Because I was thinking of my company like a team, I wasn’t thinking about checks and balances, having competing forces to keep tabs on each other. I still believe if I’d kept Sharpton, he would have served as that needed counterbalance and notified me of all the financial trouble spots that were later revealed in the bankruptcy court. By the time I was stuck in the middle of the bankruptcy, it was too late. I’d spent thousands on lawyers. My money was tied up in mortgages, recording studios, all the things I used to run the business. I couldn’t believe it, but it was true: Luke Records was broke.
I spent the next year in bankruptcy court, my assets being picked over and divvied up by lawyers from all my major creditors. My yacht, gone. The nightclub I’d bought in Pensacola, gone. The property I owned, with the exception of my house and my parents’ house, gone. I’d also started a real-estate development and mortgage company to develop housing in black neighborhoods. They took that, too.
Then came the final twist. Weinberger did more than just collect on his so-called “loan” to Luke Records. I came to find out that Weinberger and Richard Wolfe, MC Shy D’s lawyer, had gone to law school together. They were friends. Was another conspiracy going on there, or was I just paranoid? I know what it looked like to me at the time. Because of the court judgment, MC Shy D was my biggest single creditor. Wolfe was appointed by the court to serve as a liquidating trustee; his job was to oversee the dissolution of the company’s assets. As part of that, he approved the sale of most of the Luke Records catalog, including 2 Live Crew and all my masters, to his old friend Joe Weinberger for $800,000. I’d say that’s maybe a tenth of what it was worth, but no one came to the table with a better offer and the court signed off on the sale. My catalog was now the property of Lil’ Joe Records—the new label Weinberger had conveniently thought to incorporate while forcing me into Chapter 7. Sony ended up breaking off the rights to H-Town and taking that. I got to keep my office, the Luke Records name, some of the publishing rights, but my business was gutted.
The bankruptcy judge approved the final settlement on March 22, 1996. As part of the final settlement, in addition to the $800,000 paid to the bankruptcy trustees for the rights to 2 Live Crew and the Luke Records catalog, Weinberger did make a payment directly to me to close the transaction. Per the agreement, he paid me $10. The largest independent, black-owned record label in America, the biggest piece of black-owned intellectual property in the history of hip-hop up to that point, and all I got for it was ten lousy bucks.
But when Weinberger bought the rights to my catalog, he didn’t buy the rights to me. I wasn’t signed as an artist to my own label. Luther Campbell never had a contract with Luke Records, because why would I need a contract with myself? If Weinberger thought he could own me he was dead wrong. I’ll never let anybody own me. While the bankruptcy was being settled, I couldn’t use the Luke Records name for anything, so I formed a separate company, Luther Campbell Music, and made a one-off distribution deal with PolyGram. I wanted to put out an album right away so the world would know: Luke ain’t dead.
I went into the studio angry and came out with my biggest album yet: Uncle Luke. I brought in the best talent in the country: Ice Cube, Trick Daddy, Verb, the Notorious B.I.G. The single from the album, “Scarred,” blew the fuck up. Hottest record in the damn country. Some new Luke shit. You couldn’t walk into a club anywhere in America without hearing it. Uncle Luke hit No. 8 on the R&B/Hip-Hop Albums chart. “Scarred” went to No. 64 on the Billboard Hot 100 Singles and to No. 7 on the Hot Hip-Hop Singles. Even with everything they threw at me, I could still make a hit record as good as anyone in the business. It was a testament to the fact that even though I was hurt, I was gonna get better because I was tough.
The producers and rappers who worked with me on that album, they stood by me in a tough time. When you go through something like what I went through, you find out who your friends really are. You lose your money, people are out trashing your reputation, and you see who stays and who runs for the exit. H-Town left and went with Sony. A year later they were on BET, talking about how Luke put chains on their legs and now they were free. But I bet they never got the love over there that they’d had with Luke Records. Within a couple years, H-Town’s career dried up and they went nowhere.
I’ve never been more wrong about a human being than I was about Joe Weinberger. This guy I’d pegged as the nerdiest nerd on earth, after he bought out my catalog he went and took Lil’ Joe Records and he started signing up groups. He was driving around Miami in a pimped-out Jaguar. This little Jewish tax attorney, riding around Miami with a baseball hat turned around backward, wearing all this jewelry, big gold chains, a blinged-out, diamond-crusted Rolex watch, all these fat gold rings. It was crazy.
The other guys from 2 Live Crew, they didn’t stick around. Mixx and Marquis and Fresh Kid Ice, they signed with Lil’ Joe, and it must have been pretty terrible for them because they all ended up suing each other to try and get out of the deal. They’ve never come close to the level of success we once had, and they can’t perform together or even use the name 2 Live Crew without Joe Weinberger’s say-so. He owns them.
After it was all over I did a lot of soul-searching. Should I be mad at myself? Should I kick myself? No. Most musicians who go broke, they don’t pay their taxes, they blow it all on cocaine and hookers. I made an error in judgment. I wish I’d done things differently, but I sleep easy knowing I made the best decisions I could with the information and experience I had at the time.
To this day Weinberger insists he did nothing illegal. But even if he never broke the law that doesn’t mean he didn’t do me wrong. At a minimum, when I was in a bad spot he turned on me and took advantage of the situation. My whole career I’d been fighting—against the racist cops who tried to shut down the Ghetto Style DJs, against the moral majority wing-nuts who tried to censor me, against the sleazy record executives who wanted to screw me. I’d been so busy looking for sharks in the water I hadn’t kept an eye out for snakes in the grass in my own backyard.
At the time all the shit came down, I was seeing red. I felt the same as I did after Handsome Harry was killed and I shot up that car. Weinberger, Wolfe, Manzini, all of them, I wanted to blow their fucking heads off. I wanted to go chop them up into little pieces. I still had that thug voice going in the back of my mind, but I had to think about my kids, what a stupid waste it would be for me to spend my life in jail because of anger over what somebody else did.
I did feel like I had a claim to pursue in court. As the judge in my tortious interference case said, I had a “substantial likelihood of success” based on the facts. Between the $3,000 checks, the calls to my creditors, what if anything had gone on with the signing of the Sony/Relativity deal, I believed if I pressed it I could prove what I believed then and still believe to this day: that there was a deliberate attempt to sabotage my business and drive me into bankruptcy, a hostile takeover from start to finish. I’ll never know for sure because I decided to let it go. By that point I’d been dragged down in court proceedings for five years, ever since Broward. I’d thrown good money after bad, easily a million dollars, paying lawyers for this, that, and the other. My resources were already strapped. Did I want to pour those last remaining resources into another lawsuit and spend another five years in court with a whole bunch of other lawyers, or did I want to take what I had left and get on with the things that are important to me in life?
It wasn’t a difficult choice. As part of the bankruptcy settlement, I signed a General Release and Hold Harmless Agreement, releasing Joe Weinberger and Lil’ Joe Records from any and all future claims, damages, or demands. The same with Sony and everybody else. I washed my hands of the whole thing. I paid my creditors what the court said I had to pay, I took my $10 check from Joe Weinberger, and I never looked back. Today, I’m fine with it. I really am. Whatever Weinberger did, he knows he did it, and he has to live with that for the rest of his life. He has to live in an eternal hell, knowing that the food on hi
s table is there because he’s a vulture. To this day, the money he makes comes from exploiting assets he has no business owning. Every day he’s out there selling my merchandise. Every day he’s got to eat off my shit. Knowing that he has to live that way, that’s justice enough for me.
LUTHER CAMPBELL V. UNCLE LUKE
Right before I filed for bankruptcy, I discovered Trick Daddy during a rap contest at my Pac Jam disco. I told the crowd that night, “Whoever wins, I’m gonna sign you to a contract.” Trick Daddy was a kid named Maurice Young who’d just got out of prison for cocaine possession, carrying a concealed weapon, and violating probation. He had these razor-sharp rhymes he wrote while he was locked up. He intimidated everyone else onstage.
Trick won the contest hands down. His father was somebody I knew from the neighborhood. He was still in a prison, and he asked me to look after his son. The kid had no place to stay, so he was living with me. He was a hell of a cook. He’d cook breakfast every morning. He was staying with me while all the bankruptcy shit was going on. Watching all these people fuck each other over, he thought maybe he didn’t want to be a rapper after all.
But Trick was too good. Kid was going to blow up. That’s why I brought him along to the studio and featured him on “Scarred.” It was the first time the world heard of Trick Daddy. The only catch was I couldn’t sign him. At the time all of my money and assets were tied up in the bankruptcy proceedings. The money I made from Uncle Luke and “Scarred” was being used to keep the lights on. I told Trick that as soon as I sorted some shit out, I was going to sign him and produce his first record. After “Scarred” came out and people realized he was unsigned, the kid was getting offers, and he didn’t wait around for me.
When Luke Records started to liquidate, all my best people got picked up by these other local producers looking to be the next Luther Campbell. One of these guys was Ted Lucas, who started Slip N Slide Records. He staffed it up with former Luke Records guys and started signing artists, convincing them that I was done and he was the heir apparent. Trick Daddy didn’t want to wait. Even after I’d mentored him, had given him a place to live, put him on this hit single, he went and signed with Slip N Slide. I wasn’t mad at him. I put him in touch with great producers, helped him in every way I could. But I was disappointed. I wish that he’d waited for me. I was out of bankruptcy just a couple months later.
I once had a conversation with Russell Simmons about the music business. He said, “Don’t fall in love with no fucking artist. They’re a catalog number. There’s going to be a time when the record don’t work, and you gotta let it go. There’s going to be a time when the artist don’t work, and you gotta let it go. Make sure it’s all business and not personal, because if you make it personal, then these guys will fuck you. They always blame their mistakes on you.”
I didn’t run my label in a traditional way. I’d always made it personal. I signed 2 Live Crew because I was frustrated nobody would give them a chance. Poison Clan, I got those motherfuckers out of jail and put them on their feet. I bought H-Town a house and put clothes on their back because they came from nothing. I looked after Trick while his dad was in prison. I always ran my label and saw my business as having a purpose beyond just making money. I was about wanting these guys to succeed and giving them a voice. I was about giving opportunity to people who otherwise wouldn’t have had anything. I always felt about my artists the same way I felt about my University of Miami guys; I wanted to mentor them, help them. Russell was right: the business doesn’t work that way. When you make it personal, it’s nothing but heartbreak. Because things don’t always work out, and at the end of the day the artists just don’t care about you. Artists are about themselves. It’s always the label’s fault when the albums don’t work. They always fuck their own money up, and they’ll always come back to you for more. After I lost Trick Daddy to Slip N Slide, after all the betrayal and backstabbing that went on with the bankruptcy, I started to ask myself, Is this a business I really want to be in anymore?
I kept going for a little while. I made a deal to bring my label to Island Records. I wasn’t up to being fully independent anymore, and Island’s founder, Chris Blackwell, had a lot of respect for me and let me do my own thing. I did two more solo albums, Changin’ the Game and Somethin’ Nasty. I did “Raise the Roof” with No Good but So Good. The single was a huge hit, went to No. 26 on the Billboard Hot 100 and No. 1 on the Hot Rap Singles. We did a killer video with Diddy, Ice Cube, Stuart Scott, tons of people. I could still put out a hit, but my heart wasn’t in it. Breaking records, always trying to follow up and top the last hit, holding artists’ hands, it no longer appealed to me.
The last artist I discovered at Island was this young guy named Armando Perez. I found him by sitting at home and reading the newspaper and looking at the new census report. The report said that Latinos were the fastest-growing demographic in this country. I’d always known that a large part of 2 Live Crew’s fan base was made up of Latinos. Mexicans, Cubans, Puerto Ricans, they all loved our music because of the Latin rhythms and the bass and the energy we put out. I thought it was fucked up that they didn’t have their own big-name hip-hop artist. All they had was Fat Joe and Big Pun from New York, who were known more for being fat than for lyrical ability or for being Latino. I looked at it this way: I’m from Miami. It’s a predominantly Cuban demographic and culture here. I can’t say I’m a Miami label and not have a Cuban artist. My career won’t be complete until I sign one. I told my guys on the street, “Go find me a Cuban artist.” One of them came in with a videotape of the rap battle. Out of all the guys on the tape, this one guy caught my attention. He was as relentless as his stage name: Pitbull. I said, “Go find that motherfucker. I like him.”
Pitbull came in. He was a tough guy. He was a little Cuban kid, but he was living like a black guy. He had the cornrows and all that shit. We hung out, went for a ride. I spent a few days getting to know him. His parents had come over in the Mariel boatlift. He was living in the streets, going hard. He was out in Opa-locka, Cal City, Hialeah, slinging, getting his money the best way he could. But he wasn’t a bad person. He was trying to help his mom; she couldn’t make ends meet. I saw a lot of me in him.
I knew he could rap. I knew he could battle. I got Lil’ Zane, who was hot at the time, to do a record with me and Pitbull, “Lollipop.” We laid down the track. I took the track to Power 96, which is the Cuban station in Miami. I took it over there personally, told them, “Look, this is a no-brainer.”
They came back the next day and said, “We can’t play this song.”
“This is a fucking Cuban rapper that I’m giving y’all, and y’all can’t play this song?”
“Naw, we can’t play it.”
I took it to 99 Jamz, the black station. They played it. Pitbull started blowing up all over Miami. He was going hard in the studio. He was a great freestyle battle rapper, but he had to learn how to be a great studio rapper. It’s a different challenge, but he was ferocious going after it. He wanted to be the best. I did all I could for him. I’d take him on tour with me. I’d introduce him to crowds, hazing the shit out of his ass to teach him. Just like how I did all the rest of them. I would show him: this how you deal with the fans, this how you deal with radio stations, this is how you deal with retail-store appearances.
I was going out all over Miami and all over the South, hyping him and his music. I put him on a few tracks on Somethin’ Nasty. But even as I was doing it, even as I was all excited about this kid’s potential, I could tell my heart just wasn’t in it. I’d lost my appetite for the record business. I’d been headed that way ever since the bankruptcy, but now I was sure of it: I didn’t have the appetite for it anymore. I knew Pitbull was going to be huge. Everything he has today, millions of records sold, No. 1 singles, I knew back then that he was going to be that huge. I loved him like a son, but I also knew he deserved a mentor and a label that was going to give his career 110 percent, and I wasn’t that guy at that time in my life. I
told Pit, “You’re going to be a star, but I’m not the guy to get you there.” I called around, talked to people I knew, and I got him on the right label with the right people. One of the biggest rap stars of the new millennium, and I sent him down the road to take a different path. That was my million-dollar ticket back to the big time, and I didn’t take it. But it was the right decision—for him and for me. I was ready to put my days as record label owner behind me.
The history of Luke Records is one of the most important stories in the history of rap. It was the first black-owned hip-hop label to challenge the dominance of white corporations. It was the only label with the independence to take the fight for free speech all the way to the Supreme Court. For many music writers, the history of black entrepreneurship in hip-hop starts with Puff Daddy and Bad Boy Records, with Master P and No Limit, with the Wu Tang Clan and Wu Wear.
I inspired the generation that came after me. After Luke Records blew up in the early nineties, all the young guys were coming down to Miami and hanging with me: Puffy, Biggie, Jay Z. They came down and had nothing but questions. How did I do it? What kind of deals did I make? Who are the best distributors? All the things I learned on my own in the beginning, I shared it all with them. They read my interviews in The Source, talking about how I own my own record company, manufacture and sell my own product, and they took all the information and used it as a blueprint. They took it back to the major labels and said, “We want to own our own label. We want to call it Bad Boy. We want to call it Roc-a-Fella. We want to run our own A&R units. We want control over producers.” And they started getting it. To this day Jay Z calls me the Michael Jordan of hip-hop, because I was the first one to show everybody how to make serious money.
The Book of Luke Page 22