by Ronin Ro
In a nearby emergency room, she filled out forms. After twenty minutes, he told his mother, “Ma. They have to take me now. They got to.” But the clerk at the desk told her D had to wait his turn. Twenty minutes later, a nurse led them to a bed behind a curtain, and after another fifteen minutes, a doctor arrived. “Lie back,” the doctor instructed.
D.M.C. couldn’t do it. He also didn’t let the doctor probe his abdomen.
“Do you drink?” the doctor asked.
“Yeah. Beer, malt liquor.”
“How much do you drink a day?”
“Twelve forties.”
The wide-eyed doctor told D.M.C.’s mother, “He’s not going home.” He then told a nurse: “Put him on an IV.”
In bed, D.M.C. suffered more. They wouldn’t give him painkillers until they learned what ailed him. Nurses kept taking his blood. The next morning at 11:00, the doctor diagnosed him with pancreatitis, an inflamed pancreas. “Thank God it wasn’t your liver,” the doctor added. “This is treatable.”
D.M.C. again asked for a painkiller.
The doctor said no, but he’d receive vitamins through an IV.
D spent three weeks in a hospital bed, trying to ignore the pain that returned whenever he inhaled. At night, he couldn’t sleep; he’d watch Leave It to Beaver at 4:00 a.m. and reflect on his years with Run-D.M.C.—boozing, fast food, big plans, stress, and being broke. Before he finally left the hospital, the doctor said if he drank again, the pain would return, and the illness might even prove fatal.
After his release, D.M.C. traveled to Germany to join Run and Jay for a show. On the tour bus, he watched Run, Jay, and the road crew drink, smoke weed, and eat junk food. Now D watched and thought, “Dag. How can they do that?” Run tried to bond with him by offering a glass of wine. “Here, D,” he said. “Take a sip. It ain’t gonna hurt you.” D did, only to bolt from the bus and into a nearby Burger King to use the restroom. He returned, and decided he would never drink again. “He definitely changed his life,” Hurricane remembered. “He was quiet after that. He didn’t really hang around too much.”
Run was going through his own changes. One night in late autumn 1991, in his darkened hotel room after a show, he couldn’t sleep. Bathed in the flickering glow of a television he had on for company more than anything else, he sat and watched white televangelist Robert Tilton tell an audience that if they turned their backs on God, things would surely go wrong. Tilton asked his crowd, and viewers, to bow their heads and pray. Run did, and felt at peace. After praying, he considered the room—empty save for fancy furnishings—and felt he could change his life.
He kept watching Tilton’s program at night and donated huge sums of money to the televangelist. D said he donated everything he owned; Run said, “I gave a lot. I was doing it weekly, monthly, $1,000, $2,000, $10,000, $2,000, $5,000.”
The turn in Run’s life didn’t surprise D. “Even when we were little, and used to walk around Jamaica Avenue or Forty-second Street, he would stop to listen to the street preachers.” He would say, “D, I’ll be right here.” D would say, “Okay, I’m gonna get a forty.” When D returned with his brown-bagged bottle he’d ask Run, “You ready?” Run would answer, “No, let me sit.”
During the winter of 1991, a bodyguard told the twenty-eight-year-old Run that he should come by his church, Zoë Ministries. Run, who had seen its Bishop E. Bernard Jordan on television, agreed to visit the church (on 103rd Street and Riverside Drive, on Manhattan’s Upper West Side), but did so one morning while high on marijuana.
The bishop put his hands on Run’s shoulders and said, “I see success coming toward you in the air. I see prosperity. I see things turning around for you.” Run was confused, Bishop Jordan added, trying to find his way; but Jordan assured Run that he hadn’t come there by mistake; God had led him there, and God was saying, even now, he’d be back on his feet in no time. “Things shall turn for you,” Jordan continued. “You were on the right track once you walked through this door, young man.” And the bishop knew all about positive changes. He had quit his job at the post office, started his church with five people, preached that God helped those who donated gifts to His prophets and trusted in God to watch over contributors. Jordan’s ministry thrived and he became a millionaire. “Get ready for a new life now!” the bishop told Run, who started crying.
Run continued to attend services at Zoë Ministries, and felt he was healing: becoming obedient, humble, and dedicated to the church. But Tracy Miller recalled, “People were turned off by that.” Run ignored their disapproval and made an honest effort to stop smoking marijuana. He relapsed but kept trying. Soon he could be seen carrying a Bible.
By February 1992, about three months after he had begun attending Zoë Ministries, Run had a new girlfriend, and he would marry her days before his trial began. Her name was Justine, and he’d known her in high school. A mutual friend had reconnected them, and they’d become inseparable. “She’s just one of the sweetest people you’ll ever meet,” said photographer and friend Glen Friedman.
They married in Zoë Ministries on Valentine’s Day. “My reception was at the bishop’s house and then we went to Hawaii,” Run said. And Tracy Miller remembered, “I think I actually put something in Billboard.”
With his trial about to start, Run’s lawyer told him that neither D.M.C., Jam Master Jay, nor any of the road crew should be present in the courtroom during the trial. They should only have his mother, Evelyn; his father, Daniel; Russell; and any witnesses they’d call.
In mid-February, Run flew back to Cleveland and sat in court listening to his accuser allege she was forced to perform oral sex. “The girl made a convincing witness as she laid out her tale against Run,” D opined in King of Rock, though he may not actually have been present when the woman testified.
On February 21, 1992, a friend of the alleged victim took the stand to say the accuser had once bragged about making up a similar story about another man, and to imply that her accusation against Run was just as false. “I think her friend said she made up a story and asked her to collaborate and then her whole story fell apart and the judge threw [the case against Run] out,” said Tracy Miller. The judge dismissed it with prejudice so the charges could never be brought up again. “I beat it,” Run explained. “It was a lie. Bottom line, it was crap.”
Everyone congratulated Run on his victory and called his accuser an opportunist. But D.M.C. said, “I don’t know. I don’t know. All I can say is this. We were fucking everything. And I say ‘we.’ We were fucking, we were taking drugs, we were sniffing coke; we were bugging. Sex, drugs, and rock’n’ roll to the fullest. It was a way of life for everybody involved in all our tours. And you can’t be ashamed of it. I’m glad we came out of it. I’m glad Run ain’t in jail.”
With the accusation behind Run, and D no longer drinking, they still had to find ways to earn money: management’s latest dispute with Profile still wore on. Run and D decided to appear in television commercials for a service called “1-800-Yes-Credit.” When someone at Rolling Stone told publicist Tracy Miller about the low-budget ad, which did not include Jay, she was appalled. “Oh, I thought it was horrible,” she said, but when she actually saw the commercial, she felt compassion for the once-proud group. Run, she figured, had asked D to do it, and D had submissively gone along with the idea. Runny Ray meanwhile suspected “Russell had something to do with that,” and he was just as incredulous. Watching the commercial in his home, Ray shouted, “These niggas! Get the fuck out of here!” The commercial was yet another odd and disquieting career development that had some rap fans predicting Run-D.M.C. were over. But it was also, Jay’s cousin Doc explained, “another venture to bring income.”
During 1992, Jay continued to enjoy success with JMJ Records but worried a few close friends by hiring his old pal Randy Allen to act as the label’s bookkeeper. Randy had just been released from prison, Doc recalled. Jay ignored questions from other friends about his decision; hiring Randy was a way to help an old
friend land and keep a legitimate job.
Doc had known Randy since junior high school in Brooklyn, and remembered when Randy’s family moved to the same Hollis neighborhood as the Mizell family. Randy was also reportedly a member of the burglary crew that in 1980 had burglarized a home in Jamaica Estates, Queens; Jay’s accidental companionship with one member that night got him arrested. “He would do things that certain people didn’t appreciate,” Doc said of Randy. “Jason’s father, my uncle Jesse, God bless his soul, never liked Randy.” Whenever Jesse caught Randy in his house visiting Jay, Doc claimed, “Randy would flee from the neighborhood.”
While Jay’s star began to rise, along with Run-D.M.C.’s, Randy Allen experienced a number of setbacks. His older brother Frankie— also reportedly a member of the burglary crew—died of a drug overdose. Randy was then imprisoned for a reported felony (the details of which remain murky). But Jam Master Jay remembered the old Randy, the friend who accompanied him to Disco Fever to see how the Bronx nightclub did things when Jay wanted to start promoting parties. Jay wanted to be loyal to Randy, Doc recalled, so he mailed Randy food and clothing, and regularly visited him, while Randy was in prison. “After he was released, he went straight to live with Jason,” Doc said, and felt offended if anyone tried to get close to Jay. “He didn’t want anybody in Jason’s ear but him, basically.” Jay was soon separated from the Hollis Crew and the Afros, he added.
By late 1992, Jay was working with a new JMJ signing, a group called Onyx. The bald and menacing trio of rappers—who yelled lyrics about firing guns—had released a single on Profile in 1989 called “Aw, We Do It Like This” but were then working in a barbershop called New Tribe in South Side Jamaica, Queens. “Cutting hair,” said Doc.
Jay enjoyed their demo tape, signed them to JMJ, and saw their 1993 debut, BacDaFucup, quickly sell a million copies. “What Run-D.M.C. was going through was a little setback, but he was still making money,” said Doc.
At the same time, Jay teamed with talented designer April Walker for the clothing line Walker Wear—the very first by a rap artist— and asked Public Enemy’s entrepreneurial leader Chuck D—who was a master at coining catchy phrases, including his description of rap as “the black CNN”—for marketing advice. Chuck, then planning his own label P.R.O. Division and a fashion line called Rapp-style, was honored. “Damn,” he thought. “Jay asking me.”
Like Onyx’s debut, Walker Wear was another success: “Jason was the first one, before all these other lines,” his cousin Doc stressed. “Every celebrity was wearing Walker Wear,” and Russell soon wanted to buy in, he recalled. “Jason and April Walker were like, ‘Nah.’ April was telling me, ‘Russell wants to try to buy up the whole clothing line.’ I said, ‘April, you worked too hard to do this. You don’t sell out like that.’ I don’t care, Russell, whoever.” Russell Simmons soon unveiled his own clothing line, Phat Farm.
By late 1992, Run, down to his last $1,000, wondered if he’d have enough money for Christmas presents and a tree. Then two days before Christmas, Bishop Jordan and another preacher asked the congregation of Zoë Ministries for money. For months, the bishop had read Run Bible stories about people giving priests all their food and had asked, “Do you believe the Bible? I’m the prophet. You guys are broke. Give me your last and you will eat for the rest of your days.”
Run used to think, “This guy is gonna jerk me.”
That day, December 23, 1992, Run thought: “I’ve got no other choice. I’ve got to believe in something.”
Sitting with Justine and the kids, he wondered if he should really donate the last of his money. “I owe all this stuff,” he thought. “I’m getting myself together and I have a little bit of money in my pocket but I’m basically just surviving from week to week. I’ve got money, but I don’t even have enough for a ‘real Christmas.’”
Still, he had faith in God. He rose to his feet, walked to the front of the church, and donated all the money he had on him: “I still had no idea how my family was gonna make it through the holidays,” he recalled, “but somehow I knew we would prevail.” A few days later, he learned that his accountant had a royalty check for Run-D.M.C.; but Run still continued to endure hard times.
As 1993 began, the dispute with Profile Records hadn’t yet been resolved. Run-D.M.C.’s managers—Russell, and employees like Lyor Cohen of Rush Management—wanted more royalty points and for the group to have more publishing rights. While their last two albums hadn’t attracted as many consumers, “Walk This Way” remained one of the most-aired videos on MTV. Since the owner of a song’s publishing was paid whenever the song was performed live or broadcast on television or radio, “Walk This Way” alone had the potential to earn them a fortune.
But Profile was supposedly adamant about retaining rights, so Run hoped God would bless him with money. D meanwhile lived off dwindling savings, and Jay saw the IRS place a lien on all of his earnings for nonpayment of back taxes and penalties. Run-D.M.C. were not enjoying success. And the little money Jay received for performing a few small shows here and there was not enough to settle his tax problems.
By August 1993, Run had filed for bankruptcy. “I can’t talk about that,” Run said when asked during an interview for this work, but the filing delayed the renegotiation with Profile. Then D filed as well. In court, both Run and D maintained they were broke. And Profile publicist Tracy Miller said that people at Profile speculated, “There was a lot of talk that the only reason Russell was having them file for bankruptcy was so they could get out of their legal obligations, including their recording contract, that it was just another ploy to get them off the label.”
Reporters called Profile to ask about the filing. Profile and Rush executives were threatening lawsuits and she couldn’t divulge much information, but Tracy Miller did try to defend Run-D.M.C.’s image; she didn’t want the general public “to view them as, you know, losers. It’s like, ‘Oh, if you’re that successful and that talented, then why are you broke?’ I thought it was a bad reflection on them and it really wasn’t their fault.”
With Profile battling their filings in bankruptcy court, D finally decided to take Run’s advice and visit Run’s church. Run was now a deacon. For two years he had been telling D.M.C.: “You need to come, you need to come.” D.M.C. decided to try it. Sitting in the church on 103rd and Riverside in 1993, D watched the bishop say, “Whoever wants to give their life to God, come up to the front.” D.M.C. thought, “All right, I’ll go up there and say the words because that’s part of everyday churchgoing.” He walked to the altar and the preacher prayed over him. “D.M.C. was going to church and he was happy,” said Larry Smith, who also somehow made his way to Zoë Ministries and regularly attended services. And Run was happy to see D.M.C. there. He was “getting more spiritual,” Run recalled, and they were working together. “I was a deacon. So was D.”
But people close to Run questioned what they perceived as Zoë Ministries’ emphasis on money. Russell had told Run: “What does God have to do with money and prosperity?” Run had answered, “What does God have to do with poverty and ill health? I’m here for prosperity, I’m here for health, and I’m here for joy and happiness.”
Run’s dad had also said, “Now you sound like that Reverend Ike.”
In spring of 1993, Russell called to say they could start recording again. “I guess we fixed the contract or they gave us some money,” Run said of Profile Records.
They entered the studio to create an album they wanted to call Still Standing, but Jam Master Jay was “pretty much tired,” his cousin Doc remembered, and didn’t want to produce. Jay had tax bills piling up and complained that Run’s and D’s personal problems were driving him bananas. Their last two albums hadn’t done well, and Run wanted to fill this one with guest stars and outside producers. “We kind of just said, ‘Let’s go under the tutelage of younger producers,’” said Run.
Run and Jay invited storyteller Slick Rick, Naughty by Nature (whose string of hits satisfied both pop and
hard-core audiences), producer Jermaine Dupri, and Q-Tip of A Tribe Called Quest to produce new songs. “Run and D were very excited because so many people wanted to be involved,” said their old friend Doctor Dre, who was then enjoying success as a radio DJ on Hot 97’s morning radio show Ed Lover and Dr. Dre (and starring alongside Ed Lover in the movie Who’s the Man).
EPMD—tourmates from 1988—also provided music and lyrics. D didn’t mind saying their words—EPMD’s approach evoked their own—but he bristled when Jay led Onyx in and told him, “Let Fredro write your rhyme.” D objected. On their records, Onyx bragged about being bald-headed bad guys. D told Jay, “I’m bald but I’m nice.” Jay let D do what he wanted, but kept trying to mold Run-D.M.C.’s look and sound in the image of his million-selling group Onyx.
Jay and D did agree that a track producer Pete Rock created around a melody from “Where Do I Go,” a song from the musical Hair, could be a hit. Run freestyled; and Pete Rock and his rapper, C. L. Smooth—with whom he recorded albums for Elektra— rhymed, crediting Run-D.M.C. with bringing rap to the mainstream. D.M.C. had yet to record his verse when Russell heard the song and said he didn’t think it was a good idea, D recalled. The group kept working on the song, titled “Down with the King,” and D recorded a stanza that found him, after years, finally moving from the Chuck D style. “After we put out Back from Hell, all the bullshit, I came back with the real: ‘taking a tour (tour), wrecking the land (land),’” D reminisced.
They interrupted recording to do a few quick shows, but got into it with Profile again; D claimed the label withheld money while they were on the road and needed to cover expenses.