About two years ago, Jonathan Wolfson, a self-described neurotic Jew
from Rockland County, New York entered Mule Creek State Prison in Ione,
Calif., forty-five minutes outside Sacramento. It was Wolfson’s first
time in any penitentiary, let alone a Level 4 maximum-security
penitentiary. The 30-year-old publicist was there to pitch a client.
Wolfson sat in a visiting room as the imposing figure of Suge Knight,
the controversial CEO of Tha Row Records (formerly Death Row), came out
to sit in front of him. “Basically,” Wolfson recalls, “I said that Tha
Row hadn’t had anyone handling their PR in a long time, and that there
was going to be a media frenzy upon Suge’s release. I threw some numbers
at him, and we talked about working together.” Within the first few
minutes of their meeting, Knight asked Wolfson about his background. “I
told him I’m Jewish,” Wolfson says. “He chuckled and said, “Yeah, me
too.” I joked, “Yeah, you look it.” He said, “Seriously, I have a lot of
respect for Jews. They came to this country with nothing, they lived in
their own communities and had their businesses and supported each other
and built themselves up.” He wanted me to know he had respect.” Since
then, whatever one thinks of Knight's motives, he and Wolfson’s work
together at Tha Row has been what Wolfson describes as “a roller
coaster,” but they get along well, and have a productive, personable
relationship.
Considering Jews in hip-hop is kind of like finding a
stoop sale with a couple of interesting eye-catchers on the sidewalk,
and a trove of far more significant treasures further up the stairs. The
eye-catchers are the usual suspects-- the Beastie Boys, Remedy of the
Wu-Tang Clan, Blood of Abraham, Paul Barman-- MCs whose skills vary and
whose Jewishness defies the hip-hop norm. But, their presence on wax is
nothing compared to what goes on behind the scenes. Indeed, some of the
biggest names in the business are Jewish-- Lyor Cohen of Def Jam, Steve
Rifkind of Loud Records, David Mays of The Source-- to say nothing of
those who course throughout the industry as label executives,
entertainment lawyers, agents, publicists, producers, clothiers, and
jewelers. An inquiry to one inevitably references five more: “Oh, have
you talked to Gottleib at FUBU? Or Sonenberg who handles Wyclef?” The
Jewish presence in hip-hop is huge, and, for the most part, offstage.
From block parties to the height of pop culture, hip-hop’s 20-year
ascension has been remarkable for its speed, adaptability, and broad
appeal. It has exploded into a global phenomenon with enormous social
implications and an economic tsunami with infinite marketing
possibilities. Likewise, the cultural input into hip-hop has become
dizzying. Japanese kids with perfectly coiffed dreadlocks breakdance to
lyrics they don’t understand. Jay-Z raps for peace over a Punjabi beat.
Jamie Kennedy gets such shine from portraying a corny rapper named
Gluckman that he finds himself at nightclubs with real rappers named
Li’l Kim and Fabolous. Kids from all backgrounds feel the film Ï8 Mile--
the money shot of which has a white kid defeating a black kid in a
battle by outing him for his bourgie-ness. In this climate, it makes
sense that Jews are up in the mix, with a role that can perhaps only be
discussed, not decoded.
Paul Rosenberg is a giant in the industry. Both figuratively-- he’s
Eminem’s manager, president of Goliath Records, and vice president of
Shady Records, to which both Eminem and 50 Cent are signed-- and
literally: he’s 6 feet 5 inches tall, and 300 pounds. Like Eminem,
Rosenberg is from the Detroit area, although from the suburbs rather
than the city. “People weren’t checking for hip-hop back then in the
suburbs like they are now,” he says. During his senior year of high
school and freshman year of college, Rosenberg began rapping, going by
the name MC Paul Bunyan in a group called Rhythm Cartel that played
Detroit’s few hip-hop venues. After a couple years of moving back and
forth between the classroom and the stage, he chose to go to law school
rather than pursue a career as a rapper. When asked why, he jokes that
being Jewish, he had to. He quickly rescinds the joke, and speaks in
earnest about his educational goals. I’m struck by his change in career
path and the implications that came from it. Rosenberg was-- and is--
extremely passionate about hip-hop, and he certainly had the desire to
be a rapper. But he somehow ended up a contributor to the music’s
framework more than the music itself.
The very idea of the
machinations of Jews behind the scenes is a topic of historical
controversy and itinerant conspiracy theories. There is a
well-documented legacy-- painful on both sides-- of Jewish involvement
in black music. From the early days of jazz and blues through rock and
roll until now, there have been accusations of Jewish executives like
Morris Levy and Herman Lubinsky exploiting black talent. In an upcoming
documentary produced by Martin Scorsese and directed by Marc Levin,
Alfred Chess passionately defends his father and uncle from such
charges. The history of black performers being denied musical credit and
proper financial remuneration is an injustice in itself, as well as a
reminder of so many other facets of racism. Hip-hop is a different game
though. To posit that its contractual dynamics are the same as its
musical predecessors is to deny the savvy of black artists and
executives; to underestimate the real musical passion of Jews in the
industry; and to ignore some of the most egregious examples of abuse (no
one, for example, has ever accused a Jew of hanging a rapper out the
window by his ankles until he signed over his publishing rights). It is
to neglect the changing social climate, the real melting pot that has
led more young whites, Jewish and not, to know black people not as an
unfamiliar ‘other,’ but just as the peers with whom they grew up. And
most importantly, it denies that the music industry is intrinsically set
up to exploit artists, regardless of who they are.
Amid the
paraphernalia in entertainment lawyer Michael Selverne’s impressive
corner office, are two huge photos taken by his wife of an old Jewish
couple, opposite a blown-up Rolling Stone cover autographed by the
Fugees, (“Mike, keep making us that money”). Selverne argues that
animosity between artists and labels is structural rather than ethnic.
“The basic model used by all record companies creates a misalignment of
interests,” he explains. “In our industry, the label invests money, and
once that money is repaid, the label continues to own the product, the
business, the rights, the right to control the trade name and brand,
etc. This is true in artist’s agreements, joint ventures, and label
deals. It’s part of why they don’t work. The brand is serving two
masters, whose economic agendas are not the same. This misalignment of
interests promotes the dysfunctional, often adversarial nature of
artist-label relations.” Or, as Q-Tip put it succinctly in the song,
“Check The Rhime”: Industry rule 4,080/Record company people are shady.”
Selverne argues for smaller labels that take more time to
cultivate artists and move away from the hit single-driven paradigm that
makes today’s rap stars so disposable. Tru Criminal Records is such a
label. It was started in the early 90s by Lee Resnick, a 29-year-old
Jewish kid from Long Island. Like Paul Rosenberg, Resnick-- known in the
industry as Skill-- started out as a rapper. At 17, he got a deal with
Geffen from which he was quickly dropped. “I wasn’t good enough,” he
says. “But I knew that I could tell what was.” After college, he ran
through a couple of internships and had a very Jewish revelation: that
he didn’t want to work for anyone else. He took $5,000 of his bar
mitzvah savings, his partner did the same, and they started Tru
Criminal. The label matched up new artists in whom Resnick saw potential
with established producers, and a few of their early records made some
noise, including “Heavy Metal Things” featuring Pharoah Monche. Resnick
rolled all the profits back into the company and lived at home to save
money. “All my friends moved to the city, were getting laid, and I
couldn’t even take a girl home because I was living with my parents,” he
says. Now the tables have turned. “I own my place in Manhattan. I’m
more financially stable than most of them. And best of all, I don’t have
to wear a suit.”
When I met Skill, he most definitely wasn’t
wearing a suit. He told me I’d recognize him because he looks “like MC
Serch without glasses.” His is the paradigmatic aesthetic of the young
Jew in hip-hop-- the oversized sports wear, the close-cropped hair
shaved to a suede-like terrain, a modified pimp roll, and an easy way
with slang. The term ‘suedehead’ to describe this aesthetic was
introduced to me by Larry Zimmer, president of the Johnny Blaze clothing
line, when I ran into Skill in Zimmer’s office a couple days after we’d
met. Zimmer is a Jewish hip-hop icon of another type. In his fifties
with longish hair and an open collar, he chain smokes Bel-Airs and is
more likely to dip into Yiddish than street slang. Like other Jews who
produce hip-hop fashion at companies like FUBU, Phat Farm, and Lugz,
Zimmer and his ilk are basically old-time schmatte salesmen who now deal
in baggy jeans and retro-sports jerseys. He sees his work as part of a
cultural tradition. “Jews have always been in the garment business,” he
declares. “I think if you go back to our European origins, we all had to
have a trade, and Jews had a flair for clothes.” When Zimmer started
Johnny Blaze in 1997, he was more into Bob Seger and Chicago than
Wu-Tang and Lauryn Hill, but like all good businessmen, he had his ear
to the ground (or, in this case, BET). “I was in young menswear, and
whether I liked the music or not, I saw that this is where the business
was going.” Since then, Zimmer says he has come to enjoy and embrace the
music. He especially likes DMX and P-Diddy, and can talk about what
styles the kids are going to ‘feel’ with surprising authority.
Indeed, it is the business of the fashion world to know how trends
unfold, and it is acknowledged that embracing urban youth is the best
way to market to kids worldwide. Larry Schwartz is the CEO of Lugz, a
company that has cooled off since its heyday in the 90s, but was then
near-ubiquitous in the hip-hop world, having been endorsed by such rap
icons as Funkmaster Flex, Rakim, Snoop and EPMD. Schwartz’ grandfather
had a shoe business on Duane Street in lower Manhattan. On the wall of
Schwartz’ SoHo office hangs the old sign that adorned his grandfather’s
store, and on his desk sits a signed picture of KRS-ONE (“To Larry, you
are hip-hop”). Schwartz marries a concern for the issues facing urban
youth with a near-scientific understanding of fashions” paths. “A new
trend starts with a group of kids in New York, goes down to Philly,
Baltimore and DC,” he says confidently. “Once it gets to Atlanta, it’ll
go throughout the South, and at the same time jump across to Chicago and
to Oakland and then San Francisco. While the trend moves down the
coast, it will also go down the I-80 corridor. And then of course, to
Tokyo, Paris, Dusseldorf, and so forth.”
There is an obvious
difference between guys like Zimmer and Schwartz, who are businessmen
embracing a market, and guys like Rosenberg and Skill, who have been
personally immersed in hip-hop culture for most of their lives. But they
all have an optimistic view of intercultural relations as it pertains
to their work. Zimmer gushes about what he sees uniting them. "Jews,
Italians and blacks were the only ones to step up [to the hip-hop
market]," he says. “The WASPs were sailing with Biffy on Sundays-- they
don’t give a shit about us. We’re passionate people. We’ll grab a
brother, grab a good friend, hug him and kiss him. If you’re a
passionate person, you work best around other passionate people.”
Schwartz is more circumspect about his relationship with the hip-hop
community. For him, it’s more about respect than commonality.
Sensitivity towards the culture to which he markets is both a moral
choice and a marketing decision. “We’ve been fair and honest in our
dealings and respectful of the culture,” he says. “That’s how we’d do it
anyway, but since it’s a culture that’s not our own, we go the extra
mile to understand it. When you make mistakes, you show you’re not
down.”
Rosenberg and Skill, with their rapping backgrounds and
easy socialization with hip-hop heads of all colors, are more reflexive
with their race- and religion-blindness. “I think one of the great
things about rap music right now is that there’s just not much stigma
attached to race and religion,” Rosenberg says. He had just gotten back
from a tour in Japan with Eminem and Xhibit. Asked if issues of culture
and ethnicity ever came up in the course of their travels, his laugh and
prompt dismissal of the question indicated just how far off that idea
was from the reality of what happens backstage. Skill, likewise, senses
no conflict between his Jewishness and his career. He speaks with great
pride and concern about his artists, and with passion about the
connection between them. “We’re all from different backgrounds, we all
grew up completely differently,” he says. “But we all have the same
belief in each other. That’s what’s important.”
I believe Zimmer
and Schwartz when they say they respect the people who comprise their
market, and I believe Skill and Rosenberg when they talk about the
egalitarianism they experience in hip-hop. But I also know that the
philosophy espoused during an interview can differ from how things go
down in actuality. With Skill’s permission, I attended a recording
session at which a Tru Criminal artist named Fuc That recorded a new
track over a lush Just Blaze beat. For all the glamour and dynamism of
the music industry, actually watching a song come together can be
excruciatingly boring. For five hours, FT (as he’s called) lay down the
first of three verses over the track. Just off the Anger Management Tour
with Eminem and Ludacris, FT is poised to blow up. He came to Tru
Criminal through a friend of Skill’s, and his lyrical talent and
endearing personality have brought him quickly into the fold. By the
time I interviewed him, he had been rhyming and chain-smoking blunts for
hours. It was apparent that he thought our conversation would be
standard hip-hop journalist fare-- “How do you get inspiration for your
lyrics? Do you have beef with anyone else in the industry?”-- and seemed
taken aback by questions about the Jewish head of his label. At one
point, he looked at his friend like, the fuck is this?” I asked about
Skill’s contention that everyone at Tru Criminal was in the game
together. He acknowledged that they are in it together, that they’re
close, and that their financial fortunes co-mingle. But he was guarded
as well. “I don’t know about us all having each other’s back,” he said.
“When the big business decisions come down, I turn to my family, my mom
and my pops.”
Innocent stuff. In this media-saturated era,
celebrities and aspiring celebrities won’t say much that’s
controversial, and few straight up dis their current management on the
record. But my take on FT’s hesitance didn’t fully support the utopian
ideal that Skill espouses. Again, exploitation is a tempting word to use
when the product of a small group of kids (mostly black) make so many
ancillary people (mostly white, many Jewish) so much money. But in this
instance, it’s important to complexify the term. Most hip-hop tells the
stories of people in the shadows of American life, told by the people
who live there. If we think it’s important that the stories of people
facing poverty and discrimination are told; and if we think it’s best
that these stories come from the people actually experiencing that life,
rather than the Kozols and Kotlowitzes of the world; and if we take
hip-hop seriously; then Skill, by creating a channel for the words of
kids he scouts in the projects and the friends of friends out there,
would seem to be doing profoundly progressive work. The verse FT kicked
over and over in the studio that day engraved itself in my brain: I
ain’t in this biz for nothing/Niggas pushing Cadillacs while my ribs is
touching/How I got time for a big discussion when I’m hungry and my kids
are fussing/But you don’t hear me though. For better or worse, this is a
radical statement, and a Jewish kid from Long Island is paving the way
for people to hear it.
Hip-hop is a game so much about money
that it’s tempting to boil the whole topic down to one sentence:
Everybody wants to get paid. But I like to think it’s about more than
that. In many ways, it crystallizes two of American cultures” most
interesting strains. The first is that of the outlaw-- the tradition of
plowing a renegade path to power when the conventional paths are
prohibited. My thoughts about hip-hop as an outlaw form were echoed by
Marc Levin. Levin, the director of Slam, Whiteboyz and Brooklyn Babylon,
is a middle-aged, middle-class Jewish guy who has made some of the most
honest and searching films about hip-hop. “Gangster culture is about
being an outsider,” Levin says. His cluttered office is filled with
placards bearing the names of actors who will be appearing in upcoming
episodes of the show he produces, “Street Time,” a cop drama on
Showtime. One scrawled pair of index cards announces the unlikely
pairing of Judd Hirsch with Fat Joe. “You have a white Protestant
culture, and you have the immigrants,” he continues. “The entertainment
world was seen as somehow below what respectable people would do, so it
opened up to the outsiders. Being gangsters was outside. Gangster
capitalism was how many Jewish businesses started, Italian businesses
started, black businesses started. These guys ran the whorehouses and
the dives, the jazz clubs, and the speakeasies. There has always been an
intersection between the creative and entertaining, and the muscle, the
mob and crime, because they were both outside what was considered
legitimate. Jews were part of it, a big part. Look at Arnold Rothstein,”
he says, referring to the iconic gambler and gangster who allegedly
fixed the 1919 World Series. “Lucky Luciano and Meyer Lansky were
students of Rothstein’s.” This gangster aesthetic is all over rap
music-- a whole subsection of the music is called ‘gangsta,’ of course,
and artists name themselves after Capone, Gotti, Murder Inc. and Meyer
Lansky. The drive to succeed in spite of the mainstream’s barriers is no
longer as relevant to Jews now that, generations into our American
experience, we enjoy unfettered access to virtually all the hallways of
power. But it is still in our system, and it still connects us to a
world that celebrates the triumph of the outlaw-- a world where
determination, ruthlessness, and boundless energy have a fighting chance
against the barriers put up to keep outsiders out.
The other
metaphorical space in which hip-hop resides is the utopian. Although the
kind of activism espoused by the civil rights movement has been mostly
marginalized, there are certain parts of hip-hop culture that address
the same combination of black empowerment, cultural harmony, and
progressive politics that informed that movement. Multi-faceted urban
mogul Russell Simmons and Rabbi Mark Schneier are the cornerstones of
the Foundation for Ethnic Understanding, a group that aims to bring
blacks and Jews together to lobby for mutually beneficial political
goals. In the Upper East Side brownstone from which the foundation runs,
the smooth-talking, immaculately dressed Schneier emphasizes the
utopian goals of the organization, which has honored Jay-Z, Lyor Cohen,
P-Diddy, Steve Resnick, and Damon Dash among others. “We’re a voice of
conscience,” he says. “Blacks and Jews need to take a step back and
acknowledge that we have this genuine relationship, and remind ourselves
that it was the alliance of blacks and Jews that brought about the
greatest social change in the history of this country. When you see
someone like Russell Simmons or P-Diddy or Jay-Z putting their stamp on
this cause, that will disseminate, that will trickle down to young
people. We have to recognize the strength of our similarities. We’re
minorities, we have shared concerns-- discrimination, hate crimes,
foreign aid.” Simmons echoes Schneier: “A lot of my business partners
have been Jewish,” he says. “As far as relationships in the industry go,
I think we’re past any discrimination. The alliance between blacks and
Jews is a natural one.
In many corners of the hip-hop world, the
visions extend far beyond alliances between blacks and Jews. Identity
and ‘realness’ are such currency in this community that, at its best,
people are forced to fully embrace who they really are and where they
come from and are then invited to join in on a world that embraces
rebellion against authority, progressive politics, ecstatic
multiculturalism and transgressive humor. Hip-hop is now the only
subculture in which people say ‘peace’ to one another without irony. At
its inclusive best, hip-hop is today’s bohemia, where creativity and
spontaneity are supremely celebrated. Like jazz and rock and roll before
it, hip-hop can be a retreat into meritocratic ideals backed by a nice
beat. The culture of hip-hop is exciting mostly because it’s still flush
with possibility.
About a year after Jonathan Wolfson pitched
his PR services to Suge Knight, a young, black hip-hop producer named
Eddie Bezalel was riding shotgun in a Jeep making its way through Lower
Manhattan. Driving the car was a colleague of Bezalel’s, an
entrepreneurial hip-hop veteran-- let’s call him IQ-- another young
black man, and he was angry. IQ was venting to Bezalel about an older,
white executive they both knew. “That dude is mad shysty,” IQ fumed.
“He’s Jewish, man. He’s definitely Jewish.” This rant would seem to be
evidence of the rancor felt towards Jewish guys in the business, but the
conversation took a quick and unexpected turn: “Look, are we cool?”
Bezalel asked IQ. “Yeah, we’re cool,” IQ responded. “Well let me tell
you something,” continued Bezalel, the son of Ethiopian Orthodox Jews
and a proud graduate of Westchester Hebrew High School. “That dude is
shysty, but he’s not Jewish. I’m Jewish.” As a black Jew in the music
business, Bezalel is in a rarefied position to weigh in on this
particular intersection of ethnicity, culture and commerce. As he
recounted this story to me, it was clear he didn’t believe IQ harbored
genuinely anti-Semitic feelings, but was rather employing a kind of
unfortunate ethnic shorthand that comes to many in moments of anger.
“People in the industry have all kinds of perceptions,” Bezalel
summarizes. “But in the end, what really matters is that you bring music
that’s really hot.”
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