Can't Stop Won't Stop

by Jeff Chang

  Whites, of course, had long abandoned the Bottoms—physically, economically and emotionally. When communities of color battled for jobs, education, and representation, it was like crumb-snatching. That these fights would flare into interracial violence was as predictable as it was tragic.

  For the college-educated, middle-class, rainbow-embracing African-American elite, there was a painful ambivalence. This was not the world they had fought for. For the rest, there was a growing sense of a loss of control that fed into a siege mentality.

  The title of one of Chuck D’s favorite books, a collection of essays by Black-power generation poet and writer Haki Madhubuti, had posed a provocative question: Black Men: Obsolete, Single, Dangerous? With Chuck’s assistance, Cube had begun to respond with Amerikkka’s Most Wanted’s “Endangered Species.” Death Certificate was the fully elaborated answer. Underneath it all was the acute fear of being overwhelmed by change, a deep-seated fear of erasure.

  Black Korea

  For Ice Cube, these fears took the form of older Asian-American immigrant entrepreneurs. Here the lines of race and class and generation and difference all came together. In a gangstacentric view, South Central was becoming Black Korea.

  Tension between African Americans and Asian Americans was a major sub-text running through Death Certificate. On “Us,” he called for racial solidarity to respond to “Japs grabbing every vacant lot in my ‘hood to build a store and sell they goods”—a sonic analogue to John Singleton’s “Seoul to Seoul Realty” billboard in Boyz N The Hood. On “Horny Lil’ Devil,” a track about Black male emasculation, he metaphorically wiped out the “devils”—white sexual harassers of black women, racists and “fags”—and finished up at the corner store beating down the “Jap” owner. “Black Korea” was the fiery climax.

  In Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing, Korean-American shopkeeper Sonny saves his store from being burned by arguing he, too, is Black. Cube’s “Black Korea” focuses instead on the beginning of that confrontation, creating a parallel between Radio Raheem attempting to purchase twenty batteries for his boombox (“D, motherfucker, D!”), and Cube attempting to purchase a forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor. As the music bursts forth, Ice Cube confronts two prejudiced, “Oriental, one penny counting” proprietors who hawk him as he walks through their store. Cube turns and leers at the woman storekeeper, “Bitch, I got a job!” At the song’s bridge, the shop erupts into argument when his friends raise their voices in his support.

  By now, the original Spike Lee scene has been stripped of its humor, leaving only the raw racial conflict. Then the bass surges back and the song rushes to its conclusion. Cube issues a threat, “Don’t follow me up and down your crazy little market, or your little chop-suey ass will be the target of a nationwide boycott.” In a final defiant gesture, he raises the prospect of a racially vengeful conflagration. “Pay respect to the Black fist,” he yells, “or we’ll burn your store right down to a crisp! And then we’ll see ya, ‘cause you can’t turn the ghetto into Black Korea.” The store owner, Sonny, has the last word: “Mother fuck you!”

  All of this happens in under a minute.

  The Real Stakes

  No rap album had ever been as controversial as Death Certificate. High-brow magazines that rarely felt compelled to comment on “low” culture seized on the album as an example of rap’s depravity. An editorial in The Economist invoked Adorno’s criticism of jazz as neo-fascistic, evoking “rhythmically obedient” hip-hoppers. “In rap as in rock, rebellion sells,” the editorial read. “Sadly, too few fans distinguish between the rebellious and the reactionary.”20 In The New Republic, David Samuels took this pretzel logic beyond all sense, confusing album-listening with murder. “This kind of consumption—of racist stereotypes, of brutality toward women or even of uplifting tributes to Dr. Martin Luther King—is of a particularly corrupting kind. The values it instills find their ultimate expression in the ease in which we watch young Black men killing each other: in movies, on records and on streets of cities and towns across the country.”21

  Three weeks after the album’s release, the debate suddenly went supernova. In Billboard magazine, editor Timothy White called for record-store chains to boycott the record, writing, “His unabashed espousal of violence against Koreans, Jews and other whites crosses the line that divides art from the advocacy of crime.”22 In a trade magazine that normally avoided controversies over artistic merit or lyrical content, the editorial was extraordinary. Death Certificate remains the only album ever singled out for such condemnation in Billboard history.

  James Bernard, senior editor of The Source, defended Ice Cube against calls for boycotts, “Yes, Ice Cube is very angry, and he expresses that anger in harsh, blunt and unmistakable terms. But the source of his rage is very real. Many in the Black community, particularly Los Angeles, Cube’s home, feel as if it’s open season on Blacks with the Rodney King assault and the recent murder of a young Black girl by a Korean merchant.”23 Bernard and other African-American fans understood the fiery conclusion of “Black Korea” as a mythical resolution.

  Ice Cube remarked that the song was

  inspired by everyday life in the Black community with the Koreans. Blacks don’t like them and it’s vice versa. The Koreans have a lot of businesses in the Black community. The [Harlins] shooting is just proof of the problem, just another example of their disrespect for Black people. You go in their stores and they think you’re going to steal something. They follow you around the store like you’re a criminal. They say, “Buy something or get out.” If it hasn’t happened to you, you can’t know how bad it feels for somebody to make you feel like a criminal when you’re in their store and you haven’t done anything.24

  He would also say, “ ‘Black Korea’ holds the tone of the neighborhood and the feelings of the people.”25 A UCLA survey of racial attitudes in Los Angeles conducted before and just after the April uprising supported his contention: more than 41 percent of Blacks and 48 percent of Asians felt that it was difficult to get along with the other group. Blacks felt worse about Asians after the riots. Asians, too, saw Blacks more negatively.26

  In all the ink spilled over “Black Korea” and Death Certificate, none was more measured and poignant than those of young Dong Suh, a hip-hop generation son of a Korean-American store owner. In an editorial for Asian Week, he said he was writing to “move away from the issue of censorship and the stereotyping of rap as violent and move toward addressing the core problem.”

  Several years ago, a prominent radio personality in Philadelphia, where my family operates a small corner store in a predominantly African-American neighborhood, expressed a similar sentiment. I clearly remember his warning that if Koreans did not respect Blacks, firebombings were likely. . . . When compared to Korean Americans, African Americans are a numerical and political majority. Ice Cube does not realize that as a member of the majority, he wields real power against Koreans.27

  The Target of a Nationwide Boycott

  Upon its release on October 31, 1991, Death Certificate had advance orders of more than a million copies, making it an instant hit. It was immediately greeted with boycotts.

  On November 1, the Simon Wiesenthal Center called upon four major retail record chains to boycott the album, calling it a “a cultural Molotov cocktail” and “a real threat.”28 In particular, the center took three lines in “No Vaseline” directed specifically at Jerry Heller—”You let a Jew break up my crew,” “You can’t be the Niggaz 4 Life crew with a white Jew telling you what to do” and “Get rid of that Devil real simple, put a bullet in his temple”—to be anti-Semitic.

  Two days later, the Korean American Coalition (KAC) held its own press conference, issuing a statement jointly signed by a rainbow coalition of civil rights organizations: the Japanese American Citizens League, the Los Angeles Urban League, the NAACP, the Mexican American Legal Defense and Educational Fund and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. Guardian Angels began pickets in New York and Los An
geles at record stores carrying the album. Korean swap-meet vendors and the Camelot Music chain also joined the boycott.29

  “In the minds of Korean Americans, this is all part of the oppression or unfairness we face. We’re constantly trampled on, nobody listens to us, we’re constantly seen through distorted images in the media,” said executive director Jerry Yu. “We’re not really battling against Ice Cube, all we’re trying to do is get him to understand our concerns, get him to respond to our issues.”

  But the record went on to sell well over a million and a half records. Perhaps, as Ice Cube had bragged, he was the “wrong nigga to fuck with.” A month before, Soon Ja Du had been convicted of voluntary manslaughter in the killing of Latasha Harlins. As they awaited the Du sentencing, Korean-American leaders worried about the firebombings and the racial tensions. They decided that they needed to take a stand against “Black Korea.” Yumi Jhang-Park, the executive director of the Korean American Grocers’ Association (KAGRO), said, “This is a life-and-death situation. What if someone listened to the song and set fire to a store?”30

  But Korean-American activists were unable to reach the mainstream press with their message. When Entertainment Tonight interviewed Yu regarding the boycott, they videotaped him for over thirty minutes, yet the story only featured him briefly, reading lyric excerpts from “Black Korea.” Instead, Rabbi Abraham Cooper of the Simon Wiesenthal Center was shown explaining the boycott for most of the segment. It was clear to Korean-American leaders that they would have to try a different tack. KAGRO decided to hit Cube where it hurt him the most.

  Do You Wanna Go to the Liquor Store?

  In 1987, McKenzie River Corporation of San Francisco had introduced a new forty-ounce malt liquor product that it called St. Ides to compete with Pabst’s Olde English 800 brand, better known as “8 Ball.” Soon McKenzie River and Pabst were scrumming like Coca-Cola and Pepsi, with the urban communities of Los Angeles as the key battleground.

  No one had ever cared what malt liquor tasted like, just how fast they could get trashed after drinking it. St. Ides’s main selling point was its 8 percent alcohol content, compared to 6 percent in a bottle of 8 Ball and 3.5 percent in an average can of beer. But how to get this message out?

  In 1988, McKenzie River went to KDAY Music Director Greg Mack and DJ Pooh to recruit rappers to record sixty-second music commercials. For one of the first spots, Pooh called King Tee and they revived Mixmaster Spade’s old street classic, “Do You Want to Go to the Liquor Store?” Rakim, EPMD, Yo-Yo, the Geto Boys and many others recorded “Crooked I” commercials. It was good money; King Tee says he made $50,000, and got all the St. Ides he wanted delivered right to his apartment door. When excited listeners began requesting the spots more than songs in KDAY’s regular playlist, McKenzie River knew it had a winning marketing plan. In 1990, they landed pro–Black Muslim Ice Cube as their primary endorser. By the time Death Certificate was released, St. Ides was the ‘hood’s malt liquor of choice.

  KAGRO alone represented 3,500 stores in Southern California alone, had over 20,000 members who generated $2 billion in annual sales, and controlled roughly 7 percent of the national market. They demanded that McKenzie River withdraw all promotional materials and commercials featuring Ice Cube and to sever its relationship with him. On November 7, they reached an impasse in negotiations. McKenzie River declined KAGRO’s demands, saying it would financially damage their small company. KAGRO ordered its stores to return deliveries and cease orders. Yang II Kim, the national president of KAGRO, expressed sympathy in the Korea Times for McKenzie River’s business worries, but pointedly mentioned that the company had chosen the wrong rapper to work with.31

  At its peak, between five thousand and six thousand stores in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Oakland, San Jose, Seattle, Tacoma, Portland, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Richmond and Washington, D.C., honored the boycott.32 On November 16, McKenzie River finally conceded to KAGRO’s demands, ending the use of all ads that featured Ice Cube and agreeing not to use him for new promotions until the issue was resolved to KAGRO’s satisfaction. They also agreed to create a scholarship fund and a jobs program for Blacks with profits from the sales of St. Ides. KAGRO officially ended its boycott on November 20, three weeks after the release of Death Certificate.33

  Conciliation took place three months later. In early February, McKenzie River organized a joint meeting between Ice Cube and the KAGRO leadership. Ice Cube apologized to the merchants and pledged to discourage violence against store owners and to continue “working to bring our communities closer together.” In a follow-up letter to Kim, he wrote of the meeting:

  I explained some of the feelings and attitudes of Black people today, and the problems and frustrations that we confront. And I clarified the intent of my album Death Certificate. It was not intended to offend anyone or to incite violence of any kind. It was not directed at all Korean Americans or at all Korean American store owners. I respect Korean Americans. It was directed at a few stores where my friends and I have had actual problems. Working together we can help solve these problems and build a bridge between our communities.34

  Many Blacks debated passionately whether Cube had sold out, and at what point. Was it when he apologized to the Korean-American store owners? Was it when he let McKenzie River punk him after he had generated so much business for them? Was it when he endorsed a malt liquor beer while studying with the Nation of Islam?

  But Ice Cube was moving on; he was no utopian hard-liner. Lessons learned, points made, back to business. He resumed his St. Ides sponsorship deal, and donated all of the proceeds to charity, including a large monetary gift to the King-Drew Hospital, the same place he had indicted on “Alive on Arrival.” He pored over the movie scripts being offered to him.

  Within KAGRO, as in many other Korean- and Asian-American organizations, there had also been soul-searching. In January, KAGRO had adopted a ten-point code of behavior for its 3,200 store owners, an event that African-American and Asian-American activists hailed as a breakthrough. After their meeting, KAGRO conceded that Ice Cube had legitimate complaints and expressed hope that Blacks and Koreans would “help each other and learn to understand each other’s cultures.”35

  On November 15, Judge Joyce Karlin sentenced Soon Ja Du to just five years of probation. As she read her judgment, she seemed to go out of her way to lecture the African-American community. “This is not a time for revenge,” she said, “and it is not my job as a sentencing court to seek revenge for those who demand it.”36 The African-American community reacted with horror. Many Asian-American leaders, too, were shocked. Nobody had been asking for revenge.

  In South Central—where there were already three times the number of liquor stores as in the entire state of Rhode Island—community activists began to talk about a campaign to close liquor stores. African-American, Latino and Asian-American community leaders met behind closed doors to find common ground. But the trial of the four police officers who had beaten Rodney King was about to get underway in the 80 percent white community of Simi Valley, more than sixty miles to the north and there was now a gnawing sense that some kind of a disaster lay ahead.

  A picture of Ice Cube shaking hands with David Kim, the Southern California president of KAGRO, appeared on the cover of the Korea Times under the headline, ICE CUBE THE PEACEMAKER. Although the meeting had happened in February, the picture and story were appearing in the May 4, 1992, issue. It seemed, all at once, a tragic irony and a bittersweet celebration of a moment that now seemed so far away.

  The arc of history is that every

  generation has to fight the liberation

  struggle. And the time you’re on that

  historical stage is short.

  —Richie Perez

  LOOP 4

  Stakes Is

  High

  1992–2001

  Disposable futures. From the “Hip-Hop Poster Series.”

  Photo © Beuford Smith/Césaire

  The National Guard comes t
o Crenshaw Square. May 1, 1992.

  Photo © Ben Higa

  16.

  Gonna Work It Out

  Peace and Rebellion in Los Angeles

  REPORTER: Does Mr. King feel guilty about all the rioting that has taken place . . . Does Mr. King feel the guilt all upon his shoulders?

  STEVE LERMAN, ATTORNEY FOR RODNEY KING: Mr. King is proud to be an African-American man living in Los Angeles in 1992 and was proud to be so in 1991. The sense of violation and shame that these officers visited upon him is what he has distress in. He is not guilty for anything. The officers that beat Rodney King are the ones to concern themselves with guilt. Mr. King is innocent of wrongdoing.

  REPORTER: He doesn’t feel apologetic for anything?

  —Exchange at May 1 press conference

  By the time the Simi Valley jury delivered its verdict on April 29, 1992, in the trial of the four white officers who had beaten Rodney King, a gang truce had already been secured fifty miles away in the housing projects of Watts.

  Since the 1970s, gang peace workers had struggled to establish peace agreements between gangs in various neighborhoods and had been hobbled by the enormity of the problem. Gangs were growing and beefs were escalating much faster than the ability of any shoestring agency to keep up. Even if gang peace workers could get two gangs to agree to a peace, it did not automatically mean others would follow. Indeed, other gangs might figure that the peacemaking sets had given up their neighborhoods and that they were ripe for conquest.