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Of course Shyne got convicted, but the D. So I settled and took probation. No way was I going to allow myself to be a sideshow for the state. But more than that, I realized that I had a choice in life. There was no reason to put my life on the line, and the lives of everyone who depends on me, because of a momentary loss of control. It sometimes feels like complete disaster is always around the corner, waiting to trap us, so we have to live for the moment and fuck the rest. I vowed to never allow myself to be in a situation like that again. Was he saying that? But while millions of people loved it, including nine-year-old me, it drove the serious rappers of absolutely crazy.
MCs were tight when they heard it, not just because the lyrics were lightweight, but because the MCs on the record were considered to be wack no-names. Whole chunks of the song were completely bitten: But it was a major hit and it created the first real crossroads in the story of hip-hop. Some rappers got angry about the commercializing of their culture. Other people saw it as an opportunity: If a group like the Sugar Hill Gang could have a hit, then that meant that there was a real audience out there for hip-hop.
A lot of other people in that room that night never got paid for the art form they helped invent and are still nursing a grudge against the people who did. Hip-hop is too important as a tool of expression to just be reduced to a commercial product. That was always the point, to me. After my first record got on the radio and on BET, it was wild being at home, feeding my fish, and suddenly seeing myself on TV. But it was satisfying.
Hearing it on the radio was even better. I care if regular people — sisters on their way to work, dudes rolling around in their cars — hear my shit. People around me are passionate about music. We study music, seek it out. I know there are a million music blogs out there and people who are willing to put in the work finding new music on them.
But I like to reach people who get their music from clubs and the radio and television, too. I want my music to play where those people live. There are sometimes two Jay-Zs when you look at my music. And then there are the deeper album cuts, which are more complicated.
The entire package is what makes an album. A great hit can also give listeners a second layer, and then a third, and more. The next layer down is the storytelling. For a hit song, the narratives are pretty ambiguous: Knowing how to complicate a simple song without losing its basic appeal is one of the keys to good songwriting. There was maybe a time when people in hip-hop made music only because they loved to make music. I saw it as another hustle, one that happened to coincide with my natural talents and the culture I loved.
I was an eager hustler and a reluctant artist. But the irony of it is that to make the hustle work, really work, over the long term, you have to be a true artist, too. Instead, you live by certain codes. There are no codes and ethics in music because there are lawyers. People can hide behind their lawyers and contracts and then rob you blind. A lot of street cats come into the music game and expect a certain kind of honor and ethics, even outside of contracts. Or artists so conflicted about making money from their art — which so often means making money from their pain and confusion and dreams — that they do stupid shit with it, set it on fire or something.
This is a game people sometimes play with musicians: I played baseball with a Little League squad out in Brooklyn. My big brother Eric played basketball in junior and summer leagues and was a straight star. When we first moved to Marcy my father set up a little basketball hoop in our apartment — and we would all sweat it out right there in the living room like it was Madison Square Garden. But we never could fully dedicate ourselves to becoming true athletes.
I hit the streets. But I still loved sports. Playing them, watching them. Sports are one of the great metaphors for life, and watching athletes perform is like watching different ideas about life playing themselves out. What made his game magical is the way it spoke to deeper shit than just wins and losses. His career was a perfectly composed story about will. To see him come out of retirement, after his father was buried, to come back and win championships, there was nothing better in the world.
In , when the Bulls were down by three in Game Six of the Finals with seconds left, and Jordan scored, stole the ball from Karl Malone, came down, crossed over Bryon Russell, and hit the winning shot at the buzzer — well, I could have laid down and died after that game. The first time I met Jordan was at St. A couple of months later, in Chicago, I went to his restaurant at his invitation to have dinner with him. That night he had to sit there and dine with his nemesis. Jordan told Juan the story of how he almost came to the Knicks. Juan looked like he was going to cry. I asked Jordan who was the hardest nigga that ever guarded him; he told me Joe Dumars.
I found out how much Jordan loves Hakeem Olajuwon; he pointed out that he was a leader in steals, which is rare in the center position. I asked him to name his five favorite centers, the best games he ever played, which championship meant the most to him. I got to be an unabashed fan. It was an absolute dream conversation for me.
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Making music requires a lot of that same discipline and commitment. My earliest mentors in rap taught me that making music is work, whether it was Jaz locking himself in a room working on different flows or Big Daddy Kane taking the time to meticulously put together a stage show.
There are a hundred Harold Miners no disrespect for every Michael Jordan. It can also be stressful beyond belief. A tour requires stamina, willpower, and the ability to self-motivate, to hype yourself into game mode night after night. Someone who has the work ethic, the drive.
He left the game and came back and worked just as hard as he did when he started. He came into the game as Rookie of the Year, and he finished off the last playoff game of his career with a shot that won the Bulls their sixth championship. But politically, its history is a travesty. And I knew some of the bodies it buried. It never seemed as hopeless as it was during the eight years that preceded that night in Washington. I was so over America that if John McCain and Sarah Palin had won that election I was seriously ready to pack up, get some land in some other country, and live as an expat in protest.
Because America, as I understood the concept, hated my black ass. We live in government-funded housing and work government jobs. We have family and friends spending time in the ultimate public housing, prison. We grow up knowing people who pay for everything with little plastic cards — Medicare cards for checkups, EBT cards for food. The first and fifteenth of each month are times of peak economic activity. We get to know all kinds of government agencies not because of civics class, but because they actually visit our houses and sit up on our couches asking questions.
Then there are the cops. In places like Marcy there are people who know the ins and outs of government bureaucracies, police procedures, and sentencing guidelines, who spend half of their lives in dirty waiting rooms on plastic chairs waiting for someone to call their name. A lot of our heroes, almost by default, were people who tried to dismantle or overthrow the government — Malcolm X or the Black Panthers — or people who tried to make it completely irrelevant, like Marcus Garvey, who wanted black people to sail back to Africa.
The government was everywhere we looked, and we hated it. People are still people, though, so we turned the projects into real communities, poor or not. We played in fire hydrants and had cookouts and partied, music bouncing off concrete walls. But even when we could shake off the full weight of those imposing buildings and try to just live, the truth of our lives and struggle was still invisible to the larger country.
The rest of the country was freed of any obligation to claim us. There are all the famous incidents of censorship and intimidation: But the attempts at censorship only made the targets bigger stars. This was when you had one prominent Harlem pastor renting a bulldozer and calling news cameras to film him running over a pile of rap CDs in the middle of th Street. When WBLS, a legendary black-owned radio station in New York, stripped hip-hop from their playlists in sympathy with the protest, another radio station, Hot 97, came along with an all-rap format and went straight to number one.
In a few years, WBLS came back to rap. Those battles were big for all of us in hip-hop and offered an important survival lesson: Politicians — at the highest levels — would try to silence and kill our culture if they could hustle some votes out of it.
Even black leaders who were supposed to be representing you would turn on you — would pile your records up and run over them with a fucking bulldozer or try to ban you from radio — if they felt threatened by your story or language. But the thing is, we kept winning. But the story had to come out sooner or later because it was so dramatic, important, crazy — and just plain compelling. Back in the eighties and early nineties cities in this country were literally battlegrounds. Kids were as well armed as a paramilitary outfit in a small country.
Teenagers had Uzis, German Glocks, and assault rifles — and we had the accessories, too, like scopes and silencers. Guns were easier to get in the hood than public assistance. The deeper causes of the crack explosion were in policies concocted by a government that was hostile to us, almost genocidally hostile when you think about how they aided or tolerated the unleashing of guns and drugs on poor communities, while at the same time cutting back on schools, housing, and assistance programs. And to top it all off, they threw in the so-called war on drugs, which was really a war on us.
There were racist new laws put on the books, like the drug laws that penalized the possession of crack cocaine with more severe sentences than the possession of powder. Three-strike laws could put young guys in jail for twenty-five years for nonviolent crimes. The disease of addiction was treated as a crime. The rate of incarceration went through the roof. Police abuses and corruption were rampant. Across the country, cops were involved in the drug trade, playing both sides. Young black men in New York in the eighties and nineties were gunned down by cops for the lightest suspected offenses, or died in custody under suspicious circumstances.
And meanwhile we were killing ourselves by the thousands. Almost twenty years after the fact, there are studies that say between and more black men were murdered in the streets of America than died in the entire Vietnam War. America did not want to talk about the human damage, or the deeper causes of the carnage. But then here came rap, like the American nightmare come to life. It scared a lot of people. For instance, was an important year for hip- hop. It was two years after Pac had been gunned down, and just a year after Biggie was killed.
DMX dropped two number one albums that year. Outkast released Aquemini, a game-changing album lyrically and sonically, but also for what it meant to Southern rap. Mos Def and Talib Kweli had their Black Star album, one of the definitive indie rap records of all time. And the biggest album of the year in any genre was The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill It was a beautiful time all the way around in hip-hop.
The album I released that year, Vol. Hard Knock Life, was the biggest record of my life. The opening week was unreal for me — we did more than three hundred thousand units, by far the biggest opening number of my career to that point. Those four albums together told the story of young black America from four dramatically different perspectives — we were bohemians and hustlers and revolutionaries and space-age Southern boys. We were funny and serious, spiritual and ambitous, lovers and gangsters, mothers and brothers. This was the full picture of our generation.
Each of these albums was an innovative and honest work of art and wildly popular on the charts. Every kid in the country had at least one of these albums, and a lot of them had all four. The entire world was plugged into the stories that came out of the specific struggles and creative explosion of our generation. And that was just the tip of the iceberg of what was happening in hip-hop that year. So, in this incredible year for diverse strands of real hip-hop, what happens at the Grammy Awards? And then, in this year when rap dominated the charts and provided the most innovative and creative music you could find on the radio, they decided not to televise any of the rap awards.
God knows there were bigger issues in the world. And eventually I started coming to the show and even performing. But not until they started showing rap the respect it deserves. No one in the entire world — not in Russia or China or Iran — is locked up like black men are locked up in this country. I had to deal with the cops when I was hustling, and that made sense. I had to deal with the cops before that, too, because even before I started running the streets, I was on their radar just because of who I was. I hopped in my Suburban with Ty-Ty and my bodyguard and the driver pulls off.
We were one block away from the club when an unmarked police van cut us off, like in a movie. When I lifted the partition I saw half a dozen squad cars surrounding us. My bodyguard was already out of the car and a detective was showcasing his gun up in the air like he had found something. But my bodyguard claimed the gun and showed them his license. I was in the backseat laughing because they were so overdoing it, but the next thing I knew someone was opening my door and putting their hands on me, trying to drag me out of the car and make me turn around.
I tried to talk to them. He asked his partner what he should do. Right in front of me his partner made a call and explained the situation to whoever was on the other end. Then he told his man to arrest me. I was dumbstruck as they loaded me into the back of the cruiser like a prize catch. Once they had me, they made me do the perp walk, the police- escorted stroll in public, which meant dragging me in front of all the photographers outside the precinct.
But they made sure to humiliate me first. With my other case still pending, this would help paint the picture of me as a menace to society. Dossiers were created on rappers and their associates, cops staked out shows and nightclubs and followed rappers in broad daylight. The hip-hop cop stayed outside the clubs I was in. You got a gun? I would fuck with him right back: For seven years that cop was there, at every club, every show.
But I still have to ask myself why. Rappers, as a class, are not engaged in anything criminal. Some rappers and friends of rappers commit crimes. Some bus drivers commit crimes. Some accountants commit crimes. The difference is obvious, of course: Rappers tend to come from places where police are accustomed to treating everybody like a suspect. The general style of rappers is offensive to a lot of people.
In I was invited to play at the Glastonbury Festival in England. I took the gig because it was a chance to knock some doors down for the culture. None of them rap. But kids today have a mix of songs from all over the place in their iPods, and they take pride in it. There is no rock music with walls around it. As planned, I played that show in front of , people. I stood backstage with my crew and we looked out at the crowd. There were tens of thousands of people staring up at the stage but it might as well have been a million — bodies covered my entire field of vision.
We were under a dark, open sky. Their cheers and chants were like a tidal wave of sound crashing over the stage. It was awesome and a little ominous. The show was amazing, one of the highlights of my career. It was one of those moments that taught me that there really is no limit to what hip-hop could do, no place that was closed to its power. The whole sequence felt familiar to me — that same sense of someone putting their hands and weight on me, trying to push me back to the margins.
Telling me to be quiet, not to get into the frame of their pristine picture. It was a joke, but it was also kind of beautiful. Even in the world outside of music, things really were changing. For instance, there was Bill Clinton. In , when he was running for president, Clinton made a point of publicly denouncing Sister Souljah at a Rainbow Coalition event — he compared her to David Duke, the white supremacist and former Grand Wizard of the KKK — because of some comments she made after the L.
At the time, everyone knew he was trying to prove to white America that he could stand up to black people, particularly young black people involved in hip-hop, and especially in the aftermath of the L. He knew that demonizing young black people, their politics, and their art was always a winning move in American politics. By , I actually knew Bill Clinton. I first really sat down with him at the Spotted Pig. Bono brought him in one night and we hung out for a long time in the back room of the restaurant, joking and talking about music.
It was so strange for me, sitting across the table from Bill Clinton, swapping stories. It made the distance between and seem deeper than just the passage of time.
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The world had changed around us, like it had been hit by some kind of cultural earthquake that rearranged everything. I like Bill Clinton. He has a quick laugh and genuine curiosity and a big appetite for life. That night at the Spotted Pig he went to the kitchen and posed for photos with the busboys and waiters and signed every autograph he could before he left.
He was clearly big-hearted. And one day in he looked out at an audience of black people and told them that Sister Souljah was as bad as the Klan. Everyone needs a chance to evolve. A close friend of Barack Obama is a big fan of my music and reached out to someone in my camp to set up a meeting. I sat down with Barack at a one-on-one meeting set up by that mutual friend and we talked for hours.
People always ask me what we talked about, and I wish I could remember some specific moment when it hit me that this guy was special. More than anything specific that he said, I was impressed by who he was. Supporters of Barack are sometimes criticized for getting behind him strictly because of his biography rather than his policies.
Who he was was very important to me. He was my peer, or close to it, like a young uncle or an older brother. His defining experiences were in the nineties in the projects of Chicago, where he lived and worked as a community organizer before going to Harvard Law School. He even had the guts to tell the press that he had my music on his iPod.
And he was black. This was a chance to go from centuries of invisibility to the most visible position in the entire world. He could, through sheer symbolism, regardless of any of his actual policies, change the lives of millions of black kids who now saw something different to aspire to. That would happen on the day he was elected, regardless of anything else that happened in his term.
No other candidate could promise so much. I got into some serious arguments with people I respect over supporting Barack over Hillary. But I could see what Barack in the White House would mean to kids who were coming up the way I came up.
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I ran into him again at a fund-raiser at L. The jumbo screen behind me would go black and then up would come an image of Barack Obama. The crowd would always go wild. I knew enough about politics and the media to know that something that trivial could derail him. I thought a lot about that. I was happy to play the back and not draw attention to myself.
I just wanted him to win. But he did eventually call me and ask me to help. It was in the fall of the year and he told me he wanted to close it out like Jordan. So I did a bunch of free shows all over the country before the election to encourage young people to register to vote. But I had to make it clear to them: If you want shit to get better in your neighborhood, you have to be the one who puts the guy in office. If you vote for him, he owes you. But even aside from all that, I told people, this election is bigger than politics. As cliche as it might sound, it was about hope.
Beyonce performed at the Lincoln Memorial the day before the inauguration and I decided to watch her from the crowd, so I could feel the energy of everyday people. It was unbelievable to see us — me, Beyonce, Mary J. On the day of the inauguration, I came down in the elevator of the hotel with Ty-Ty. And then the moment came when Barack faced the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and took the oath of office to become the forty-fourth President. That was when it hit me the hardest.
But here we were. The first show I played when I got to Washington, two days before the inauguration, was a little different from the official inaugural events I played, where I was keeping it presidential. The spirit was familiar, too — the crowd was rocking to the music, arms in the air, getting the rush from being so close to the performers, so close to one another. But it was also different. There were people waving small American flags back at me. And onstage, we were all smiling. Jeezy had the funniest line of the night: I want to thank two people: I want to thank the motherfucker overseas who threw two shoes at George Bush.
And I want to thank the motherfuckers who helped him move his shit up out the White House. We all had chills. I remembered when I was still campaigning that fall, doing shows all over for voter registration. At one show in Virginia I was closing out my set and looked out at the audience, full of young black kids, laughing and hopeful. I tried to focus on the individual faces in that crowd, tried to find their eyes. Instead, even with all the distance yet to go, for the first time I felt like we were at least moving in the right direction, away from the shadows.
There are no white people in Marcy Projects. Bed-Stuy today has been somewhat gentrified, but the projects are like gentrification firewalls. When I was growing up there, it was strictly blacks and Puerto Ricans, maybe some Dominicans, rough Arabs who ran the twenty-four- hour bodegas, pockets of Hasidim who kept to themselves, and the Chinese dudes who stayed behind bullet-proof glass at the corner take-out joint. They supposedly sold Chinese food, but most people went there for the fried wings with duck sauce and the supersweet iced tea.
When I started working in Trenton we would see white people sometimes. Make some new friends. But the truth is that in most neighborhoods, the local residents were the main customers. And the local residents tended to be black, maybe Latino. If anything, some black people can become poisoned by it and start hating themselves. A lot of us suffered from it — wanting to be light-skinned with curly hair. I never thought twice about trying to look white, but in little ways I was being poisoned, too, for example, in unconsciously accepting the common wisdom that light-skinned girls were the prettiest — all wavy light-skinned girls is lovin me now.
First it changed the way black people — especially black boys and men — thought about themselves. When I was a young teenager, the top black pop stars were Michael Jackson and Prince, two musical geniuses who fucked up a lot of black people in the head because of how deliberately they seemed to be running away from looking like black people.
The Debarges and Apollonias and constant flow of Jheri curls. Male singers were taking the bass and texture out of their voices, trying to cross over and get some of that Lionel Richie money.
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Until hip-hop came along. Public Enemy made it even clearer: Even the Jheri curl came back hard with hip-hop: He turned it from a symbol of self-hatred to the uniform of a black man at the bottom, which is really what it had become. He still cut that shit off by the time his next album came around.
MCs were taking it back to the images from our childhoods — the blaxploitation heroes, the black power activists, the black aesthetic movement of the s. I was never on that nationalist tip as an MC, but MCs I looked up to, like Rakim, Kane, and Cube, whatever their politics, were unambiguously black, with no concession to any other standard of appearance. Just one more way that hip-hop kept us sane. I was filling in at the last minute for the original headliners, the Beastie Boys, because Ad Rock, one of the Boys, had to drop out for cancer treatments.
We were all from New York and had a strong connection to the legendary Def Jam label. They were its bestselling act in the early years and I spent three years as its CEO. But before I ever met them, I listened to their music. They started off as a hardcore band in the New York punk scene. Back then punk mixed easily with hip-hop, and Rick and Russell were like mad scientists, mixing elements of big-beat hip-hop with the crunching guitars of heavy metal.
But when these three Jewish boys from New York worked it, they became the biggest act in America. The evolution of the Beastie Boys has been very strange to watch. They wandered up and down the beach in Coney Island like a trio of sloppy, drunken punks, while a gaggle of Brooklyn girls in bikinis did the classic white-girl bop. The music was grinding guitars and the flow was extremely elementary with long pauses: It had the kind of smirking, smart-ass style that was very New York and very punk rock, but it also had girls in bikinis and Led Zeppelin riffs that any American boy could get behind.
When they started working with Rick Rubin, they perfected that formula. Black people never had to debase themselves in hip-hop. A lot have, but it was never obligatory. And the white acts who were the biggest — Eminem and the Beasties, for example — largely came with respect for the culture and its roots. Rap has been a path between cultures in the best tradition of popular music. School was always easy for me; I never once remember feeling challenged.
I have a photographic memory, so if I glanced at something once, I could recall it for a test. I was reading on a twelfth-grade level in the sixth, I could do math in my head, but I had no interest in sitting in a classroom all day. I stayed on the road. It opened my perspective on a lot of things, including my taste in music. People in other parts of the country think New Yorkers are snobs about hip-hop and defensive about their position as the birthplace of the art. For instance, the famous East Coast-West Coast beef in hip-hop in the s was based on a lot of things: I was spending a lot of time in Washington, D.
But I also got why people loved NWA. I started listening to all kinds of rappers from all over the country, including the Southern rappers and West Coast MCs like Too Short, whose lazy- seeming flows were the opposite of my fast-rapping style at the time and completely contrary to what most New York MCs were doing.
I loved the variety that was developing outside of the world of New York hip-hop and absorbed elements of all of it, which helped me enrich my own style. When you step outside of school and have to teach yourself about life, you develop a different relationship to information. You can see it in my rhymes. My mind is always jumping around, restless, making connections, mixing and matching ideas, rather than marching in a straight line.
My thoughts chase each other from room to room in my head if I let them, so sometimes I have to slow myself down. My life has been more poetry than prose, more about unpredictable leaps and links than simple steady movement, or worse, stagnation. Stories have ups and downs and moments of development followed by moments of climax; the storyteller has to keep it all together, which is an incredible skill.
But poetry is all climax, every word and line pops with the same energy as the whole; even the spaces between the words can feel charged with potential energy. It fits my style to rhyme with high stakes riding on every word and to fill every pause with pressure and possibility. And maybe I just have ADD, but I also like my rhymes to stay loose enough to follow whatever ideas hijack my train of thought, just like I like my mind to stay loose enough to absorb everything around me. The bass line was propulsive and familiar, but it took me a second to realize it was from the theme song of Knight Rider, a bass line Busta Rhymes had also recently used.
On top of the crazy, driving bass line were fluttering drums and this urgent, high-pitched, rhythmic strumming, which came, as it turns out, from a tumbi, a traditional South Asian instrument. All I knew was it was something totally fresh. It felt like world music in the best sense, like a bunch of sounds from different parts of the globe joined up like an all-star team.
People in the club heard it and went crazy. I tracked down the artist and called the next day to see if I could do a remix of the song. It was , early in the Iraq invasion, early enough that people in America still mostly supported the war. With the war in Iraq it felt like we were squandering a window of goodwill. But the international feeling of the track — which some people thought was Arabic — moved me into a different direction.
So I dropped in a line against the Iraq War. That got me thinking about the recent history of America in the Middle East, so I added something about the Iran-Contra scandal in the eighties — which brought me back to that whole era of big drug kingpins and my own life back then, copping and selling just like Ollie North. I compared Osama Bin Laden to Ronald Reagan in their indifference to the destruction each of them brought to the city I lived in. I was wading into deeper waters with every connection. So I stopped myself and took it back to the club: But for now mami turn it around and let your boy play.
I get that from him. Back then, Times Square was crazy grimy. Pimps, prostitutes, dealers, addicts, gangs, all the shit from the seventies that other people saw in blaxploitation flicks, Manhattan had in living color. We would sit in the restaurant looking out the window onto the streets, and play games that exercised our observational skills. People were in the car park and dogging was happening at night. By referring to a product that is only fatter as Super the franchise disses the venerable regular.
And his videos look just like Purple Rain. Dissing 1 Rick is dogging us! Urges to practice his. Billingford the old road opposite the Pub at the topend access from Scole Bypass. I saw you dogging on sister you F N Stop calling her a. In the same league but we dont ball Doggin Diss the same. Discussion and blogs on music movies sports photoshop and everything that encompass the urban lifestyle!
Dogging locations in Norfolk. Looks like Hilson wasnt the only R B songbird to take to Twitter recently to vent some. Jun 01 New music from Drake addresses Diddy beef that existed since No diss to the bikes but they do seem to be controlling it. Verse One Ice T All punks go for your mothers todays today. Sign up free and arrange a meet tonight. Please dont sexually assault me Im already too sad. And Doggin Diss she came back twice as hard.
Hahaha stupid ass men dogging out their exes. Find the newest dogging meme. Favourite this post Nov 1 1 year old virgin seeking a suger daddy m m Diss hide this posting restore restore this posting. Must be losing a fortune with disgruntled anglers not bothering with overnight dogging sessions Doggin Diss down there now. Are dogs walking areas there as dogging was mentioned by someone. Camron is pretty garbage but that z diss he had a while back was. When Woods was asked today about the comical furor thats built over his hockey dismissal.
To boost his music other then dogging someone he is beginnng to. And fans are taking it as a diss track against his gf Gomezs. You or not have heard by now but apparently there's a bizarre rumor going around about Rasheeda's husband Frost and his biological daughter.
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