Nas, AZ and Foxy Brown have a deep-seated fascination with the most vile aspect of Italian culture, but do they understand that power, respect and riches only last if the family remains strong?
By CLEON ALERT
Like a fairy-tale dream, the (super) group unofficially known as The Firm (ownership rights to "the Firm" as a recording act have already been secured by a rock band which, incoincidentally, released an album entitled The Firm) started out with a little bit of luck and load of destiny. Like the premise of "Phone Tap," the cellular-phone piece de resistance from their debut album, The Firm, the initial business dealings of the clique's principles occurred over telephone lines. In '93, a mutual friend introduced Nas and AZ via a phone conversation; later, Lil' Kim would hook up AZ and Foxy Brown through manipulations of Alex Bell's handiwork. In '95, the cipher was completed with Cormega, Nas' fellow Queensbridge street poet who had just finished a three-year stint in jail.
"Be lightin L's sippin Coors/On all floors in project halls/Contemplatin war on niggaz I was cool with before/We used to score together/Uptown coppin' it raw/But ah, a thug changes/And love changes/And best friends become strangers"
— Nas on "The Message"
"Black people," yells Nasir Jones upon arrival at Manhattan's Patsy's restaurant. His enthusiastic greeting breaks through the locale's retro, laidback ambiance and unassuming grace—lucid lighting, white cotton tablecloths, stark, round tables—like a stink bomb in a penthouse elevator. Admirably sharp in a black two-piece, a fat chunk of diamond-and-gold glittering atop one of his fingers, the usually reticent Nas embodies a good mood as he mixes it up with his crew and makes obligatory rounds amongst the industry types gathered in the eatery's upper lounge for a taping of BET's Rap City. After growing accustomed scowl on TV for years, it's a pleasure to see him in person so engaging and full of life.
Then too, it wasn't too long ago that the rapper called Nas was nothing more than a gifted lyricist known for his gritty, polychromatic poetics. When his demo shopping yielded naught, fellow Queens native and producer extraordinaire Large Professor jump-started young Nas' career by inviting him to rhyme on "Live at the BBQ" (from the legendary Main Source LP Breakin' Atoms), the cipher opus that featured up-n-comers Akinleye and Immediately the world took notice to Nas, but most importantly so did Faith Newman (then) A&R at Columbia Records. "I guess what made me want to sign him was hearing him on the Main Source album, and I [knew] this wasn't just any kid," says Newman from her office at Jive Records, where she's now vice-president of A&R. "And I knew that he was only about 17 years old when he said that line about 'When I was 12, I went to hell for snuffing Jesus.' I thought, this kid has got something going on. And even when I heard his first demo, it was just like the most lyrically intricate [demo I heard]. It was like nothing I had ever really heard before lyrically. Like poetry."
In short order, Nas was signed to Columbia and released his opening opus, 1994's landmark Illmatic. Along with B.I.G.'s Ready To Die and the Wu-Tang Clan's Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers), with Illmatic re-introduced planet Hip-Hop to the grimy, inner-city turmoil on the East coast.
But with his sophomore album, 1996's It Was Written, the illmatic one suddenly blew up on the strength of a phat vid clip, the (then) underestimated selling power of the Fugees' Lauryn Hill, savvy marketing ("If I Ruled The World [Imagine That]" was not released as a single—you had to buy the album) and street cred that went on for days...and Nas became MTV's ghetto poster boy of the moment. Where Illmatic was musically polycentric with long-lost snippets of funk, jazz and soul, for It Was Written, Nas covered (read: "jacked") Whodini, Kuris Blow, Eurythmics and Stephanie Mills, causing a collective grumble from the hardcore elite who began to accuse him of betrayal. "You see, you could call it that," he says in response to any "crossover" notions, "but that word is dangerous when you put it to artists like me."
Assertively, Nas defends his second go-round, dismissing the naysayers as being unable to see pass the glitter and floss to understand that he really hadn't changed at all. "When an artist like myself, that's from the underground, makes records with Lauryn Hill or stuff like that, people get mad when it sells a lot of records," he says. "But see the main point of view is when I'm talking about the youth and showing a dream to the world of a Black man saying 'If I ruled the world,' which came from Kuris Blow, who was one of the kings of Hip-Hop, then everything is just that...knowledge, youknowaI'msayin'?"
As the man formerly known as Nasty Nas shucks accountability for the grief he received for going for a crossover-oriented sound on his second LP (placing it squarely in the laps of "the media"), one can't help but recall Chris Rock's Bring The Pain skit in which he talked about blacks blaming their problems on this same media. Such talk would lead one to believe that a cabal of three-piece-suited dark minds nestled in a smoky room on the 13th floor of a building are actually in charge of Hip-Hop's demise. Yet, if there is a problem with the media, it's artists are longing to be in front of the camera, not the people behind them . In actuality, the truth probably lies closer to a golden plaque than it does to a TV camera. "My whole concentration has never been to make platinum records", Nas refutes. "My whole concentration has been not to get played in this business, being that I'm the real. Why should the real ever get played? If you don't regulate, you should get regulated. So if you don't move as a artist, your self, your mind, to get your strength to deal with this fucked-up industry and these snakes and get on top of these mother fuckers, you're over. That's why they should watch me cause I'm never gonna be over. I'ma still be doing it from every angle-the street, all the companies, toppled."
A few weeks earlier, Inga Marchand, a.k.a. Foxy Brown, enters New York's Shark Bar. The youngest and newest of the clique's top billers, she's also the most successful and controversial. She's been condemned by self-proclaimed guardians of Hip-Hop as a walking version of the art form's ills. She lacks skills, they say. She doesn't her own rhymes, uses image as a weapon and has nothing to say outside the lines of tawdry sex and crass materialism. "I just want to get the shit off my chest and let people get to see a different side of me", she says. Her gripe? "I guess that bad-girl image. Like I'm just the bad girl, which is like a double-edged sword with me. It works, and then again, it's negative in some way. But it's cool. It's just like every day it's something, like my life isn't mine anymore. Now, no matter where I go, I'm always looking around like, 'Who the hell is looking at me?' and 'Who's gonna tell me what I had on or what I did'? If Foxy is a Jezebel on wax, one must remember this: She's only 18. To some, her barely legal status only makes her lewdness that much more shameful. To others, her tender age means that she's in need of guidance and protection, not even fully aware of the ramifications of her imagery. Regardless, the fact remains that the rigorous demands of entertainment and all it's spoils—money, fame and power—are difficult for the novice, male or female, young or old to juggle.
In January 1997, Foxy was arrested, stemming from an incident at a Raleigh, North Carolina, Holiday Inn. Foxy's version is as follows: Coming out of the hotel swimming pool two hours before her show, her hair was wet. She was in dire need of a blow dryer, so she had one of her bodyguards contact the front desk, which in turn said there were no blow dryers available. "So I call down there and was like 'Hi, this is Foxy', she recalls. "I said, I have a show to do in like an hour, and I need a blow dryer. Like there's no way you can find a blow dryer, and we rented like 17 rooms? And she was like, No, dadadada, would you like to speak to the manager? Foxy, crew in tow, went down to the concierge. A shouting match ensued, and noticing she would get nowhere, Foxy returned to her room and went on to perform her show.
As the Brown's tour bus made its way to South Carolina for her next engagement, it was surrounded by and pulled over by state troopers. "They were like, is this Foxy Brown in this bus"? she remembers. "I was sleeping like, 'What the fuck is going on'? And they said, 'Well, we have a warrant for her arrest.' I'm like, 'Wait a minute.' And they said, 'If you don't come out within five minutes, then were coming in to get you.' An arrangement was worked out in court— a benefit concert, some autographs, free merchandise— and the charges were dropped. 'I've never been in trouble until that incident never, ever, ever," says Brown. "I think I just had a black cloud following me. I don't where it all went wrong, where things turned out, but after that, it was downhill."
Next, there was an imbroglio involving some young women who were invited into Foxy's New York hotel room by male members of her entourage. A problem in miscommunication occurred, resulting in an altercation between one of Brown's girlfriends and one of Brown's girlfriends and one of the visitors. Brown does not deny that someone was hit but holds that the fisticuffs took place outside of her room and that she was not present at the time. The news reported that Foxy and her bodyguard, who she says was not at the hotel the night of the incident, chased the girl down the hallway. Foxy's reply: "Boy, do you think I have time to chase someone down the hallway? Please."
"But ya know what?" she continues. "Russell [Simmons] always told me, 'When you're hot, you can tell.' [He said:] 'Bitch, they made space for you on the fuckin' news, and niggas was getting killed.' I was in the Daily News, a fuckin' big article, all over the radio airwaves. But you know what? That only made my record sales double. My record sales went through the roof. And, like it or not, sometimes that's all that matters in this game. Niggas want to get paid. That's what I got in this game for. I'll be lying if I sit here and tell you that I'm in it for the culture. I love rapping, but I'm in it to get paid."
"The streets was hectic/So I stacked and made my exit/More dough to get/Focused my thoughts for me to go legit/Cop a huge castle on an ocean cliff/Imagine that/A few years back/I was baggin' crack/Magnum gats/Playing street corners/Committing savage acts
— AZ on "BQE"
Four summers ago, Anthony Cruz happened along with his highly infectious verse from Illmatic's "Life A Bitch," a 42-second cameo that would land him a recording contract with a major label. Need to say, aspiring emcees everywhere took notice. "I just did it because the time presented itself," says AZ nonchalantly in a secluded area at the back of Patsy's. "And then people loved it, so I was like damn, it was that easy? So I was hoping that it break down a wall for others that wanted to get into the game who could probably do the same thing. And I did hear that people now getting signed off of one verse. But, then again, they still gotta' hold they shit down. A lot of people put they self in the hole like that and can't even get an album done."
As the conversation progresses AZ pitches lines laced with flashes of wit, insight and advice on religion, politics and the government. Nas may serve as the clique's "boss," but it ain't hard to tell that the self-styled "Sosa" (a name acquired from Alejandro Sosa, the fictional debonair shot-caller in Brian De Palma's Scarface), while not necessarily hands-on in The Firm's operations, is its elder statesman and secret weapon.
AZ is fully aware that not too long ago, he existed within the rugged terrain of East New York, Brooklyn, feasting on Chinese takeout instead of the fine cuisine that he now surrounds. He's also conscious of the fact that his '95 debut LP Doe or Die was not the masterpiece that many expected. Thus, he understands that there's an air of heavy anticipation that surrounds his forthcoming second platter, Pieces of a Man, which, originally scheduled for an August '97 release, has been pushed back to some time next year (partly due to AZ having to work on The Firm project). Yet AZ doesn't seem fazed by the long delay. "You know we gotta' let this (Firm album) come out 'cause this was more or less a collaboration," he says. "And it was already in activation, and I ain't wanna' have both of them collide and clash heads. The cuts on [Pieces of a Man] is timeless so it ain't really no explanation date or nuthin', so it's all good."
Yet, one must question AZ's apparent obsession with the almighty dollar. Beginning with his "Visualizing the realism of life and actuality/Fuck who's the baddest/A person's status depends on salary/And my mentality is money oriented" line from "Life's A Bitch" to the greenback laden artwork from Doe or Die to the lush-life ethos he personifies, the query must be put forth: Is it really all about da Benjamins? "Nah," he says laughing. "But you know what makes the world go around and shit. That just goes without saying. No matter [how much you make], all that shit mean nothing. To be noticed, you gotta' play the game. So I'm just playing the game to let them know that we all ain't alike. Paper don't really make nobody, but just to get these people eye to eye with you, you talk what they talk about. So now we talking the same language."
AZ rides the fine line between street aesthetics and the luxury of glamour and glitz. His past, littered with petty misdemeanors, made him the man he is today, but doesn't fuel his burgeoning rap career. "I hate to talk about it," he admits solemnly, "'cause it's like, damn, this is what everybody talk about, like every little nigger from the street. [It's like] okay, we know you had it hard, but let's leave the problem alone and talk about the solution. 'Cause we not getting nothing out of it to say, 'Yeah I be bustin' my gat. I was selling drugs or I been locked.' I mean 85 % of us went through that so I'm not helping the purpose; I'm defeating the purpose by even talking about it. I want to talk about the solution, like my dreams. Maybe if I'm dreaming, these people that's following my footsteps could dream too, or those that's wildin' [will] want to dream and forget that part of life, instead of thinking it's right. I don't want people feeling doing that. That shit is weak. Everybody do that shit."
When the Rap City crew finally arrives, Nas, AZ, Foxy and Nature take their place at a table with hosts Joe Clair and Big Lez. Joe Clair, the perennial jokester, keeps the atmosphere loose with endless jokes throughout numerous takes. Near the end of taping, however, the mood is broken when the inevitable question—"What's the deal with Cormega—is brought up by Big Lez. Foxy, who had been relatively quiet all day, gives the co-host a dose of her renowned charm. "Why you gotta' start that?!!" Everyone in the room is startled. "We don't even speak on him," she continues. "We love him, and that's that."
"There was too much politicking. Too much bullshit," maintains Cormega, inside the NYC offices of Def Jam Records, of his departure from The Firm. "You ever seen Sesame Street when you was little, and they got four boxes and it goes, one of these things just don't belong here? I was that fourth box that didn't belong there. 'Cause I didn't see eye to eye with the things that they do." The "things" he refers to include some of the bawdy garb that the group wears in order to reinforce its Mafioso motif. "I wouldn't be dressed like this," he says, getting up and about the room, pointing to a picture of a significant label-mate drenched in that type of gear. "It's like I can't be with shit if it ain't from my heart. If my heart ain't involved, I can't fuck with it. And that shit wasn't real, man. It wasn't no relationship amongst us." He pauses. "Except me and Foxy. Me and Foxy was the closest ones. But it's like, we don't got no beef. They're doing their thing. I chose to go solo and that's it."
But Mega's departure from The Firm didn't just revolve around the direction he saw his cohorts heading in, but also a feeling that there were too much influences from outside parties (most likely Nas' very hands-on manager Steve Stoute, who refused to be interviewed for this story) during the birth of the album. He also points out a missed photo shoot for now-defunct YSB magazine as well as a desire to live the legal life. Having just been released from prison for doing "numerous shit," Meag had no plans on going back so he looked to Nas to make things happen ASAP, but he says that Nas had his own priorities. And Cormega grew impatient. "I can't wait for you to achieve your dreams, and I'm broke," he states candidly. "It's like, yo man, I just came from jail and with my background. . .that's why it was imperative that I go legal when I came home. Because if I didn't, I woulda probably been back in jail by now. I'm not proud to say it, but I would've because that's the life I led before. Before this rap shit, I was hustling all my life, and that's why I went to jail—for living that type of life. So when I came home, I can't wait for you to do this or for him to get a label or for this and this to happen and I don't got nothing."
For Nature, Cormega's departure from The Firm was simply a blessing. Indeed, the longtime fellow Queensbridge denizen spent his junior high days "banging tables" with his childhood friend Nasir, so being overshadowed by three hip-hop heavyweights doesn't seem to faze the newcomer. "I'm just trying to write my rhymes from the hungry man's point of view," he states modestly. "From the eyes of a person that's not really established yet."
As for any musings of jealousy that surrounding his spot in a super group that many novice emcees would covet? "I been doing my thing for a while. And at the same time I was trying to achieve and to get people to notice me. I feel like if Cormega was here right now, the picture would've been clearer of what we was trying to do."
What it is exactly that The Firm is trying to do is in question. Modern-day hip-hop seems to be pigeonholed in a collusion of crime tales, fashion and illegal narcotics when it comes to lyrics. Thus, one couldn't be blamed for thinking that a group calling itself "The Firm" was either going to follow the tattered script or elevate it. But Nas begs to differ. "It's getting played out," he acknowledges about rap's latest trend. "The album is late, but maybe it's gonna' be the last nail in the coffin, like to end it. Nobody should come after us. This is the last family to come."
Once Upon a Time in America, the movie whose theme music serves as the backdrop for the intro to The Firm album, was an epic tale spanning four decades. Starring legendary actor Robert DeNiro, the film was about four young Italian lads growing up on New York City Lower East Side who go from being petty criminals to professional hitmen. The movie is driven by the way the crew, having no one but each other to depend on, coalesce into a "family". The importance of family has been the trademark of many flicks about the Mafia. The strength of the Corleone family in The Godfather trilogy made the family prosper during hard times. Antonio Montana's respect for family in Scarface actually brought about his demise; and Joseph Piccone's clash between the world's of his real and adopted Mafia fam drove Donnie Brasco's mantra
As Hip-Hop players continue to parody the mechanisms of the Mafia lifestyle, ultimately the way in which they deal with inner conflicts will determine the longevity of the group or family. With their debut album finally seeing shelves The Firm have been able to jump their first major hurdle, yet other questions still persist. How deep does the group apply the organized family ethic (or is it just a ploy to sell records)? Who will officially serve as underboss? Will they be able to deal with the clashes of ego and outside influences that most groups eventually face? When will Foxy begin to use her talent as a vehicle of enlightenment? And if, and when, she does, will there still be a place for her to sit at the family table? How long can AZ, a star yet to fully shine, continue to play the right-hand man within the organization? Does Nature possess the appeal to move from soldier to caporegime? But, most importantly, as Nas, the boss of this outfit, continues to attain the fruits of labor, will he be able to harness his ever-increasing power for the good of the group?
Only time will tell.