Combat Jack With Today's Mathematics

Update yer Bookmarks & RSS!!

You should be automatically redirected in 5 seconds....
If you're not redirected, go to www.daily-math.com or click on the photo below.

The homie Rafi from Oh Word just launched Rap Gaydar, a spoof of YN's Rap Radar. Methinks much funnier than Pause Police. Eff with him. [|||].

Sit up straight! Raise your hands when you wanna say something. Classes starting next week. Mark it down, the re-launch. Daily-math.com. I'm excited. Heh.

I'm so effin lame right now. With this blog that is. Kids homes for vacation could be an excuse but excuses are tools for the incompetent (Blue Phi!). Honestly, I've been addicted, playing that new EA Sports Fight Night 4 though. Game is dope, especially how they've marketed it as the ultimate Ali vs. Tyson simulator. I know it's just a game, but for years, me and many boxing fans' ultimate fantasy fight has been Ali vs. Tyson and who would win. I used to be inclined to say Tyson, just cause dude is from my era, hip hop's first official athlete and all. But now I dunno. In Fight Night 4, Ali stay murking Tyson almost every time. Like I said, just a game, but I'm saying. In real life though, who do you think would win?

I used to be a real hater. Going back, the first person I remember professionally hating on was the late great Keith Haring. When I was in high school, I had to commute on the daily to Manhattan. I remember being on the subway, rush hour crowdedness making me swear that I'd have a career where I'd never have to ride the iron horse during rush hours in my adult life and peeping out the train car windows to see bizarre images posted up on black empty ad spaces, drawn out in white chalk.
























I'd see one, then another, and as the days passed, these pieces would become a common sighting. Radiant babies, barking dogs, all types of art to make them hellish train rides that much more pleasant. Didn't know who was tagging them at the time, just knew they were busy putting in work. But then, back in the early 1980's, New York was graffiti city. Artists like Fab 5 Freddy, Phase 2, Lee and KOOL 131 and Adrock were putting up burners like it was a day job. And to them it was. New York was a filthy smelly dirty little city, mad dangerous too, and the tag artists that were getting it in were doing their part in beautifying, as well as making my city the historic landmark that it remains today. Graffiti then was most definitely a part of the new Hip Hop aesthetic that was nurturing my young psyche then. But I never looked at those weird white drawings as part of the urban graf movement, even though, technically, it was.



















Still, being that I was on my way to being a fine artist major, all that free street artwork was being soaked in. Around 1982, 1983, Keith Haring started gaining national and international acclaim. I began seeing the familiar works from the subway posted up in the newspaper and magazine articles, along with photos of the little scrawny white boy who had been responsible for them. Seeing how it was a white, and how fast he had achieved fame, I instantly called race shenanigans. Youth is a precious time, where most of us live by and through our passions, and being passionate about my culture, I was quick to call out anything I saw as fake, as commercial. So I let the hate flow. Keith's work was way too amateurish in comparison to the other graf artists I had grown to appreciate. Plus, he was white, not Latino or Black, like most other artists I was aware of, so this definitely played out like the art world was propping up it's next poster boy. My hate didn't matter though, as the 1980's continued to progress, Haring's work became more ubiquitous. Dude was doing shit for companies like BMW and Swatch. Shit was disgusting B, especially how this fraud was getting money like that.

Towards the end of the 1980's, I was now in law school, at Georgetown. One of my best friends and housemate down in Washington, DC was my dude Sam Gonzales, who went to high school with me and hailed from Spanish Harlem. Sam had a twin brother James, who was on his way to medical school. Sam was one of those Puerto Rican cats who knew everybody in Manhattan. One of his childhood friends was this dude named Adolofo Arena. Adolfo just happened to have landed a position as Keith Haring's assistant. It helped that Adolofo was gay, as it had been common knowledge that Keith also repped the rainbow set. [||]. Intrigued by Sam's connection to Keith, I let dude know how I felt Haring was one of the sham artists that helped corporations in co-opting the whole graf/ Hip Hop movement. Sam didn't give a fuck what I thought though. We had a break from school coming up, and since we'd both be driving from DC to NYC, his first stop, before I landed in Brooklyn, was Keith Haring's art studio down on Broadway, in the village. Not really knowing any celebrities then, I decided I'd tag along, see what Mr. Haring was like in real life. Probably let him know my thoughts about him for good measure.

One of many buildings lining up Broadway, Keith's studio was almost impossible to spot. Back in New York, Greenwhich Village, the city was so effin alive, back in '87, '88. You had to take a real narrow and tight elevator which would bring you directly into the studio. Sam and I rode up and once at our destination, we entered a studio that was completely white, except for the paintings and artwork, drippings and shit that was evident that we had entered an artist's work shop. We were greeted by Adolfo, then Keith, who initially came off as a bit shy. Maybe dude was busy because he had just been commissioned by Germany to do some public artwork for kids. Or was it Japan? Still and all, dude was mad welcoming, any friend of Adolfo was a friend of his was his creed. Plus he loved Sam and James, being that they were twins. Haring made sure that we felt comfortable. Even pulled out his finest greenery to burn, and burn we did. Instantly I forgot all the hate, all the questions I had lined up about how dude was a fake, how he had used his whiteness to climb far and beyond his "fellow" artists in claiming fame, wealth too. Maybe I forgot because of his warmth, maybe it was the weed, but regardless, dude was incredibly cool, especially since he was as famous as he was. Maybe I was starstruck, but I doubt it since Keith didn't give off that self important vibe. Must have been one of the most down to earth cats I had ever met. But man, was his personal artwork insane. Not just the kiddie shit most people know him for. Haring was heavy into tribal art, or art that showed how tribal African patterns had been a source of his inspiration. Then he had his whole gay collection which I didn't really check, but it was there. The designs for companies like BMW who he had done some work for was unreal as well. Keith was complex with his. Deep too. Being that he had made it public that he had contracted aids, he also had a deep collection demonstrating how that disease was like a demon, ravaging through the lives of so many people locally, globally, how it had taken the lives of so many people around him, young talented artists, like Jean-Michel Basquiat. Keith knew he was living on borrowed time, and it showed in the volume of work he was putting out. Most importantly, Keith loved the kids. No R. Kelly pederast. Keith felt kids around the world were truly unrepresented, and gave hundreds of his pieces to organizations that repped children.

Didn't realize then how big it was that I could casually burn an L and flip through Haring's personal work like that. And the more Sam and I would drop by his studio on the humble, and burn more L's and flip through more of his work, Keith became more flesh and blood, more human. It didn't matter that I was getting free shit from The Pop Shop, the store he opened in Soho to sell tee shirts and what not, or that he loved Mr. Chow's and was free with his money and wanted to share it with us, or at least what it brought. Well maybe those perks in knowing dude did. A little bit. I was working at Def Jam the last time I saw him. It was at the 3rd Bass album release party, December 1989. He was chilling dolo. One of the things that I really appreciated about Keith was that he wasn't on the celebrity shit. A lot of the celebs I know, no matter how many times I see them, it's like a game of ego chicken in figuring out who's going to greet whom first, or even if I'll be greeted (I see you Puff). Keith always went out his way to greet me, like it was nothing, like he wasn't the then king of the pop art world, like he didn't have millions in the bank account, like he wasn't dying of aids. Seeing him alone at the party, we dapped. I asked him how he was doing, how he felt, asking him about the aids thing without being that direct. He looked at me and said he felt great, even though he didn't. Said he was happy, even though his life was filled with sadness. Said he had mad work to complete, especially since he knew he had so little time left. Then he did what he did, he pulled out an L and we burned. Then we laughed at how silly the whole self importance of the music industry seemed, watching MC Serch dancing in a circle of fans a coupla feet away from us. Heh. Then we dapped, again, and I bounced. Keith Haring died two months later, on February 16, 1990. I'm still kinda mad at Sam and his brother James too. Knowing his death was soon coming, Keith left the twins a parting gift. Since they wore Carhart Jackets (who didn't then) Keith "borrowed" the jackets to paint two interlocking figures on the back of each jacket to demonstrate the closeness of their brotherhood, them being twins. Kniccas sold them jackets within a year after Keith's death. But I remain so thankful that Sam introduced me to Keith.

When I drive my kids to school on the daily, now that they commute from Brooklyn to Manhattan to go to school, we are greeted by this ginormous mural of Keith's, on Houston, by Bowery. The kids love it, always asking me question about it, and about the artist. And whatever it is that I tell them, I'm thinking inside how ironic it is, how funny karma works, how Keith's work is one of the first things the kids see on their daily commute to school. One thing I tell them for sure is how Keith was one of the best that New York City had to offer. Peace to my dudes Adolfo, Sam and James.

Keith Haring (May 4, 1958 - February 16, 1990)

You know I had to do a "What Michael Jackson Meant To Me" piece too. Eff being redundant though, the GREATEST pop icon of our time just passed, and being that dude's existence probably had more influence on me, you and how the world looks and sounds to us than we could possibly comprehend, it's only right that I give dude his proper respect.

Early 1970's, Brooklyn. School yard of my elementary school. A coupla fellow first grade girls are mad fawning over Michael's pics in the latest Teen Beat magazine. Not that the Jackson 5 clan wasn't important, but Mike Jack had top billing from day one. Being that I always liked the girls, even at that age, I was intrigued by dude's swag, the whole afro thing was correct, plus other than Lincoln Hayes, the black character played by Clarence Williams III on my then favorite show "The Mod Squad", Michael was holding it down for us dark skinned dudes, so effin tired of how light skinted kneegrows were tightly holding the reins. Michael Jackson and Lincoln Hayes introduced to me at such a young age, how effin dope it was to be young gifted and Black. Prolly why I never envied my white counter-parts. Then there was the whole radio, television thing. "ABC" was like our little kid's national anthem then. WABC, (am radio ruled) kept that song pumping like the station's existence depended on the Jackson 5, on Michael Jackson. TV killed it too. From appearances to Flip Wilson, Sonny and Cher, Dick Clark's American Bandstand, The Mike Douglas Show, cot-damned every blasted talk show on air then, MJ dominated all that was young, hot and fly. Have to give props to white for showing how much doper Michael Jackson was too. They figured they would throw their bid in for flyest pop by adding The Osmonds led by Donny Osmond as the Jackson 5 and MJ's main competitor. They even had a hot single, "One Bad Apple" that sounded very similar to the Jackson sound, but the Osmonds and Donny could never ever come close. Like a flashlight to the sun.

Saturday morning television cashed in too. On Michael mania. The advertising men on Madison Avenue tried every angle. I remember how they rocked the commercial for that sugar box cereal Alpha-bits, where if you brought a box, they had a 45 floppy record single of "ABC" as a cut out on the very box. Moms had no choice but to cop it for her baby boy. Two boxes. And even though I didn't even like that brand (shout out to Captain Crunch), I cut them singles out the back of the box, and kept "ABC" in heavy rotation. Oh shit, just realizing as I write this that that was my very first record I ever owned. My first hit of the music drug that I continue to be addicted to to this very day. God damn do I owe Mike Jack for that. Then came the Jackson's short lived live variety show and cartoon. The cartoon was meh, even then in my young mind, but I stayed tuned. By the time they dropped "Dancing Machine", later during that wonderful decade, seeing them dudes, seeing Mike kill it every time with the robot dance, there was no question who ruled the game. Not ever getting played out, them Jackson kniccas, that MJ knicca let you know that whole decade was theirs, they shit was as necessary as the 1970's air we breathed. And all we wanted was more.

1979, at one of my girl's cousin's house. Right before I switched up my drug of choice to Hip Hop, my cousin's were still fawning over some Michael pics on the latest teen pop rag. My interest in them, the Jacksons, in Michael kinda died down. The ten year reign had come slowly to an end. Girl cousins talking about about how he still looked kinda cute, how he still had it. Older boy cousins dismissing him as being a "fruit cake", a gay dude. I didn't even know what gay was, but seeing how Michael started looking, talking, acting very different than the rest of us boys, I kinda got the gist. Still mad talented, but just a lil' bit out of touch for me to connect to. Still respected his gangster though. Especially how he started really going for dolo with the 1980 "I Wanna Rock With You" hit. Single and video. Probably the first music video I ever saw too. Damn man, you really stayed ahead of the game. Song was, still is tight. Video was mad on point, but yeah, so evident what my older boy cousins were referencing, dude had become slightly too pop to remain one of my idols. Shit was getting kinda hectic in the Brooklyn streets, and though I still rocked the music, I had to get my teen gully steez up. So I had to move on.

Jackson stayed persistent for my attention though. Was a freshman at Cornell, too young to get in clubs, but stayed sneaking in to the hottest Black club in New York City at the time, Bentley's, on East 43rd street and Madison Avenue. I didn't even like Bentley's, with every one trying their best to be on that r&b swag, or that new and upcoming drug dealer New Jack City hu$tle. Never had money for dranks at the bar, and my word play was still a bit feeble to scoop up the honeys in the place. But it was at Bentley's, on the smoke filled dance floor, when I first heard "Billy Jean". That joint banged hard in the club. Gave me the courage to ask for a dance even. DJ Sugabear kept shouting how Michael was back, and he was right. That video, simple as it looks now, kept us urban kids locked in, warned Hip Hop even, that it was too small to eff with Jackson's talent. Little did I, did we know that "Billy Jean" was the harbinger for the tsunami that would be the Michael Jackson mania 2.0. As tough as I wanted to be, when me and some fellow students watched that famed "Motown 25" special live in our dorm's tv room, when Michael performed "Billy Jean" live for the first time, when nigga flipped how street dudes in New York were doing the moon walk, cat had me screaming out the "OHHH SHIT!" with the rest of them. This was the Reagen era in full swing, and damn if that performance didn't feel like the Russians finally let fly a nuke. That performance was big like that. The young King who grew into an effeminate teen put down his boot and decided that the 1980's was his too. And we all knew it. Didn't matter how much wierder he became, or whether he was banging out Brooke Shields, Elizabeth Taylor, Emmanuel Lewis or Bubbles, Mike Jack was here to stay.

Funny story, back in 1987, when my shit was knee deep in Public Enemy and BDP and I stayed having the requisite ice grill on. And Fab 5 Freddy kept me tuned in to "Yo" on MTV, I was dating a diplomat's daughter in Washington DC. "BAD" was Michael's latest record, and I thought that I had outgrown dude. My girl came up on some tickets to see Michael perform live at Madison Square Garden in New York. When she asked me to drive her car from DC to NY to catch the show, I was like "FUCK that dude, corny ass weirdo". Still, I ended up driving her and her sister to NY, griping about it the entire drive. Griping even, as we stood on line at the Garden, EPMD blasting out the headphones on my Sony walkman. Fans dressed up looking like Mike, dudes too, shit was disgusting B. But my girl had the killer seats though. And even though I thought I was too hard to appreciate this silly little r&b/ pop event, each and every song dude performed rocked my world. By the time dude performed "Dirty Diana", with guitarist Steve Stevens of Billy Idol fame ripping the strings, and Mike, hoisted up on some crane, fog machine pumping out the fake billowing smoke, when dude ripped off his white button down, bird chested and screamed for what must have been a minute, so dope was his performance that I found myself standing in the audience, screaming at the top of my lungs with the rest of the 50,000 in attendance. Like a bitch too [||]. Lost my god damned voice at that. For that performance, that night, I became one of those weird ass fans. Show was the BEST I'd ever seen, and I seen a lot. On our way back to DC, my girl and her sister joked me out for my scream moment. But I wasn't ashamed then, still not ashamed now.

Early 1990's. Working in a law office in the music industry. My boss repped singer/ songwriter Bernard Belle, brother of famed songstress Regina Belle. Dude was a monster with hits "I Like The Way (Kissing Game)" and "Let's Chill" by Guy. Bernard teamed up with Teddy Riley and they wrote/produced Michael's next smash hit. "Remember The Time" the first single of Michael's 1992 album "Dangerous". No question that I really "knew" that I out grew him, but that song was big, equipped with the Eddie Murphy and Iman video. Looking back, how I was involved in that, I'm realizing how much Michael helped my career, made me that more valid. Bernard stayed getting bigger and better deals because of his work with MJ which meant more exposure and money for my boss, and as a result, me, and I learned a lot of my legal craft behind that, negotiating thoose deals. I could now say I negotiated a contract with Michael Jackson. We was beyond the fan and consumer relationship now, Jackson was now, indirectly, but in a big way, influencing the entire direction at this stage of my professional career, before Jay-Z, Damon Dash, Roc-a-fella, Diddy and Bad Boy. And I'm really just realizing this now. Wow.

Early 2001. Kanye West is sitting in my office, shopping for a new attorney. I knew Kanye from when my client Deric "D-Dot" Angelettie had signed him as a producer to his production company a few years earlier. Kanye was going on about how he was gonna start rapping and I was finding it very hard to believe dude. Plus, he's geeked about a new Jay-Z song with a wierd "H To The Izzo" name. Kanye's telling me how he flipped Michael Jackson, how he and Jay's gonna rule with "Izzo", and as much respect as I had for dude, all this talk about him rapping and "Izzo" was a bit much. WTF was an "Izzo"? A coupla months later, me and wifey driving to the Hamptons for a Puff "White" party, and I'm hearing Flex dropping bombs on Hov's new single, and me hearing "izzo", I'm like "that nigga Kanye". Later then, I snuck brought a copy of Jay's "Blueprint" album on September 10th, played it in the Expedition all night. Woke up the next day, learning about a new crew on the block by the name of Taliban (not that new). Driving in the afternoon, taking in how reality had become surreal, how the surreal had become reality, taking a break from the news, and bumping Izzo on the deserted ghost town like streets of Brooklyn, Michael Jackson's sample being the first soundtrack to our new world order. Mike and Jay. Then the whole Hot 97 thing, with Jay, and "Takeover", and Prodigy on screen, and Mike Jackson coming out on stage. King of Pop joining forces with the King of Hip Hop. Jackson fucking managing to stay relevant for four decades now. FOUR DECADES. Who the eff does that? And how, even though I never sat down and forced them to take heed, how my sons 12, 11 and 7 know damn near each and every Michael Jackson song. How they love the songs, even though Jackson has now devolved into their strange old white aunt with a catalog of hits.

It's still way too early to decipher what Jackson's surprising death on June 25th, 2009 means. I'm realizing that now, as I write this, CNN in my background, on steady Jackson overdrive. Laughing at how his death cements how he's about to rule for several more decades. Shit is sad, really sad. But it's also the beginning of a celebration. As me and my sons were driving through Brooklyn yesterday, me blasting MJ out the speakers on Fulton street, I have so much appreciation for dude, for how in almost every way imaginable, he has subtly enhanced this thing that we call life. As much as we will mourn his untimely passing (when is it ever a good time for our heroes to die?), and we will, I am so effin geeked about how the party is about to begin. Life is good my peoples. I'm so ready to start living more. And I really and deeply want to thank Michael Jackson for making me realize how special he was, and how special it is that we all are able to experience each and every waking moment of this thing we call life. R.I.P. Michael Jackson. Thank you. Thank you for it all.

Let's go!

I discovered rapper Wale (pronounced "Wah-lay") last year when he dropped the genius Senifeld themed "Mixtape About Nothing". Knowing absolutely nothing about dude, to say I was greatly impressed would be an understatement. Especially since dude is from Washington, DC, a place I lived for a couple of years and hated deeply. I am too ig'nant to really appreciate Go-go music, but dude managed to rhyme over a couple of go-go sounding tracks which resulted in me appreciating DC and the go-go scene much more than I thought I ever would. Dude can spit with the best, and beyond the go-go influence, beats was crazy. On top of all that, the mixtape came complete with an authentic drop from none other than Julia Louis-Dreyfus better known as Elaine Benes of the original Seinfeld sitcom. How official was that?

So impressed, I went back and copped his first official mixtape, "100 Miles And Running". This joint was a lot rawer and nothing less than straight fires. Made me take notice of a true up and coming rapper that deserves all the attention and accolades he gets.

Dropping last week, I knew I had to jump on the latest piece, "Back To The Feature". Produced primarily by 9th Wonder and showcasing mad features with artists like Talib Kweli, Beanie Sigel, and Bun B (Features, get it?), this joint is complete from start to finish. Don't be fooled by that Lady Gaga joint on the radio that I hear people on Twitter dissing, and just to take you a lil bit further away from all the Drake uber-hype that's sweeping the country (Drake is hot, the hype is not) please believe that there's nothing out there, retail or free that is as hot as this. Please cop this at the original site here.

Run quote me: This is the hottest shit out on the streets right about now!

I like smart people. Smart people make smart decisions. They have the ability to put aside follosih things like sentiment and emotion in order to sensibly rationalize their way through some "tight spots". I'm sure you've heard how the light skinted homie Chris Brown made a very wise and smart decision yesterday. Going into trial, Brown was facing at least four years behind bars for man-handling that lil' island treat that is Rihanna earlier this year. He opted to plead guilty and landed 5 years probation and 180 days community service in his home state of Virginia.

In addition, Brown is under a restraining order requiring him to stay at least 50 yards away from Rihanna, except at industry events, where he has to maintain his distance of 10 yards. Rihanna's lawyer requested a less-restrictive order.

Being a smart person myself, I'm seeing how Tina Davis, his manager, convinced him how there's like a legion of hardcore inmates having a rub fest waiting in anticipation for the 20 year old superstar singer to be incarcerated, how they were lining up to see who would become the lucky boyfriend to the troubled entertainer. Maybe she had him over for a lil' r&r, and as she was putting on him, "accidentally" popped in her dvd copy of Penitentiary, the 1970's classic and brutal tale of how another light skinted dude (Leon Kennedy) got hisself locked up. If you haven't seen this, please run and rent it.

Or maybe it's because he and "Ri-Ri" are still smashing. You know how ignorant and forgiving young love is. Why do you think her team wanted a less restrictive order? I'm now thinking Rihanna herself leaked them nude pics of herself earlier this year, just to make sure to remind Chris of what he'd be missing behind bars. The minute she walked into the courtroom, nigga was like "I'm pleading!!!".





















Like I said, I like smart people. I might have to check for his next album release.

I copped 50 Cent's latest "Mixtape/LP" "War Angel". It's free. And it's not bad, especially since 50 has taken to rapping again. Sure, it's all about gun play, mayhem and death, but his raps sound like he didn't take a coupla years off to produce straight sing-songy basura.

What really caught my attention though, was the outro, which, as hillarious as it is, has got to be one of the best outros ever. Peep.




Dunno about you, but I'm getting my outfit money ready for August 30th.

Bloggers beware. If you know what's good for you, you'd better leave the Black Eyed Peas' name out of your mouth. So it's all over the news about how, in Toronto, at the Much Music Awards, Fergie of the famed group spotted gossip blogger Perez Hilton and stepped to him about how he stays trashing the group on his blog.

Not happy with how Hilton responded, Fergie ran up to fellow member Will.i.am and pointed out Perez in the crowd. Allegedly, Will.i.am stepped to the famed pink crusader and ordered him to stay clear of dissing he, Fergie and the other members of the group. Infuriated that a member of the BEP had the nerve to step to him, Perez let off on a verbal tirade screaming out how Will.i.am was all types of faggot (as caught on tape here). At which point, and in my opinion, rightfully so, the group's manager Polo Molina proceeded to duff Hilton out with the expediency. Polo, by the way, is a chap that sometimes goes about flying in private planes looking like a cocaine drug lord fried on that snow white white.









That's when Hilton got all twittered up and dropping videos about how embarassing it is for a gay man to have to get his ass beat up by members of a group that go around looking like they're members of the rap/singing X-Men.






















My question is WTF is up with Perez? Didn't he hear about how the BEP stay in beef, how they got all dance limberied up and proceeded to kicked ass at the punk taping of famed MTV's "Punked" gone wrong?

Dunno about you but I wouldn't be so quick to get all mouthy around a group of grown ass men who make their money going around dressed like fairy tale characters, especially since they have a penchant for flipping around and air twisting like it's nobody's business, and fake rapping while at it.

Maybe Perez would have been better off cussing out the short lil fellow with the mowhawk. Or mebbe he should have dropped the dreaded N-bomb instead. It's all going so crazy when the homo dude decides he's going full gully against the rappers.

Or maybe it's all that Boom Boom Powing they've picked up from their homie Curtis Jackson.

Never imagined I would have to be responsible for so many people living under one roof. Life was so much simpler then. When I was running dolo. For self. Like, I could leave my home on Monday morning and not have to come back until a week later. And my home was fresh too. One bedroom apartment on 7th between Lincoln and Berkeley in Park Slope. When rents in New York were cheaper, and neighborhoods like that had more color. New York was banging too. The club scene was crazy, and I loved the many flavors of women the city had to offer. I finally started making some decent money and the city was my playground. Kniccas was feeling so good we even named our crew the Mack Pack. Sounds corney now, but believe me how we lived up to the name. One of our boys owned a ginormous brownstone in Prospect Heights. It was massive. Eventually his wife convinced him to put it on the market as they, with kids in tow moved to the suburbs of Chicago.

My cousin Fritz, a member of our crew, was overseeing the affairs of the Brownstone. Being that it took almost two years to sell the house and we were young and full of ourselves, we did what any fly 20 something year old dudes dudes with keys to a big house would do, we started throwing parties. House parties in Brooklyn is magic, the right parties though. We'd set up the dj set, pool our monies to cop liquors and beer kegs, made sure the women to men ratio was always in favor of the fairer sex, just cause we didn't want a hard leg fest resulting in niggas fighting and all damaging the crib, and we'd be set. After a couple of joints, the rep got bigger and eventually we'd have the whole place packed, people spilling out onto the street. Regular 9-5 cats would be building with music industry execs and maybe a handful of street hustlers. And trust also, that at the end of every event, I'd find something soft and warm to hold on to, back at my crib a coupla blocks away, as the sun started to rise.

On my birthday, which falls in July, we decided to go big with a party. Fun was an understatement. Black, Latina, Asian, European, dudes was in heaven with the line-up. I was rocking the timbs with some shorts and the Jordan 23 jersey, red-bandana'd up, even though Chicago had just kilt New York in the playoffs, (Bloods and Crips hadn't yet invaded NYC). Some of my boys who were correction officers were up in the piece and you know how grimey them cats be. Had me skied the eff up and a nigga don't even get down like that. Anyways, I'm having a ball, speeding, playing host when I felt a hand touch my calf. I looked down and saw the most beautiful chick I'd ever seen in real life looking up at me. Honey colored, Asian eyes, "Nice legs, I like guys with nice legs." she said. Heh. I locked in. Pimp talk flying 'cause she started first, plus from that shit that was flowing in my blood system, me being high as a satellite. Her name was Akim. That she was a Cancer too, her birthday being 10 days before mine. Told me her pops was Black, moms was Chinese, that she was straight Brooklyn all her life, even though we never saw each other. Her body was mad athletic, but the bottom was a certified fatty. Thick thin is what she was. So zoned in was I that other than making sure most of the guests were fine, I rarely left her side. Plus, I knew how competitive my dudes were, how hungry the other kniccas in the place was for something as exotic as her. For real, mad water was gathering in my mouth, thinking about how she was gonna get ate up like a plum later that night.

"Time to go, Akim", one of her girl's said, as the clock hit 4am. I was like "she's good, really". Akim pulled herself slowly from my grip, "gotta go, nice meeting you." Damn. I spit "Lemme get your number girl, I have to see you again." "Sorry I cant, you're cute, and I had fun, but I have a boyfriend." she replied. Annoyed at the tease, aroused by the challenge, I kept her hemmed up in my corner for like another 30 minutes, talk getting more accurate, more intimate. Doing my best to break her that night, at my party, on my birthday. Her girls getting more impatient, not getting the attention she was. Eventually, we hugged for like a minute, smelling, feeling so fucking good. Taking my number, she broke off and hopped in the whip. Me standing out on Park Place scheming on how I was gonna bag Akim.

The next day, I asked my crew who invited her, who came with her. My brain was sharper now, now that I hadn't had liquors and what not, so my detective skills was in action. Found out Roslyn invited her. Roslyn was one'a my boys's from High School's sister. After waiting two days for Akim to call me, I called Roslyn. Kinda ordered her to order Akim to call me. Told Roslyn I wasn't effin around either. Felt like the prince with the glass slipper in that fairy tale. But Akim gave me the intial open, she saw me first and caught my attention on purpose. Fuck how I was gonna let that one get away.

She eventually did call me. Playing games even. Like joking about how I was sweating her through Roslyn, tracking her down. Told her she was right too, how I had to sweat that, or be crazy, or gay. Laughter. Good. Learned a long time ago that I could bag she who I made laugh. Even with no dough in the account. Made her laugh some more, until I convinced her to laugh me her telephone number. She did. First down. Tough ass defense though. But now I knew I was in. Being single, I was definitely dating, but wasn't attached to anyone seriously. Wasn't even trying to get locked down with Akim either. I just knew though, that I had to have someone that fine in my life though. Ego, attraction, whatever, like I said, I was locked in on her.

We spoke a coupla more times, always ending the convo on how I wanted that, needed that bad, she with the how she loves her boyfriend, how I wasn't her type, her type being over 6 feet tall and athletic (me being 5'8" and not trying to play games all day working up sweats and bruises with other men... [ll]). One day though, while at work, I get a call from her telling me how she was in my neighborhood, did I want to go out for lunch. Having just ate, I told her I hadn't had lunch and was available. I had her ride the elevator up, only because I wanted everyone on the floor to see the caliber of beauty I was working with. Then we walked, from 57th and Broadway to Trump Plaza on 5th Avenue. Found out she worked at some swanky eyeglass shop in the lobby of Trump. Even though she had a degree from Columbia University. My God, the summer dress she had on, looking more delicious than the night I met her. She played aloof, like a fairy flying around my head, I found more pimp talk to spit. Like how she needed a dude like me who was doing real things in the industry in her life, not her boyfriend who was in politics. Like how she moved like a wild cat and I was the one who could tame her, how it was obvious her boyfriend didn't know what kind of beast he had. She liked it too. Smiled and laughed. Telling me I was "safe" to hang with because I wasn't her type. Lunch ended way to soon, we hugged again, all the while I'm holding back from sliding my hands up her leg, from kissing her mouth. But damn if she knew where my mind was and loved how she kept me.

We were repping the legendary Melvin Van Peebles at the time. He just shot a short for a German company called "Vroom, Vroom, Vroom". He even had me play a role in it. He was using the "morph" technology that they had used in "Terminator 2" as special effects. I say this because I played... a motorcycle... that ended up having sex with the woman that rode me. (I think the movie is available on Netflix). Melvin had just wrapped and was having a screening in Tribeca. I invited Akim to join me. Maybe she'd be that more impressed with me, give her man the boot, or at the least, let me hit. The event was propers, and it was obvious I was running with good company professionally. She looked perfect on my arm too, catching stares not only from other guys that were there, but from women as well. After wards, I dropped a grip dining her at Mr. Chow's. We sat a couple of tables away from Bette Midler. Akim wasn't impressed though. Said having grown up eating authentic Chinese, she knew some way cheaper spots deep in Chinatown that would put Chow's to shame. We ended up back at my place. We talked, we laughed we kissed. But shit, no hit. Her boyfriend, "blah blah blah". Keeping cool though, I wondered why in the eff she was here with me if she was so cotdamned loyal. She eventualy left, left me with a mean case of the blue balls too, but I got that kiss, got to taste her, feel how tight and soft her body was, how good she smelled. I was getting closer. And it felt like it was coming sooner than later. Another 1st down. And regardless how tough it was, during the course of the game, the defense was weakening.

I don't know whether I should be apologizing to or should be angry at some of ya'll. Apologizing in not realizing that a lot of ya'll might be a bit too young to fully appreciate the greatness that was EPMD, not being able to experience first hand how legendary this duo is. Or angry at how (and with no disrespect) ya'll have the nerve to side with Robbie on how M.O.P. outshines Eric and Parrish Making Dollars. Some of ya'll even felt ballsy enough to throw OutKast's name in the ring. No diss to the Atliens, Andre 3000 spits his heat, but I prefer rappers that aren't Dandies. Maybe I'm too old school and gully for rapper dudes to be dressing like Prince. No shots.

But as promised and with no further delay, here are the incontrovertible reasons proof as to why EPMD is the Greatest Hip Hop Duo Of All Time:

1. Four consecutive back to back classic albums.




















Strictly Business dropped the summer of '88. When that other rapper dude was busy moving weight and 1/2 of Mobb Deep was knee deep taking ballerina classes. Some claim that 1988 was the best year for rap albums, especially since that year was crowded with top tier legendary groups like Public Enemy, Boogie Down Productions, Big Daddy Kane, Eric B. & Rakim, N.W.A., Eazy E, Jungle Brothers, Slick Rick, Run-DMC. Ultramagnetic MC's, Too Short, Biz Markie, Ice-T, Stetsasonic, DJ Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince, Kid 'N Play and MC Hammer dropping classic albums. Shit, even rapper chicks like Salt-n-Pepa and MC Lyte were busy getting it in with album heat rocks. Truth be told, when I started hearing "Strictly Business" blasting out of drug dude's Suzuki jeeps and b-boys boom boxes, I was unimpressed, being that I was too deep into BDP and fighting the power with P.E. Plus the fact that my ear was unaccustomed to hearing rappers spit over funk oriented beats. Then there was the duos' seemingly monotonous flow, Parrish Smith coming off a little bit more aggie and battle oriented while Eric Sermon's extra lazy lisp laden flow was more than off putting. Still, the more I listened to the album, the more I was drawn into how the seemingly on surface simple rhymes meshed brilliantly with the funk laced tracks. From the gate, EPMD established themselves as the masters of the funk, even before Dr. Dre, DJ Quick and the rest of the West Coast took over that sound. EPMD also established that they were from this album on, the architects of underground hardcore rap. They built the house that M.O.P. currently resides in. They also kicked off a series of songs about a chick called Jane, a series which would continue throughout their next three albums. Them starting said series in their albums was a first for rap as well as for rock albums. Hailing from Brentwood, Long Island, EPMD proved themselves to be worthy of being counted amongst their fellow rap peers as being on top of their game. Fans didn't lie either. Within 30 days after the album dropped, "Strictly Business" sold over 500,000 units earning the group their first gold plaque. I remember seeing EPMD perform with Public Enemy, Big Daddy Kane, LL Cool J and RUN-DMC down in Washington, DC. It didn't matter that they shared the stage with other rap icons, EPMD made sure they left an effin smoking crater where they stood, just to let both peers and fans know that they were no effin joke. And not with having 100 of they man's an' em clutter the stage like so many of today's so-called cRap acts do. Nah, these dude was official. Go ahead and cop that. Listen to this bitch right here with no interruptions and tell me I'm lying. I dare you.





















Unfinished Business, their second album, dropped in 1989 and came out fucking swinging. Once the bass from the first cut "So Wat' Cha Sayin'" bangs, it was clear that these dudes amped up that booom bap hardcore shit. That song's beat was one of the hardest, and at this point Eric Sermon and Parrish Smith cold mushed the sophomore jinx in the face by demonstrating that at this point, they had mastered their whole slow flow show. Not only had their delivery and production improved, but dudes managed to remain thoroughly hard core whilst at the same time feeling completely comfortable in showing how funny they could be. Tracks like "Please Listen To My Demo" had listeners laughing as the group walked fans through how they ended up getting a record deal and going from broke unknowns to the rap superstars that they were. In addition to the back and forth exchange and chemistry, dudes proves to be adept at story telling as well. So comfortable in their hardcore underground persona, Eric Serman p/k/a "The Green Eyed Bandit" let it be known that in the midst of slaying sucker emcees and busting caps, he was prone to break out in song mid rhyming. One of the stand out cuts is "Knick Knack Patty Wack" featuring the first of many dope rappers EPMD would discover and put on. Guest starring K-Solo, a rapper who killed game by spelling out words in his raps, the three traded verses and mics as they killed the beat bloody. It didn't matter even that K-Solo misspelled the word "bird" as "b-r-i-d", the song still rocked. The weakest song on the album "You Had Too Much To Drink", featuring a cheesy '80s electro rock sounding beat still comes off with the comedy as the duo drops a cautionary tale about drinking and driving. Guaranteed to be one of the funniest rap songs ever. Like "Strictly Business", "Unfinished Business" sold over 500,000 units, earning the group their second gold album. Cop this album as well and tell me it ain't a classic.





















How ill is the cover to Business As Usual, (1990) their 3rd album? Already managed by Russell Simmons' superstar management company RUSH Management, this album was their Def Jam debut. Signed initially to Sleeping Bag Records, the group was at this point, widely recognized as being unfuckwitable as far as being on top of their rap craft. Once the record company folded, it was a no brainer for Def Jam to sign them as they had already proven themselves to be rap superstars. Having famed comic book artist Bill Sienkiewicz illustrate the album cover further proved that EPMD was now certified as being in the big leagues, bigger budget and all. Still, the group maintained their hard-core underground aura with tracks like "I'm Mad", "Hardcore" and "Underground". So authentic were they that other rap icons pledged allegiance or claimed to be down with them. Most evident of this was rap legend LL Cool J who realized he desperately needed EPMD in his life in order to extend his rap shelf life. Featured on the track "Rampage", LL spits like he's so happy to be down and appear on the track with EPMD. Around this time, he also cops a bit of Parrish Smith's slow flow battle rap style and it shows on his own classic album "Momma Said Knock You Out", especially on the cut "To The Break On Dawn", which featured a brand new LL sounding very much like Parrish, the Mic Doc's student. Not deviating from their prior albums, EPMD continued to bring their brand of funk, gully, story telling and pure dopeness to fans ever hungry for more. Another highlight is on the track "Hardcore" which finds the group introducing the latest member to their growing posse, a young and very deadly Reggie Noble p/k/a "Redman". Like the first two, this album ended up selling over 500,000 units earning the group their third gold plaque. At this point, are some of ya'll still even considering M.O.P. as even being equals? Grab this up, let it bang on your cerebellum some, then let me know if you still wanna maintain such blasphemous thoughts.






















Business Never Personal, (1992) the group's fourth album was with no question, the hardest one they dropped. Darker than the prior three and clocking in as their shortest (under 40 minutes), this was true black hoodie rap at its best. Maintaining underground status, EPMD took more creative chances with their story telling and concepts. "Who Killed Jane" proved to be the best of the series. "Headbanger" once again featuring Redman cemented these dudes as the best in the hardcore genre. "Cummin' At Cha" featured another collabo with the latest members of their squad, Das-Efx. Short and sweet, this album sadly resulted in the end of the EPMD era as the group disbanded shortly after it dropped, due to infighting, reportedly over money. As producer of most of the groups material, Eric Serman had been receiving the lion's share of dollars and allegedly both members of the group were allegedly involved with gun play and violence towards each other. Fucked up shit!!! Even though they would later put aside their differences and regroup in 1997, "Business As Usual" proved to be the group's last classic album, the fourth of four consecutive stellar joints. Like the prior three, this album also went on to sell over 500,000 units, earning the group their fourth gold album. Few duos kept it as gully, as hardcore, as underground as EPMD while at the same time getting their commercial props on. Peep the album here. Then let me know who in your top whatever ever dropped four consecutive classic albums in a row. Other than maybe A Tribe Called Quest, all I'm hearing is crickets. I took a drive from New York to Ohio several years ago with my former business partner. On the way down, I decided to play the four albums from front to back and back to back. By the time we landed in Ohio, dude was like, "wow, I didn't realize EPMD were that dope." No kidding asshole. As fires as they are, there's no way I'm listening to four M.O.P. albums back to back. Them dudes scream so much hardcore that I might end up cold punching my moms dead in her mouth. And that's where the genius in EPMD lay. As other groups straight strained their vocals to position themselves as being all rough, tough and stuff, these dudes did it on that mellow tip, jokes, singing and all. Everyone still knew they might get shot if you tested them. I lay the greatness of their albums out for you here. Feel free to play them all front to back and back to back. Then get at me. I'm waiting.

2. Showmanship Like I mentioned earlier, these cats knew how to rock a show. I saw them several times and they always killed it. Small venues as well as large arenas like Madison Square Garden. Didn't matter. They always delivered. Peep this lil clip here and tell me M.O.P. can do this shit. Rap, dance, breath control and maintenance of gully. Go head, show me. Dudes were true masters on stage and as a customer, you knew you were always going to get your monies' worth.

3. Impact On The Genre Not only did they build the house that hardcore underground rappers like M.O.P. claim, EPMD also affected the language that rappers and fans alike spoke. Phrases like "Audi 5000", "Swayze", "Ghost" are stiil used in certain circles of this here rap thing. That's crazy being able to add slanguage to a peoples' vernacular. EPMD did it several times, and with ease. They were that dope.

4. Rap Spin-offs K-Solo, Das-Efx, Redman, Keith Murray. At the end of the day, EPMD alone remains responsible for introducing us to a slew of incredible artists. All I'm counting from M.O.P.'s end is Teflon. And he's awright.

5. Most Influential I can go on an on, but I'll end this here. Guaranteed, ask your favorite rap duos out, M.O.P. and OutKast included, who influenced them the most. Other than Run-DMC and maybe a couple of others, I can bet they'll all say EPMD. Ask Robbie even, as he goes in and continues to kill the game in them exclusive interviews he drops over at Unkut. Ask him to start asking rappers who influenced them, who fathered their style, who made them wanna be as dope as they wanna be, most cats will say without hesitation, EPMD. I see him at Unkut throwing jokes about the group's history, about their storied break-up, abot how Eric Sermon jumped out the window, literally, and how he stays as a prime suspect over at the Pause Police. But in the end, how relevant is all that extraneous activty when compared to the legacy that the group left us with? Like comparing apples to oranges.

Not trying to come off preachy, but not trying to let shit fall through the cracks, give this group the effin respect and credit they deserve. EPMD remains the best rap duo of all time, bar none.

This was a Combat Jack, Daily Mathematics Public Service Announcement.

Blaow!

It's been several days, sorry I kept ya'll. Don't know if its how I claimed it the other day but June has really been hectic, on the productive tip though. Getting that outdoors, away from the computers and firewalled from the Matrix, face to face Spring time. Face to face with some of my fellow internets fam even, the cats that stay plugged in to plug you in 24/7. Took some time off to see whats happening in the real world, and with real life flesh and blood people. Whaddup Maya? The one dude that I should'a connected with but stays mad elusive is the homie Benhameen of Please Don't Stare fame. That knicca stay keeping it busy, and moving too. That's cool though, we'll catch up soon enough, especially since me, him and my dude and official leader of the Internets Celebrity movement, Dallas Penn have been talking recently about joining forces to throw an Internets picnic possibly next month, possibly here in Brooklyn. It's a movement for real. DP, Ben, I had to put it out there.

Then I'm running a Lyor Cohen piece with me and the original T.I. spitting out "fuck you's" to each other and with no smiles, just straight ice grills and what not through my head, letting that one marinate just a while longer. Working on the new Daily-Math.com site too, with the help of my younger brother Blackneck. Blackneck is crazy nice with his tech IT skills. Nice with the keyboard too. Peep his work over at Barack's Alter Ego. No nepotism. Anyways, I'm pimping my blog game up, just a bit. CJ can get wavy too. Peace to Max B.

But I'm straight lying when I'm talking that being cut off from the Internets speak. Twitter's been keeping a Black man plugged in and present like a muh fucker. Straight around the clock like a crackhead in the summer streets plugged in. If you're not yet jacked into the Twitter-verse, shame on you. You need to just grab two silk scarves and go David Carradine yerself, but with your socks on. [||].R.I.P. to Kwai Chang Caine.

So a coupla days ago, I'm processing all the brain candy that Twitter has to offer and I see a tweet from fam Robbie of Unkut. If you don't know, Robbie is that white from Australia who's a grand master historian with this Hip Hop thing. Dude stays uncovering rare historical data about cats and the movement from way way back. Kills it with his interview game too. If you haven't done so yet, do yourself a favor and visit Unkut for straight edutainment.

So in this one Tweet, Robbie's let's fly how "M.O.P. are rap's greatest duo....yeah I said it." I check him to see if he meant that M.O.P. are rap's greatest duo...only after the great EPMD. Only because I assumed it was common knowledge to anyone down with this rap jazz thing that EPMD was only Hip Hop's greatest duo ever, especially a knowlegeable guy like Robbie. I really thought dude was joking, and that I was somehow not in on the joke. Robbie then hits me with how he's all serious and how EPMD fell off on the fuckery tip and I'm like whoah, dude really believes that shit. Then this dude Chuck "Jigsaw" Creekmur chimes in and co-signs Robbie faulty claim. I never personally met Chuck other than through Twitter and he seems like a pretty smart and witty fellow, at least from what I pick up from his Tweet drops. Word on the streets even, is that he's the guy that created some big time fancy web-site a few years ago called All Hip Hop. You might of heard of it.

Not wanting to get into a rant about the error of their ways, I offered Robbie the opportunity for him to validate his claim over on his site, like there's some possible way he could, while I would continue to do what I do here when I drop that science. Plus I saw this as me doing the community service thing by letting Robbie know that on this one, he had to pump his breaks. No shots to my white, but ya'll know how ya'll do when ya'll become way too knowledgeable on that cultural shit, eff around and start rewriting things, next thing you know, it'll be common knowledge that Eminem discovered Hip Hop.

So for the next few paragraphs, please allow me to break down in nothing less than cold hard fact, how EPMD is not only greater than M.O.P. as a hip hop musical duo, but remain to this day, the greatest Hip Hop Duo Of All Time.

For simplicity's sake, ignore the fact that RUN-DMC ever existed.





















In my opinion and to my knowledge, the greatest Hip Hop duo currently in existence, with no doubt, is M.O.P. Comprised of members Billy Danze and Lil' Fame and properly repping the Brownsville section of Brooklyn, the "Mash Out Posse" have been masters of that underground hardcore bang sound since 1993 when they dropped their first single "How About Some Hardcore?" The song struck a nerve amongst the rap fans that were fiending for that gritty classic New York boom bap sound. Did you know that the video for "How About Some Hardcore?" was directed by then unknown video director Hype Williams?

16 years in the game, M.O.P. have been in it and fighting tooth and nail to gain the reputation of being the true kings of gully NY that they so much deserve. Endorsed by several of the genre's legends, including DJ Premier and Jay-Z, the closest the group came to receiving both critical and commercial success was with their 2000 release of "Warriorz", a classic cd containing two of their biggest hits "Ante Up" and "Cold As Ice", two joints that banged hard in the gulliest of clubs near you as well as receiving radio airplay. M.O.P. does hold the title in having recorded the hardest rap song ever made. It's been proven by the World's Council of Scientists that "Ante Up" is the hardest song known to man. Really. Heh.

Signed to Loud Records/Sony/Columbia when 'Warriorz' dropped and poised to blow, M.O.P. got caught up in office politics when the label unexpectedly folded, instantly killing all chances of further marketing and maximizing in the capitalization of such a classic of an album. Stranded and left without a home, M.O.P. was soon signed to Roc-a-fella Records, then helmed by Jay-Z and Damon Dash. The group continued to show how much of a winning streak they weren't on when Roc-a-fella Records founding partners split, leaving a huge question mark over the future of M.O.P. as recording artists.

Right after the Roc-a-fella split, things looked kinda bright for M.O.P. when they were signed to 50 Cent's new G-Unit label, along-side Mobb Deep. 50 wasn't playing with M.O.P. either, had them knicca's in the gym doing straight push-ups and calisthenics and what not. That must have been an effin sight to see. But for some reason, the union wouldn't last and the group left the label last year citing "creative differences". They managed to keep the internets buzzing recently, behind the fact that they've been steady working on their new album "Foundation" which is scheduled for commercial release later this year on E1 Records, formerly known as Koch Records. "Foundation" promises to feature joints produced by DJ Premier, Alchemist, Statik Selektak and Jake One. Expect some guest appearances from Busta Rhymes, Jadakiss and Heltah Skeltah. Little known fact, did you know that their second album "Firing Squad" held the title of being the most stolen cd from the HMV music stores in New York City back in 1998? That's really true. And really another example of how gully this group is.

I so want M.O.P. to win. Ever since "Warriorz", I've been praying to the rap gods to bless them dudes with rap star fortune. I've always seen M.O.P. as having the potential of becoming rap's next Run-DMC. They are the ZZ Top of Hip Hop. All they ever needed was for someone like a Rick Rubin to get behind them creatively and marketing wise, give them the right touch to their sound, produce the right videos that would edge them into being recognized by the masses as being the true rock stars that they are. Hopefully they'll be able to pull it off with their next album. Trust when I say I'm keeping my fingers crossed for their win. Not only do they have songs for days, but will murk it dead and bloody with their lives shows. Seasoned veterans that they are, no one is doing that straight up scrunch your face up music as I'm punching your man dead in his face for scuffing my kicks in the mosh pit. Word to Brianna Latrise. They remain the greatest rap duo out today.

But they ain't EPMD. Can't even hold a candle to them cats. And that's no way a shot fired. Just is, like how water is wet.


NEXT: Incontrovertible proof of EPMD being the Greatest Hip Hop Duo Of All Time

Robbie must be smoking that meth, which I hear is all the rage down in Australia these days. You can peep his argument for M.O.P. here.

UPDATE: That dude , Chuck Creekmur that I mentioned hit me with the tweet: "For the record I never said M.O.P. > EPMD." I stand corrected.

The only 40 year rapper still doing it like this. History was made tonight as fans worldwide waited in anticipation as to whether Young or Old Hov was gonna be in the building. General consensus is that Jiggaman came back, and with an effin' vengeance.

Further documented proof that Hip Hop is still alive.

Boom.

1997.

It had to be around 9:30 am. I was in the office extra early that morning, like around 8:30. I usually got in a little after 10, but I had some contract work I needed to squeeze out. The phones usually started ringing at 10 am and after 11 the rest of my day would be held hostage by back to back meetings that I had lined up, going 'til around 7pm. Focused in the early morning quiet, I was interrupted by my office phone ringing, the 1st call of the day clocking in at around 9:45. I picked it up and was introduced for the first time to Manny.

On the other end, Manny was fast talking, laid back, not frantic, but talking fast about this artist that I needed to hear. How he heard my name ring around from other Brooklyn cats that came through his barber shop which was located on Flatbush Avenue and Maple Street. How Don Pooh (who was Inga Marchand p/k/a Foxy Brown's Manager) had told him about some of the clients I repped and how some other heads present co-signed. How Clark Kent, also a patron to the shop, insisted that he call me in order to get their legal business proper and right. Fast talking about this kid named Shyne, who Manny wanted to manage, and how he was that next dude from Brooklyn to stand up and rep the borough thorough and how he wanted me to draft some papers on him a.s.a.p. Trying to get back to work, I told Manny I'd take a meeting with him later and what my fees would be for my efforts. Manny kept talking, wouldn't let me off phone. Said he had Shyne with him, up early and ready to take care of business, asked me if I wanted to hear him spit over the phone. Like I wanted to hear some dude rap over the phone at 9:45 in the morning when I was hard pressed to finish papers for a client that had paid me in full 3 weeks back. Manny was too good though, kept talking until Shyne did get on the phone and spit. Fire. I tell people this as I say it here, at the time, to me, Shyne sounded more like a younger version of the young Jay-Z then he did B.I.G., maybe it was because he'd heard how I had worked with Jay and Damon, or how his voice was coming out through the phone. But, the kid was dope. I squeezed Manny and Shyne in for a meeting that very same day.

When they came through, Manny was all movement and words. He was a regular Brooklyn dude who knew some key people in the industry but needed an insider's co-sign to fully get in the door. Shyne was going to be the artist that would enable him to move from being barber shop owner to respected exec in the game. Most engaging and charismatic, Manny spoke like he was destined to make money. Spoke like he knew about having had money too. Later on, I'd hear rumor's about how respected Manny really was in the streets, how he stayed knowing the right people from all walks of life and how tight his money game really was. Shyne, the rapper born Jamal Barrow was more laid back. Looking like the 20 year old kid that he was, he spoke on how he was born in Belize, how his estranged father was a politician, the Prime Minister there, and how he and his mom had moved to Brooklyn in his mid teens because in Belize, they were shunned and not welcome in sharing in the wealth that his father had access to. He also spoke about how in just a few years, he had developed a knack for hanging out with the wrong people. Had done some grimy shit that resulted in making his every day in Brooklyn a dangerous one. How he had picked up rapping and really discovered he had a passion and a skill for it. How Big died and he was more than ready to put BK on his back. He spoke that confident braggadocio talk that rappers talk, but he came off as being decent kid who had seen some rough times and was more than ready to make a change with his life and for the better. By this time, I had my law partner and our assistants in the office. I asked Shyne to rap some more and he did. At that point we all agreed that dude was talented and that there was a deal out there to be made.

Since Manny wanted me as his lawyer, I called Matt Middleton to let him know I was referring Shyne to him as a client. Matt was working as a D.A. in the NY District Attorney's office. A graduate of Howard Law School, Matt was good friends with a lot of people I knew and worked with in the industry. It was common knowledge that Matt would make that switch from DA to entertainment attorney soon. He was already moonlighting with a handful of his own clients and I felt Shyne would be a great add to his practice. We negotiated a management contract between Manny and Shyne. Manny paid me on time and in cash, which I had no problem with. I did have a problem having to meet him at his shop at night, in the basement, with dudes there helping to close shop as he counted through crisp paper bills. Manny was no doubt cool and on the up and up, but I still wasn't 100% comfortable with having to pick up cash in the basement of a barber shop on Flatbush Avenue and Maple street at 10pm at night from someone that I had recently met. I'd seen those scenes before in more than a couple of mob movies and wasn't even trying to remotely end up getting whacked.

A couple of months passed. Manny prepping Shyne in putting a demo together. Shyne and Matt and Manny taking meetings during Matt's lunch breaks from his day job. One day I happened to run into my boy Darrell. Darrell was an A&R at Elektra Records, a label that was part of the Atlantic Warner umbrella. Elektra was run by the legendary music exec Sylvia Rhone. I stopped by Darrell's office to see what he needed, what Elektra was looking for, any songs, producers, or better yet new recording artists. What I needed was to get an artist a deal, take home anywhere between $25,000 to 75,000 based on the type and size of the deal. Darrell wasn't looking to buy big, but he shared that he needed someone to ghostwrite some songs for their artist, MC Lyte. Elektra felt she had one last record in her with them and they were on the hunt for new material. I instantly thought of Shyne, how he was always writing new shit. By this time, Matt had left his old job and he, I and a couple of other attorneys were office mates in our own office located on 42nd Street and Park Avenue. Grand Central Station. After the meeting, I went to Matt's office, told him I needed to take his client Shyne to a meeting with Elektra and about the MC Lyte thing too. I called Manny and let him know I was trying to get Shyne work as a writer, get his name out there one way or another. The following day, it was just me and Shyne waiting in the lobby at Elektra, waiting for Darrell to call us into his office.

Shyne was more than ready. He pulled out a notebook with some material he had written for Lyte the night before. Rhyming from his book and from a female's perspective, Shyne had been diligent about his craft, professional about this opportunity and he killed it dead. Darrell was stunned, speechless and stammering about how dope Shyne was, how he so desperately needed his boss Sylvia to meet, see and hear Shyne, and as soon as possible. Elektra didn't have a strong Hip Hop roster while a couple of blocks away labels like Island Def Jam/ Universal and Bad Boy/ Arista were dominating the genre with artists like DMX, Jay-Z, Ja-Rule and others. Puffy himself had become a household name. Sylvia so badly wanted to talk shit to Def Jam, Universal and Bad Boy. Let the big boys know that she was to be respected as a serious contender in the game.

The following day Matt, Shyne and Manny met with Rhone. She was blown away by Shyne and was more than excited to sign him. It was the end of the year though, and the industry was winding down for the holidays. She had the lawyers from Elektra working on the contracts. Shyne would be signed to Elektra as their top rapper. They had even dropped MC Lyte from their roster in anticipation of Shyne coming onboard. Matt was ready for a big check and I was ready to get a piece of it as my referral fee.

A funny thing happened during the holidays. A lot of the same top execs liked to vacation at the swank island of Saint Barth's. It so happened that during this go round, Sylvia was hanging out with Chris Lighty who was then a big at Def Jam and Sean Combs. Story is as the weekend progressed, every time Sylvia saw either Puff and/or Chris, she'd taunt them with "Ya'll niggas ain't got shit on my next artist Shyne. You watch whose gonna be that top rapper next year." Especially when she had that liquor in her. So certain was she that Shyne was going to be signed, sealed and delivered by year's start, she felt free to talk shit. It didn't help that Clark had already co-signed Shyne to Puff, and hearing Sylvia's boasts only magnified his interest in the young Brooklyn rapper. What she didn't expect was once they were back in the privacy of their private lodgings, both Chris and Puff were heavy in research mode, calling every and anyone in New York City to find out if they knew anything else about this kid named Shyne that Sylvia wanted to sign and how soon they could set up a meeting with him. By the time she landed back in New York, Sylvia quickly and painfully realized that the decent deal she had placed on the table to lock Shyne down as an exclusive artist was now being flanked and dwarfed by both Def Jam and Bad Boy. Overnight Shyne and Manny were thrust smack dab in the eye of a biding war storm. Word spread like fire, Shyne was going to change the world. Execs from other lables tried to put a bid in. Shyne and Manny took all meetings. But it came down to Elektra, Def Jam and Bad Boy. Actually, once Def Jam and Bad Boy joined the party, Sylvia Rhone and Elektra became an after thought. There was no way in the world Elektra stood a chance once two of the biggest rap labels at the time put their offers in.

Funny how I find myself repeating this over and over again and at the risk of sounding like a fan, a Stan even, but fact of the matter was that no star shined brighter than Puff's at the time. No doubt his glow was hot when Christopher Wallace was alive, but once he got himself together over the tragic murder of his friend and marquee artist, Puff's heat intensified by the multiples. The Combs' name became hotter than the Bad Boy label, hotter than hip hop itself. Hollywood, pop culture media, and non-related business legends like Donald Trump wanted to be affiliated with Puff in order to further lend credibility to their own existence. I remember having a convo with Puff's trusty attorney Kenny Meiselas as he himself was bugging out at the meteoric rise of his hottest client. "Puff right now is hotter than the Beatles!" he claimed. Of course Kenny's remark was off, but during them days, not by much. Chris Lighty, Lyor Cohen and Kevin Liles put their A game to task, shit Def Jam had indeed proven itself time and time again to be the Harvard University of rap, but Puff always had that way of getting in, in a way that no other label, no other music exec could ever match. A couple of meetings, some hang out time and it was a done deal. Shyne enlisted himself as a Bad Boy member for life. Puff did have to come out of pocket though, Manny was a true street dude and no way was he going to let Shyne sign a deal just on the strength of another man's hype. Matt Middleton received a great paycheck behind that deal, and in turn, he blessed me. I still thought it was funny how, as a new music entertainment attorney in the game, Middleton had to be one of the luckiest guys I knew, walking into that Shyne deal and then picking up Def Jam's soon to be mega star, Earl Simmons p/k/a "DMX".

Shyne took in all of this new found attention that he received. I can only imagine what went through his mind, his mother's only son, virtually abandoned by his high office holding father, left to raise himself on the mean streets of Brooklyn, a wholly different country from where he was born, where he grew up, finally to be accepted by the top players of the surreal world of the music industry. Puff ate up the fact that he was victorious in his bidding war victory up as well. Shyne became a valued member of his entourage. On Grammy night 1998, I was at a post celebration party when Puff, Shyne and the rest of the crew made their grand entrance. Shyne was dipped out in the illest gear, rocking jewels that sparkled so bright they damn near lit the place up. It so happened that his attire was completely identical to Puff's. Being that I had a good relationship with him, I pulled him to the side, intent on giving him some honest advice, "Yo Shyne, no matter what you do, stay focused on your game man. No offense to either Puff or you, but don't get so caught up in dude's movements, in his lane. I've seen too many people crash and burn because they followed Puff's map as opposed to their own." Not looking offended, but definitely affected by my comment, Shyne backed up, looked and said "I hear you man, but understand, I'm a grown man, I'm my own man." During this short courtship period, Puff wasn't just the owner of the label as well as the top creative guy who had full and complete creative control over Shyne's music and image. He had also become Shyne's mentor, replacing perhaps the void left by Shyne's father. And for that, Shyne was indeed Bad Boy for life. Money, fame, power, Bad Boy was his new set and nothing was going to come between him and his new family, nothing. In return, as his voice changed slightly, and as was captured on new recordings, his voice being compared to the deceased crowned prince of the label, Shyne was treated like the prodigal son who had returned home.

Hard at work and intent on making a classic album, Puff, Shyne and rest of the team went in. The instant change of lifestyle to Shyne was dizzying. It didn't help that Combs was currently involved in an uber high profile relationship with Jennifer Lopez, darling Hollywood star and credible mega pop start herself. Shit was like that Cinderella story for Shyne. And quick too. Still, the problems he had back in Brooklyn never went away, as a matter of fact, they intensified. Jealous by his rise, foes of Jamal Barrow made it loud and clear that there was no love for Bad Boy's newest star. Threats were made as to setting Shyne up, robbing him even. Then there was the fact that his mother still lived in the borough, unprotected from wolves looking for a come up against her son. True he did well with his deal with Bad Boy, but he hadn't yet reached the level where he could roam anywhere and freely with paid professional security by his side, moving with him at his whim and in tow. Plus, some beef started to brew between he and members of Big's crew Junior Mafia. Offended at the thought of Bad Boy's new rapper making a name for himself by "jacking" Big's style, it was now official that Shyne best not get caught out there alone and unprotected. As official as Manny's name was in the streets, Shyne more than knew what time it was. He'd already survived being shot in the chest, way before the music thing, and there was no way he was gonna allow himself to ever get caught out there like that again. Deal or no deal.


























I heard about the shooting incident the morning after it took place. Actually, on my way to the office, I overheard two girls talking first hand about how "all of a sudden they started shootin' in Club New York and we bounced." It didn't resonate until I peeped the news on NY1. How Shyne, Puffy and Jennifer Lopez were involved in a shooting the night before. How they went to the club to celebrate the end of a very good year. How one of the fellow party goers, Matthew "Scar" Allen, peeped the Bad Boy crew in the house and stepped to them, allegedly throwing money in Comb's face all the while making threats and what not. How even though Puff was more than protected by his security, Shyne pulled out and fired shots in the club, some claiming that shots were fired back. How three people had been injured by the gun play, and then the car chase from the venue, with cops hot on Puff's tail, and a gun being thrown out of his car during said chase. At the end of it all, Shyne and Puffy were charged with numerous crimes. Shyne was fighting charges of attempted murder in the second degree, assault in the first and second degrees, one count of reckless endangerment, criminal use of a firearm, and criminal possession of a weapon in the first and second degrees; Puff for felony gun possession, and one count of bribing a witness with a diamond ring he had received from Jennifer Lopez. The resulting trial was an all around cluster fuck, with both Shyne's and Puff's loyalty to each other being severely tested as ultimately one of them had to go down for what had taken place on that fateful frantic evening. In the end, Shyne, living up to being Bad Boy for life, kept by the code of no snitching as he assumed full responsibility for both being in possession of an illegal firearm and actually firing it within the crowded club. He insisted it was all in self defense. In the end, Puff was acquitted of all charges. Shyne was convicted on two counts of assault, including a first-degree count, for shooting one of the party goers in the face, reckless endangerment and gun possession. His sentence, ten years behind bars.

To date, Shyne has been incarcerated for eight years. He's up for parole on December 1st, 2009, although it's been reported that his new legal team is pushing for an early parole hearing allegedly scheduled this month. I got a call from him a couple of years ago, and we shared a very brief conversation in which he said how he was holding up, how he was staying positive despite his surroundings, how he wanted to thank me for being instrumental in helping his career from the start. I told him how, even though I couldn't, how I wished there was something I was able to do during that whole ordeal to help him from landing in his current situation. That shit was real. Not saying that dude shouldn't have been held accountable for his actions, not saying that at all. Looking back on the whole thing, it's just another unfortunate story of a good kid with the best of intentions, getting caught up in a fucked up situation solely based on his environment and his more than dire circumstance of having to prove himself, having to fight his way out of a perceived life or death scenario. I hope that Jamal Barrow is granted and early parole this month. In my opinion, he's been through more than enough. And all for being a loyal kid, intent on protecting someone who had become a mentor and almost like father figure to him. Being that Puff has since completely cleaned up his business' original image, look, sound and reputation, Shyne remains the label's last true Bad Boy. Shyne my dude, keep your head up.


There is a happy ending to this story. My man and Shyne's former manager Manny is currently doing incredibly great as the celebrated fast talking and very media savvy manager of top songstress Keisha Cole. Keep doing your thing my dude!