by Ronin Ro
They stood in front of a brick wall: Run on the right, in profile with hands tucked in his jeans pockets; D to the left, leaning over, hands stiffly at his side; Jay between them, shorter, holding his belt buckle with both hands. At the last minute some neighborhood toughs in a passing car saw them posing and sneered, “So what, niggas!” Run was crushed, and it showed in his eyes.
Larry felt Davy would be a better DJ but accepted that Run had his reasons for wanting Jay. “He would be like the ghetto pass,” Run admitted. “You with Jay, everything’s cool. I won’t say protection, but Hollis was rough. If you ran with Jay, he had everything under control.”
But Jay needed a better stage name, one that people wouldn’t confuse with Jazzy Jay, who performed with Afrika Bambaataa’s group the Soulsonic Force. “I called him Jam Master Jay,” said D.M.C. “ ’Cause he’s the master of the record and the master of the party.”
Two months had passed since they signed the deal with Profile, and Run was impatient. He wanted everyone to hear his record, so one morning he slipped into an ill-fitting plaid jacket, combed his pork-chop Afro out, and led a friend to the Jamaica Bus Terminal, where everyone waited for the Q2 bus. “And homeboy was out there with his giant JVC Biphonic box playing ‘Sucker MCs,’” Finesse, a DJ and neighborhood friend of Run’s, recalled. The radio belonged to D.M.C., and while Run stood, another of Run’s friends—not Finesse—sat and pointed at Run. “Yo, yo, this is my man’s shit,” this other person, Run’s companion, yelled. “Yo, this is my man right here! My man Run!”
Run started mouthing the words to the song. “It was funny,” Finesse continued, “ ’cause we were standing in a terminal.”
People were used to radios playing well-known records. If they didn’t hear familiar beats or songs, they paid no mind. “But he was playing ‘Sucker MCs’ and everybody sitting around the Q2 bus stop was just sitting there, looking at him, like ‘okay.’” Like Run had a big ego and craved attention and adulation. “You know?”
Profile released “It’s Like That”/“Sucker MCs” in May 1983.
“It was out there and it wasn’t really reacting right away ’cause it was so different,” Cory Robbins said. “Every week it would sell like 500 copies.”
Run and D did what they could to let people know about their record, including traveling to Adelphi University on Long Island (fifteen minutes from Hollis) for their first radio interview, on radio station WBAU with Bill Stephney. Run and D.M.C. were familiar with the station’s rap shows and energetic rap tapes promoting various programs. They entered the station (Jam Master Jay wasn’t with them) and met hosts of other WBAU shows, including members of a Long Island DJ crew called Spectrum City, who threw parties, and were at the station that night to meet Run and D, whose record the DJ crew loved playing.
Butch Cassidy, who rapped alongside Chuck D in Spectrum City and cohosted Chuck’s radio show, explained that he had been at the Encore nightclub in Queens and heard a DJ play “It’s Like That.” Since the Encore’s DJ hadn’t mentioned the song’s title, Cassidy had told people at WBAU, “Yo, the beat was big. It sounded a little bit like ‘Action’ and it had cats rapping over it.” A day later, another WBAU associate, aspiring producer Keith Shocklee, brought a promotional copy of Run-D.M.C.’s record to WBAU and told everyone, “Yo, man. Listen to this.”
As “It’s Like That” played, Butch Cassidy yelled, “Yo, that’s the cut they played last night at Encore.” WBAU host Bill Stephney, whose show mixed punk records with rap singles, loved what he heard and immediately made WBAU the first station to play both of Run-D.M.C.’s songs. “Many of Run-D.M.C.’s friends in Hollis and southeast Queens called the station to say Run-D.M.C. wanted to come on the show,” said Stephney, a former freelance writer who met Russell Simmons in 1980 while trying to arrange an interview with Kurtis Blow. “Then I found out Run was Russell’s little brother and told them, ‘Well of course, come on up!’”
At WBAU for their interview, Run and D posed for one or two quick photos before sitting in front of the station mike. Stephney kept praising the stripped-down sound of “Sucker MCs.” “This thing is beyond anything,” Stephney told them. “This is like a revolution on wax. How do you guys feel?”
Run and D didn’t provide many eloquent answers. “They were shy, nervous kids,” Spectrum City member and Run-D.M.C. fan Chuck D remembered. “We joked that the record said more than they did: ‘Two years ago a friend of mine…’” Off the air, however, Run and D joined everyone at WBAU—Bill Stephney, Chuck D, local DJs Hank and Keith Shocklee—for a spirited conversation about the rap genre, what fans liked best, and the direction they felt the music was heading.
Kids on the street loved the beat on “Sucker MCs,” but major radio stations ignored the song. Run and Jam Master Jay decided to get involved. “We started calling WBLS,” Run admitted.
Jay requested the song and told station employees his name was Jim or Jason Murdock. “Making up a lie like they were gonna know,” Run quipped.
Within minutes, the radio DJ said, on the air: “We’re getting ready to play ‘It’s Like That,’ Jim.”
Run yelled, “Oh my God! They’re gonna play our record!” He called D.
It was about 8:00 p.m., and at home, D was listening to the same station. The DJ said, “Here’s something brand new.” The song began, and he was stunned. “Ma! I’m on the radio! Come listen! Yo, check it out! Yo! Alford!” The family gathered around the radio, and the telephone rang. D answered and heard Run yell, “D! It’s, it’s…”
“I know, I know!” he shouted back. “I’ll call you back afterward.”
The station played “It’s Like That” every three hours. “And it started selling more copies and we got the next station to play it,” said Profile president Cory Robbins. “It was bigger. Then we got the third big station to play it. It was even bigger.”
But radio continued to ignore the B-side, “Sucker MCs.” If WBLS played it, it was as backdrop for a commerical for Kamikaze motorcycles. Run-D.M.C. and Jam Master Jay did their part to draw fans to their first single. They spent weekends riding in producer and road manager Larry Smith’s Cadillac, performing five shows a night in just as many cities. After picking them up in Hollis, Larry would drive a hair-raising 90 miles per hour to get them to Boston on time. While the group set up Jay’s turntables, Larry would collect their performance fee from the promoter. After this show, they would load everything back into Larry’s car and speed toward clubs in Connecticut (Hartford, New Haven, and Greenwich). Once these shows were finished, they rushed to gigs in the Bronx and Westchester, then ended the night onstage at Manhattan’s Roxy. Back in his car, Larry would then hand each member a stack of bills, said D.M.C.; “then Larry would get so happy because he was going to the Fever.” Jay and D would go with him, while Run rushed home to his pregnant wife, Valerie.
The hectic touring paid off. Listeners started calling radio stations to request “Sucker MCs.” “Then one of the stations started playing ‘Sucker MCs’ and that started getting big,” said Cory Robbins. “And KISS used to have the Top 8 at eight and ‘It’s Like That’ was in the Top 8 every night. Then it was number one. Then ‘Sucker MCs’ was number one.” Within six weeks, Robbins said, “it was selling 10,000 copies a week. But it was not instant.”
At St. John’s University, D.M.C. heard schoolmates play “It’s Like That” and “Sucker MCs” on the school’s PA system. Then Russell called to say he had booked a show in North Carolina, a state Russell had visited while managing Kurtis Blow. D.M.C. figured it was a good time to tell his parents he wanted to take a leave of absence from college. “I want to make records,” he told them.
They weren’t happy, but understood that his music career was taking off. “All right,” his father, Byford, answered. “Take a leave of absence. But remember you’re going to go back. You’re going to go back to it.” For nineteen-year-old D, the one-day trip to North Carolina was a good way to give his parents time to get used to the idea
of him leaving school.
Run-D.M.C. and Jam Master Jay arrived at a mostly black high school to perform at a concert thrown by a local radio station. Run was nervous and hesitant to enter, but Jam Master Jay grabbed his big portable radio, started blasting a tape of a beat he’d cut up on his turntables, and then marched into the venue. Run and D.M.C. followed. The waiting crowd cheered at the sight of them. On an outdoor stage, they ignored the dark skies and wintry chill in the air, rushed headlong into “It’s Like That,” and saw the black audience go crazy.
The next night, back in New York City, they played a show Russell had booked in the four-story downtown Manhattan club Danceteria, which usually held concerts by artists on Sugar Hill Records. “There were about sixty weird niggas in here and some weird-looking motherfuckers, a whole lot of punk people,” Jay said later. They did “It’s Like That” and “Sucker MCs” on a small, cramped stage and saw this mostly white crowd react as fervently as the audience down south.
Chapter 8
Disco Fever
Russell booked them at the Disco Fever, a small, rowdy club in the South Bronx that was a favorite watering hole for many of the rappers Run and D enjoyed hearing on tapes. Russell had been going there for years to hang with Flash, party, and hand house DJ June Bug test pressings of singles he was promoting.
The Fever was an all-star place: Flash and Love Bug Starski DJed there, and everyone from Melle Mel to Busy Bee to the Treacherous Three to Kurtis rocked the mike. The Fever also attracted a tough crowd: violent drunks, dusted b-boys, drug dealers, and stickup kids who robbed departing patrons at gunpoint. Run and D were glad Jay would join them for the show. Jay knew many drug lords from Queens who partied at the club, so once the drug lords saw Jay was with Run-D.M.C., the drug lords would protect Jay and the group.
Before the show, Run and D discussed what to wear. Since b-boys now wore plaid pants, Run suggested plaid blazers. Instead of going to Jamaica Avenue to buy one, D pulled a jacket out of his father’s closet. He tried it on and instinctively knew it looked wack, but still asked Run what he thought. Run already had misgivings about the tartan jacket he planned to wear, but on the eve of the show, both decided they looked fine.
Jay looked forward to the show as well. He’d been going to the Fever for years and had looked to the club for inspiration before he and Hollis friend Randy Allen started promoting parties. He couldn’t wait to enter their state-of-the-art DJ booth and show the Bronx how Hollis threw down. And since Larry always went on about the club’s turntables, Jay was even more excited.
Before the big day, Jay told Larry to pick him up at six. The day of the show, Jay dressed in his best b-boy gear: a black leather suit, a new pair of Adidas, and a black velour hat like something out of The Godfather.
That afternoon, D and Run waited for Larry to arrive in his giant light blue 1978 Cadillac Coupe DeVille. Both wore ill-fitting jackets with checked patterns. D’s was beige and brown; Run’s, white, black, and gray. With his, D wore a beige mock turtleneck sweater and dark jeans. Run had a black shirt and baggy white pants. D’s hair had grown out into a short Afro, while Run’s own Afro was pretty tall, and long sideburns made him look eccentric.
Larry’s ride pulled up at 4:30 p.m. and Run and D saw Spyder D in the car. They liked Spyder’s single, “Smerphie’s Dance,” and knew flyers called him the “King of Queens.” They also knew Russell was managing him.
The older rapper said, “What’s up?”
Larry said they had to get going.
The first stop was a club called Lola’s in New Jersey. The group looked forward to rocking a young crowd but saw older yuppies and secretaries in suits, ties, dresses, and shoes. D shook his head with contempt. “The first thing we did was like a little press conference,” Spyder recalled. “It was one of them after-work clubs with more of a suit-and-tie crowd, and there were members of the press there because everybody was waiting to see this group that the radio kept playing. So Run and D were nervous.”
Larry ushered them toward the stage, and they noticed Lola’s had only one microphone. Performing “It’s Like That” would be a nightmare, since they shared sentences and yelled certain words in tandem. Since Larry hadn’t picked Jay up for this show—why Larry didn’t remains unknown—someone, its unclear who, played Run-D.M.C.’s record, and Run and D did what they could. D stood right near Run. Russell watched from the audience, looking angrier about every word. Run finished his part, and D grabbed the mike, did his part, then shoved it back, hoping they didn’t mess up or skip any words. “It was kind of embarrassing,” Spyder said. “D’s glasses fell off. They were kind of standing there and had on these plaid jackets. D still had his ‘very big’ glasses on and the lens fell out and broke.”
After the show, Russell griped about how stiff they looked.
Back in Larry’s Cadillac, Larry yelled, “Y’all were wack! Yo, y’all do the Fever like that tonight y’all gonna get shot! New Edition was in there last week and they were wack and they started shootin’!”
Spyder tapped Larry on the shoulder. “Yo; yo, Larry, don’t tell them this. We need to be pumping them up.”
They traveled to a skating rink in Yonkers for the next show. Jay wouldn’t be at this performance, either, because the shows were booked back to back, with no time for Larry to drive to Jay’s home and pick him up, or even to stop at a pay phone to call Jay and say they wouldn’t be coming to get him. “I performed ‘Smerphie’s Dance,’” Spyder said; then he faced the predominantly black teenage audience and said, “I appreciate the love but I know y’all really came to see my homies from Hollis!” For minutes, he stirred the crowd. “They not coming out until they can hear y’all from all the way back in the dressing room.” The longer he spoke, the more this adolescent audience wanted Run-D.M.C. “They came out and when D said ‘Un-em-ploy-ment!’ they went crazy. They lost their minds.”
Minutes earlier Run and D had been sulking. Now their confidence was back. After their set, Run asked Spyder, “How did you do that? At least I got D onstage with me. How do you come out performing by yourself?”
Spyder answered, “You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t get the jitters. But if you’re playing a club and your record’s hot or all over the radio, you can’t be anything but good because they already love you.”
Larry pulled up to the Fever on Jerome Avenue. Run and D waited while Larry called Jay to tell him they had gone to do a show in Jersey first. Larry then told Jay that he could not drive out to Queens to pick Jay up and bring him to the Fever to join Run-D.M.C. onstage. Even if Jay wanted to come there on his own, he’d arrive after they performed.
Run and D learned Jam Master Jay wouldn’t be coming and that Jay had sounded distraught on the phone. He had been pacing in his house and on his porch all day. He was in his new outfit and everything. When he realized he wouldn’t actually be playing the Fever, Jay sounded like he was about to cry.
Why Jam Master Jay never attended their earlier concerts is unknown. Larry picked Run and D up at 4:30 p.m. that day, and told Jay he would pick him up at 6:30 p.m. Maybe the show in Jersey was added at the last minute, or maybe the skating-rink appearance was booked quickly. Besides, Run and D’s producers figured that Jay wasn’t an active part of creating any music, that he was in the group simply to help Run-D.M.C. perform their songs in public, and that even if Jay couldn’t come to a show (like at the Fever), they could easily tap someone like the Fever’s in-house DJ, Kool Kyle the Star Child, to take Jay’s place: DJs—unless they were like Grandmaster Flash, whose name came first in his group’s name—were basically interchangeable. But again, why Jay did not attend the group’s first shows is unknown.
Run and D entered the Fever, passing the giant bouncer Mandingo and a metal detector, and met Sal, a cheerful young Italian guy with a mustache and a chain that read “King of Disco Fever.” On the second floor they faced people laughing at their outfits. Since their publicity photo had not been widely circulated to the public, denizen
s of the Fever simply viewed them as two kids in funny old-fashioned jackets. “ ’Cause they didn’t know who the fuck we were,” said D.
They passed a bar on their right, a photo booth, the dance floor, and more people laughing. Their confidence slipped. D soon faced his Pumas while Run’s eyes landed on his own black-striped Adidas.
People in the Fever wore custom-made leather outfits, sparkles, rhinestones, knee-high boots, pointed shoes, button-up shirts, slick wet jheri curls, and jewelry. Some snorted blow off little coke spoons. Still more scowled at the passersby. “Seventy-five percent of the Fever was coked the fuck out,” Melle Mel once said.
Backstage, Run and D felt self-conscious about their plaid jackets and about Jay’s absence. Then someone announced, “Here they are, Run-D.M.C.! These guys have a new record out. From Queens, New York: Run-D.M.C.” They walked onto the ten-by-twenty-five-foot stage and heard people in the crowd grumble about them being from Queens.
“They were hating,” said Hurricane, the same way they did at most parties, when they’d grab the mike and say, “Bronx is in the house, Brooklyn’s in the house, uptown’s in the house,” and neglect to mention the city’s largest borough.
In front of the club’s famous sign—black with red and white letters calling the Fever home to Flash, Hollywood, June Bug, Kool Kyle, Kurtis, Sequence, Starski, Sugar Hill, and Sweet Gee—Run and D faced this silent, disapproving crowd. “They were really mad that motherfuckers from Queens were getting big,” D said.
A few people laughed derisively, and they felt like bolting from the stage. But Kyle played “It’s Like That.” D noticed specific audience members frowning, and both he and Run pointed their fingers right near their faces. “You should have gone to school!” D yelled at one. “You could have learned a trade!” he raged at another. But the song fueled antigroup sentiment. While the crowd grumbled, Kyle quickly dropped “Sucker MCs,” and a few ladies moaned, “Ow! That’s the jam!”