowhere in this car. It is not registered to you.”

“That's cool. Whatever,” X said, as he got out of the car. “Don't worry Rule, I got this.”