Raising Hell

by Ronin Ro

  Darryl, Joe knew, wanted to attend his concerts but couldn’t since his mom was so strict. D tried, though. He’d face the shorter, older woman and say, “Russell’s giving a party, and I want to go with Joe and them. Can I go?”

  She’d reply, “No, you ain’t going over there. It’s bad over there! Go watch TV with your brother or go to sleep.”

  D would barge into his bedroom, slam his door, and actually cry. One night he even told himself, “I hope she die! I hope she get hit by a car!”

  Since Run usually made it a point to have someone in the crowd hold a recorder over his head and tape his latest gig, D was able to hear his concerts on late Sunday afternoon. Run would play him the tapes, and let D come to his attic to practice on his turntables. But one day, D surprised him. In his attic, Run saw a black-and-white notebook lying on a table. D always had it with him. Run lifted the book, flipped through a few pages, and saw dozens of rhymes. “Yo, who wrote these?” he asked.

  “I did. Why?”

  “Yo, they are incredible! When Russell lets me make a record I’m gonna put you down with me.”

  With Russell working to convince his friend from Billboard to record a song with Kurt, Run figured it was just a matter of time before his brother let him make a record too. But when that happened, he didn’t want to be alone onstage. His confident, abrasive facade concealed that he was racked with fears and doubts, and in need of moral support.

  As the summer of 1979 continued, Run and D spent more time together, and Run continued to tell D he’d someday join him in a group. They had a plan now, to record together, and spent so much time working on rhyme routines that D’s other friends became jealous. D would smoke and drink with them at his neighborhood hangout, the alley they called “the building,” until about six, leave without saying good-bye, and go to Run’s attic to record his latest rhymes. If Run started acting grumpy, D would rejoin his friends at “the building,” and notice some were angry. One night, Butter (who had introduced him to Run) went so far as to say, “Yo, why don’t you go over to your girl Joe’s house?” D understood that they wanted him to hang out more and didn’t like Run’s confident attitude, but he kept practicing and developing material with Run anyway.

  “I didn’t give a fuck,” D explained. “We were positive and negative. We worked. Everyone else was like, ‘D, how could you be around this motherfucker?’ I’m like, ‘That’s my man. We got something in common.’”

  Later that summer the duo made their way over to Solo Sounds’ jams in Two-Fifth Park (named after 205th Street). Solo Sounds included their friend Cool T, Davy DMX, and Hurricane (who had once hurled insults at Run and kicked Run’s ball, one Run confidant claimed). Solo Sounds was also, Hurricane said, “the hottest group in Hollis, Queens.”

  Run was going to change that. Performing shows with Kurtis, and sharing stages with some of the biggest acts in this burgeoning scene at famous clubs like Disco Fever, increased his confidence. Where he once endured taunts, now Joe was the aggressor, some people explained. Wearing the very latest styles, he told his former tormentors that in other boroughs, their sneakers, pants, or shirts were already considered old-fashioned. They got upset and wanted to fight, one person recalled, and Run either was hit or talked his way out of it.

  At a Solo Sounds jam in the park, Run would wait in the crowd of kids, hoping Hurricane or Cool T would let him perform. “He was more into wanting to be ‘seen’ on the mike and wanting the fame,” Hurricane explained, and though Run was cool with Davy now (he had introduced the DJ to Russell), Hurricane would still tell him, “Get out of here, man, you ain’t getting on the mike, beat it!”

  Chapter 5

  The Broken Arm

  In August 1979, Run saw Russell move closer to achieving his goal of convincing his Billboard friend Robert Ford to record with Kurtis Blow and not Eddie Cheeba. Russell invited Ford to Kurt’s August 31, 1979, show at the Hotel Diplomat near Times Square. That night, Kurtis rapped while Grandmaster Flash mixed records. Ford decided Kurt had star quality. By mid-September, Run (a freshman at Andrew Jackson High School in Hollis) saw Ford’s Billboard coworker, ad salesman J. B. Moore, become part of the project. Moore, a former bass player, composed a lyric about Santa in the ghetto. Russell and Ford accepted it, and Moore offered to invest $10,000 he’d saved in studio time at Big Apple Studios and for a group of musicians.

  They were midway through recording the story rap song “Christmas Rappin’” when New York radio stations started playing the Sugar Hill Gang’s fifteen-minute single “Rapper’s Delight.” The Jersey-based trio— Big Bank Hank (a former bouncer at a Bronx rap club), Wonder Mike, and Master Gee—were unknowns. But story raps, boasts, and crowd-pleasing chants over the melody line from Chic’s recent hit “Good Times” made “Rapper’s Delight” a pop hit that sold a remarkable 100,000 copies each week in New York alone. Though Sylvia and Joe Robinson, the couple who owned Sugar Hill Records, beat Russell to the punch, at Big Apple, Russ, Ford, Moore, Kurtis, and a group of session players kept working on Kurt’s record.

  “Kurtis had a voice like Melle Mel or Hollywood,” said bass player Larry Smith. “He had star quality. He didn’t say a lot or do a lot of tricks, but he had a voice.” Once they had a Chic-like groove on tape, Kurt recorded a vocal that fused a Christmas rap to party lyrics he and Run had performed onstage.

  Robert Ford then used his Billboard connections to contact twenty-three labels. All of them rejected Kurt’s song. Russell decided Polygram, which had Kool & the Gang, the Gap Band, and Parliament on its roster, would be a good place for Kurt.

  With test pressings of Kurt’s song in hand, Russell visited every major club and record store in Manhattan, Queens, Brooklyn, and the Bronx. He told everyone they could buy the single from Polygram. Stores placed orders with the major label, and Polygram executives wondered why they were receiving orders for a single by an artist that wasn’t signed to the label. The executives then noticed how many copies various record stores were ordering and wondered whether they should in fact sign Kurtis to a deal.

  New Polygram A & R guy John Stains in Los Angeles heard the song and told his bosses that the R & B promotions department could easily push lyrics about Santa to radio. “I can get your money back out of London,” he added. “Sign them up.” Polygram did, for $6,000, then released “Christmas Rappin’” on its Mercury imprint, and watched it quickly sell 100,000 copies.

  On Christmas Eve, with the Simmons family gathered around the tree and presents, Russell ran downstairs to yell that Frankie Crocker was playing the song on WBLS. And in early 1980, Kurt’s debut “Christmas Rappin’” sold another 300,000 copies.

  At home that winter, Run—who didn’t appear on the song— looked forward to DJing for Kurt and helping Kurt perform the hit in concert. Since D had taught him how to cut and mix, Run had been practicing with break beats “Keep Your Distance” and “Frisco Disco” or with Spoonie Gee’s new single, “Love Rap,” which was set to nothing but a beat. Run’s skill so improved that he amazed Russell with how he played Chic’s record “Good Times.” One day in the attic Russell watched Joe let the song’s title play. Then Joe cut to the next turntable and repeated the title: “Good Times.” Then he returned to the first: “Good Times.” Then the second—“Good”—then back again—“Good”—then back and forth until the two records said, “Good, good, good.” Then even f with him in “the building.” “He practiced every day.”

  With Kurt’s “Christmas Rappin’” a commercial hit, Run designed a stage show. He placed a copy of Kurt’s record on a turntable. When Kurt’s voice said, “I am the man called Kurtis Blow,” Run’s hand flew out and moved the disc back and forth: Kurt-Kurt-Kurt-Kurt Kurtis Blow.

  During their gigs, Joe performed this on his turntables to rile the crowd. Kurt stood backstage, out of view, waiting for the crowd to become hysterical. When they were yelling for him to take the stage, Kurt came into view, took his time crossing the stage, grabbed the microphone, then asked,
“What’s my name?”

  With Kurt becoming one of the genre’s first superstars, Joe felt things were looking up. His father even allowed him to travel with Kurt and Russell to play concerts in North Carolina, South Carolina, Detroit, Cleveland, and Baltimore. And in April 1980, Mercury wanted another single. J. B. Moore helped with the lyrics again, session players created another Chic-like groove, and Kurt rapped about hard times on “The Breaks.” Fans quickly bought 500,000 copies, making “The Breaks” the very first certified-gold rap record.

  Now Mercury wanted a Kurtis Blow album. And Russell told their father he didn’t want to study sociology anymore. Daniel Simmons objected: Russell was in his senior year, with only four or five credits to go, and a black man with no degree or job wouldn’t get anywhere in life. Russell felt guilty, as if he’d let his father down, but decided to follow his dream. Kurt’s career was taking off—the Commodores wanted Kurt to open during their big tour.

  Run was just as excited. He liked being on the road, away from Hollis, and performing for larger crowds. And doing this tour, he felt, would bring him money, let him see more of the country, and hopefully convince Russell to begin working on a DJ Run solo single.

  He was all ready for the tour, and the next phase of his career, when disaster struck. He was playing basketball with D and Butter in a church basement one night. Run got the ball and tried to shoot for the basket, but the larger, stocky Butter blocked the shot so roughly that Run fell to the court and shattered a bone in an arm. Everyone was stunned. His doctor put his arm in a cast, but Run told Russell he could still tour with Kurtis. Russell and Kurt talked about having Davy DMX from local crew Solo Sounds replace him. Run went to his attic to teach himself how to DJ with one arm. He didn’t want to lose the gig or his place in Kurt’s show, and actually managed to play records with one hand, but Russell and Kurt still tapped Davy DMX for the tour. During those weeks in 1980, Run sat at home with his arm in a cast, reflecting on how his exciting eighteen-month adventure as the Son of Kurtis Blow was over.

  Chapter 6

  Jason Mizell

  While Run’s arm healed, Russell became even more involved with the music industry. As Kurt’s manager, he booked shows, accompanied Kurt on the road (even traveling to Amsterdam), networked with other executives and rap artists in clubs in Manhattan, and worked with Robert Ford, J. B. Moore, Kurtis, musicians, and executives from Mercury Records on Kurtis Blow’s self-titled debut album, which Mercury wanted to release as soon as possible.

  Run and D meanwhile spent the summer of 1980 hanging in Two-Fifth Park, playing basketball until about 6:30. When the games ended, older people would head home, and Jason Mizell would arrive to throw another jam.

  Every street kid in Hollis knew Jason, who called himself Jazzy Jase and led a DJ crew called Two-Fifth Down. For the past two years he’d been impossible to ignore. Broad-shouldered, swaggering, Jason was the leader of the Hollis Crew. One night, D’s friend Butter, part of Jason’s crew, led D into the park and up to tough-looking Mizell. “Yo, this is my boy D,” Butter said.

  D faced Jason’s b-boy gear—sneakers, jeans, jewelry, and black mobster hat—in awe. “I’ve seen him around,” Jason said. “He’s the one who look like Hurricane.” They would have shaken hands, D recalled, but Jason was holding two large handguns, then started chasing some Five Percenters (an offshoot of the Nation of Islam) out of the neighborhood: “Yo, motherfuckers, take that shit out of here!” But afterward when D came to the park and saw Jason, they’d play ball.

  Jason Mizell came to Hollis from Brooklyn in 1975 with his mother, Connie (a teacher), his father, Jesse (a social worker), and his older half sister, Bonita (a high school student). Jason was ten years old, and nervous about gang members in denim jackets victimizing him and his public school classmates. But these thieves took their lunch money once too often. One night in 1975, young Jason told his friends, “Yo, fuck that, man!” He outlined a plan to get the thieves off their backs. The next day Jason and his friends stood in front of their public school, flashing money. The thieves took the bait, but Jay and his pals, as a team, beat the hell out of them. “It was a turning point,” Jay explained.

  In 1980, Jason attended Andrew Jackson High, and though he was a grade behind Run, Jason continued to lead his crew and command the respect of the entire student body—they had to stay on his good side. Jason and his crew marched through the school hallways like an army, had teachers and security guards asking them to break up fights, took over benches in Hollis Park, and dealt with gang members and kept having it out with Five Percenters.

  The Five Percenters harassed Jay and his crew because they supposedly objected to the petty crimes some of Jason’s friends committed in the neighborhood. Jason meanwhile felt some of these Five Percenters were committing their own crimes. One day, Jason saw a few of them intimidating kids in Andrew Jackson High and decided he’d had enough.

  Jason told these Five Percenters to leave these kids alone. One slugged him in the face. Word quickly spread through the halls, and before Jason could stop them, his loyal friend Hurricane organized a posse. In school the next day, they confronted these Five Percenters, and a melee ensued in the hallway. Someone, it’s unclear who, pulled a gun and fired a shot. Jason saw Hurricane stumble. “Why the fuck am I falling down?” Hurricane remembered thinking. Jay grabbed his friend, who had been shot in the leg. “I got you, ’Cane,” he said, leading him away. “You’re all right.”

  Despite his tough crowd, Jason was a bright student. He attended class with the school’s most intelligent students and earned high grades. And at home, he refrained from cursing, played drums and guitar, showed an interest in philosophy, and listened to his parents warn that some of his friends were no good. But once he got outside, these friends continued to ensnare him in their troubles. Some—including his pal Randy Allen, also originally from Brooklyn—reportedly liked to burglarize homes in the nearby affluent, predominantly white neighborhood Jamaica Estates. “We’d take everything,” another member of this burglary crew told Playboy. “Jewelry, guns, money, drugs, stereo equipment, televisions—even food for a meal afterward.” The crew knew Jay’s father Jesse Mizell was a decent man, and didn’t want to get Jay in trouble, so they generally kept Jay out of it. “But Jay held stuff in his basement, where his parents didn’t go,” this person claimed.

  When Jesse asked Jay whether he was committing crimes with these kids (as a social worker, Jesse knew all about peer pressure), Jay told him, “Nah, I ain’t messing with nothing. I’m cool. I’m doing everything right, Dad, for real.”

  One night in 1980, on Hollis Avenue, a friend ran up to Jay and reported that he and some others had robbed a doctor’s house in Jamaica Estates. Suddenly a detective ran toward them. His friend bolted, and Jay did the same, but the detective caught and arrested Jay, despite the fact that witnesses to the burglary described seeing a light-skinned black man with an Afro, attired in blue and black clothing, while Jay was dark, with a Caesar haircut, and wearing green clothing and sneakers. At a nearby police precinct, police officers asked for his telephone number. Ashamed and frightened of what his parents would say, Jay at first claimed he didn’t have a phone.

  A court sent Jason to Spofford, a juvenile prison in the South Bronx where older inmates supposedly took younger inmates’ sneakers, and sodomized them. To prepare for his stay, Jay later explained, “I said to myself, ‘I’m going to love it here. I’m going to love someone bothering me. I’m going to love the fights I get into. I’m going to love it all.’” He was eager to use his fists, make an example of someone; instead, he befriended other inmates and had the time of his life. “It looked like school facilities. Pool table, Ping-Pong, and basketball in the backyard.”

  Four days later, his father picked him up. After a silent drive back to Hollis, his mother, Connie—a God-fearing woman—asked if other inmates had mistreated him. To avoid upsetting her, Jay said, “I had a lot fun, Mom.”

  In tears, she repeate
d, “You had a lot of fun?”

  Seeing her cry inspired Jason to instantly change his life. He bought a $39 mixer, and invited highly intelligent former classmate Jeff Fluud (rapping in parks as “King Ruler”) and a few other DJs to perform with him as Two-Fifth Down.

  Though Jason dropped out of school (to avoid more battles with Five Percenters), Run saw the rough-mannered kid attend meetings Russell now held in the Simmons family’s basement. During these informal talks, Jason and other local residents discussed local happenings, music, and new developments in their lives. “People would come and have talks,” Jay’s cousin Doc (born Ryan Thompson) remembered. “They were meetings of the mind where they kicked facts and enlightened each other about life in general.”

  Jason continued to hang with old friends, but was nonviolent. If Doc felt someone got out of line during one of his weekend visits to Jay’s home, and yelled, “Yo, I’m cracking some heads,” Jay quickly said, “Yo, chill. He messed up, but chill. Let’s not do that.” The focus, he reminded everyone around him, was on music, DJing at parties.

  Jason’s Two-Fifth Down displaced Davy DMX’s Solo Sounds as the best-known DJ crew in Hollis in 1980, and Run wanted Jay to DJ for them. One afternoon in the park, Run and D watched Jay and his friends emerge from his back door, which faced the park. After lugging armloads of equipment across a neighbor’s backyard and into the park, Jason and his friends set everything up, plugged a cord into an electrical outlet in the redbrick Parks Department building in the center of the park, and played music that drew a crowd of three hundred. As Jason played break beats that night, most of the three hundred people wanted to get on the microphone. Jason handed out three mikes, and saw three aspiring rap artists try to rap at the same time. Run waited for his turn, seeing some of his detractors conspicuously hand the mike to anyone but him. “It was even hard for Joe to get on at Two-Fifth Park,” D recalled, but Jay usually made sure Run did.