Decoded. Part 1

Decoded / Jay-Z.

Jay-Z's Introduction

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Rap Is Poetry A Love Affair with Something Tragic We All Have Nothing You Still Have That Stigma On You A World with Amnesia Won't Forget Your Name On Collaboration Can I Live Life Is Slowly Taking You Away From Who You Are Big Pimpin'

I Was Not a Pushover Moment of Clarity I'm a Fan of Clear Ideas You're Killing Your Son Where I'm From Not Everyone Wakes Up Feeling Invincible d.a.m.n, I'm Gonna Be a Failure Did It Cost Me Too Much By the Third Time, They Were Singing Along The Evolution of My Style

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I saw the circle before I saw the kid in the middle. I was nine years old, the summer of 1978, and Marcy was my world. The shadowy bench-lined inner pathways that connected the twenty-seven six-story buildings of Marcy Houses were like tunnels we kids burrowed through. Housing projects can seem like labyrinths to outsiders, as complicated and intimidating as a Moroccan bazaar. But we knew our way around.

Marcy sat on top of the G train, which connects Brooklyn to Queens, but not to the city. For Marcy kids, Manhattan is where your parents went to work, if they were lucky, and where we'd yellow-bus it with our elementary cla.s.s on special trips. I'm from New York, but I didn't know that at nine. The street signs for Flus.h.i.+ng, Marcy, Nostrand, and Myrtle avenues seemed like metal flags to me: Bed-Stuy was my country, Brooklyn my planet.

When I got a little older Marcy would show me its menace, but for a kid in the seventies, it was mostly an adventure, full of concrete corners to turn, dark hallways to explore, and everywhere other kids. When you jumped the fences to play football on the gra.s.sy patches that pa.s.sed for a park, you might find the field studded with gla.s.s shards that caught the light like diamonds and would pierce your sneakers just as fast. Turning one of those concrete corners you might b.u.mp into your older brother clutching dollar bills over a dice game, Cee-Lo Cee-Lo being called out like hardcore bingo. It was the seventies and heroin was still heavy in the hood, so we would dare one another to push a leaning nodder off a bench the way kids on farms tip sleeping cows. The unpredictability was one of the things we counted on. Like the day when I wandered up to something I'd never seen before: a cipher-but I wouldn't have called it that; no one would've back then. It was just a circle of sc.r.a.ppy, ashy, skinny Brooklyn kids laughing and clapping their hands, their eyes trained on the center. I might have been with my cousin B-High, but I might have been alone, on my way home from playing baseball with my Little League squad. I shouldered through the crowd toward the middle-or maybe B-High cleared the way-but it felt like gravity pulling me into that swirl of kids, no bulls.h.i.+t, like a planet pulled into orbit by a star. being called out like hardcore bingo. It was the seventies and heroin was still heavy in the hood, so we would dare one another to push a leaning nodder off a bench the way kids on farms tip sleeping cows. The unpredictability was one of the things we counted on. Like the day when I wandered up to something I'd never seen before: a cipher-but I wouldn't have called it that; no one would've back then. It was just a circle of sc.r.a.ppy, ashy, skinny Brooklyn kids laughing and clapping their hands, their eyes trained on the center. I might have been with my cousin B-High, but I might have been alone, on my way home from playing baseball with my Little League squad. I shouldered through the crowd toward the middle-or maybe B-High cleared the way-but it felt like gravity pulling me into that swirl of kids, no bulls.h.i.+t, like a planet pulled into orbit by a star.

His name was Slate and he was a kid I used to see around the neighborhood, an older kid who barely made an impression. In the circle, though, he was transformed, like the church ladies touched by the spirit, and everyone was mesmerized. He was rhyming, throwing out couplet after couplet like he was in a trance, for a crazy long time-thirty minutes straight off the top of his head, never losing the beat, riding the handclaps. He rhymed about nothing-the sidewalk, the benches-or he'd go in on the kids who were standing around listening to him, call out someone's leaning sneakers or dirty Lee jeans. And then he'd go in on how clean he was, how nice he was with the ball, how all our girls loved him. Then he'd just start rhyming about the rhymes themselves, how good they were, how much better they were than yours, how he was the best that ever did it, in all five boroughs and beyond. He never stopped moving, not dancing, just rotating in the center of the circle, looking for his next target. The sun started to set, the crowd moved in closer, the next clap kept coming, and he kept meeting it with another rhyme. It was like watching some kind of combat, but he was alone in the center. All he had were his eyes, taking in everything, and the words inside him. I was dazzled. That's some cool s.h.i.+t That's some cool s.h.i.+t was the first thing I thought. Then: was the first thing I thought. Then: I could I could do do that. that.

That night, I started writing rhymes in my spiral notebook. From the beginning it was easy, a constant flow. For days I filled page after page. Then I'd bang a beat out on the table, my bedroom window, whatever had a flat surface, and practice from the time I woke in the morning until I went to sleep. My mom would think I was up watching TV, but I'd be in the kitchen pounding on the table, rhyming. One day she brought a three-ring binder home from work for me to write in. The paper in the binder was unlined, and I filled every blank s.p.a.ce on every page. My rhymes looked real chaotic, crowded against one another, some vertical, some slanting into the corners, but when I looked at them the order was clear.

I connected with an older kid who had a reputation as the best rapper in Marcy-Jaz was his name-and we started practicing our rhymes into a heavy-a.s.s tape recorder with a makes.h.i.+ft mic attached. The first time I heard our voices playing back on tape, I realized that a recording captures you, but plays back a distortion-a different voice from the one you hear in your own head, even though I could recognize myself instantly. I saw it as an opening, a way to re-create myself and reimagine my world. After I recorded a rhyme, it gave me an unbelievable rush to play it back, to hear that voice.

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One time a friend peeked inside my notebook and the next day I saw him in school, reciting my rhymes like they were his. I started writing real tiny so no one could steal my lyrics, and then I started straight hiding my book, stuffing it in my mattress like it was cash. Everywhere I went I'd write. If I was crossing a street with my friends and a rhyme came to me, I'd break out my binder, spread it on a mailbox or lamppost and write the rhyme before I crossed the street. I didn't care if my friends left me at the light, I had to get it out. Even back then, I thought I was the best.

There were some real talents in Marcy. DJs started setting up sound systems in the project courtyards and me and Jaz and other MCs from around the way would battle one another for hours. It wasn't like that first cipher I saw: the crowds were more serious now and the beat was kept by eight-foot-tall speakers with subwoofers that would rattle the windows of the apartments around us. I was good at battling and I practiced it like a sport. I'd spend free time reading the dictionary, building my vocabulary for battles. I could be ruthless, calm as f.u.c.k on the outside, but flooded with adrenaline, because the other rapper was coming for me, too. It wasn't a Marquess of Queensberry situation. I saw n.i.g.g.as get swung on when the rhymes cut too deep. But mostly, as dangerous as it felt, it stayed lyrical. I look back now and it still amazes me how intense those moments were, back when there was nothing at stake but your rep, your desire to be the best poet on the block.

I wasn't even in high school yet and I'd discovered my voice. But I still needed a story to tell.

FIRST THE FAT BOYS GONNA BREAK UP.

Hip-hop was looking for a narrative, too. By the time the eighties came along, rap was exploding, and I remember the mainstream breakthroughs like they were my own rites of pa.s.sage. In 1981, the summer before seventh grade, the Funky Four Plus One More performed "That's the Joint" on Sat.u.r.day Night Live Sat.u.r.day Night Live and the Rock Steady Crew got on and the Rock Steady Crew got on ABC Nightly News ABC Nightly News for battling the Dynamic Rockers at Lincoln Center in a legendary showdown of b-boy dance crews. My parents watched for battling the Dynamic Rockers at Lincoln Center in a legendary showdown of b-boy dance crews. My parents watched Soul Train Soul Train every Sat.u.r.day when we cleaned up, but when my big sister Annie and I saw Don Cornelius introduce the Sugar Hill Gang, we just stopped in the middle of the living room with our jaws open. What are every Sat.u.r.day when we cleaned up, but when my big sister Annie and I saw Don Cornelius introduce the Sugar Hill Gang, we just stopped in the middle of the living room with our jaws open. What are they they doing on TV? doing on TV?

I remember the 12-inch of Run-DMC's "It's Like That" backed with "Sucker M.C.'s" being definitive. That same year, 1983, the year I started high school, Bambaataa released "Looking for the Perfect Beat" and shot a wild-a.s.s video wearing feathered headdresses that they'd play on the local access channel. Annie and I would make up dance routines to those songs, but we didn't take it as far as the costumes. Herbie Hanc.o.c.k's "Rockit" came out that year, too, and those three records were a cultural trifecta. Disco, and even my parents' cla.s.sic R&B records, all faded into the background. Everywhere we went there were twelve-pound boom boxes being pulled on skateboards or cars parked on the curb blasting those records. DJ Red Alert debuted his show on Kiss FM and Afrika Islam had a show, "Zulu Beats," on WHBI. The World's Famous Supreme Team did a show you had to catch early in the morning. Kids would make ca.s.settes and bring them to school to play one another the freshest new song from the night before. I'm not gonna say that I thought I could get rich from rap, but I could clearly see that it was gonna get bigger before it went away. Way bigger.

The feeling those records gave me was so profound that it's sometimes surprising to listen to them now. Like those three songs that shook my world back in the early eighties: "Rockit" had complicated-sounding scratching by Grand Mixer DXT, which was big for me because I wanted to be a DJ before I wanted to be a rapper-I would practice scratching at my friend Allen's house on two mismatched turntables mounted on a long piece of plywood. But "Rockit" had no real voice aside from a looping synthetic one. "Looking for the Perfect Beat" was true to its t.i.tle, obsessed with beats, not lyrical content. Then there was "Sucker M.C.'s."

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From the first listen, Run-DMC felt harder than the Sugar Hill Gang or even Kool Moe Dee and other serious battle rappers of the time.

Run-DMC's songs were like the hardest rock you'd ever heard stripped to its core chords. Their voices were big, like their beats, but naturally slick, like hustlers'. The rhymes were crisp and aggressive. Run's lyrics described the good life: champagne, caviar, bubble baths. He rapped about having a big long Caddy, not like a Seville, a big long Caddy, not like a Seville, a line that seems like a throwaway, but to me felt meaningful-he was being descriptive and precise: Run didn't just say a car, he said a Caddy. He didn't just say a Caddy, he said a Seville. In those few words he painted a picture and then gave it emotional life. I completely related. I was the kid from public housing whose whole hood would rubberneck when an expensive car drove down the block. a line that seems like a throwaway, but to me felt meaningful-he was being descriptive and precise: Run didn't just say a car, he said a Caddy. He didn't just say a Caddy, he said a Seville. In those few words he painted a picture and then gave it emotional life. I completely related. I was the kid from public housing whose whole hood would rubberneck when an expensive car drove down the block.

Run had the spirit of a battle rapper-funny, observant, charismatic, and confrontational-but his rhymes were more refined. When he pa.s.sed the mic to his partner, DMC followed with a story told in short strokes that felt completely raw and honest.

It was like he was looking around his hood in Queens-and around his bedroom, his mom's kitchen-and just calling out what he saw. But the beat and DMC's delivery elevated that humble life into something iconic. I'm light skinned, I live in Queens / and I love eatin chicken and collard greens. I'm light skinned, I live in Queens / and I love eatin chicken and collard greens.

With that song hip-hop felt like it was starting to find its style and swagger and point of view: It was going to be raw and aggressive, but also witty and slick. It was going to boast and compete and exaggerate. But it was also going to care enough to get the details right about our aspirations and our crumb-s.n.a.t.c.hing struggles, our specific, small realities (chicken and collard greens) and our living-color dreamscapes (big long Caddy). It was going to be real. Before Run-DMC, rappers dressed like they were headed to supper clubs for after-dinner drinks, or in full costume. Run-DMC looked like the streets, in denim, leather, and sneakers.

But for all of Run-DMC's style and showmans.h.i.+p, there was something missing in their songs. A story was unfolding on the streets of New York, and around the country, that still hadn't made it into rap, except as an absence. We heard Melle Mel's. .h.i.t "The Message," with its lyrics about broken gla.s.s everywhere, broken gla.s.s everywhere, and we heard about Run's and we heard about Run's big long Caddy, big long Caddy, but what was missing was what was happening in between those two images-how young cats were stepping through the broken gla.s.s and into the Caddy. but what was missing was what was happening in between those two images-how young cats were stepping through the broken gla.s.s and into the Caddy.

The missing piece was the story of the hustler.

IF I'M NOT A HUSTLER WHAT YOU CALL THAT?

The story of the rapper and the story of the hustler are like rap itself, two kinds of rhythm working together, having a conversation with each other, doing more together than they could do apart. It's been said that the thing that makes rap special, that makes it different both from pop music and from written poetry, is that it's built around two kinds of rhythm. The first kind of rhythm is the meter. In poetry, the meter is abstract, but in rap, the meter is something you literally hear: it's the beat. The beat in a song never stops, it never varies. No matter what other sounds are on the track, even if it's a Timbaland production with all kinds of offbeat fills and electronics, a rap song is usually built bar by bar, four-beat measure by four-beat measure. It's like time itself, ticking off relentlessly in a rhythm that never varies and never stops.

When you think about it like that, you realize the beat is everywhere, you just have to tap into it. You can bang it out on a project wall or an 808 drum machine or just use your hands. You can beatbox it with your mouth. But the beat is only one half of a rap song's rhythm. The other is the flow. When a rapper jumps on a beat, he adds his own rhythm. Sometimes you stay in the pocket of the beat and just let the rhymes land on the square so that the beat and flow become one. But sometimes the flow chops up the beat, breaks the beat into smaller units, forces in multiple syllables and repeated sounds and internal rhymes, or hangs a drunken leg over the last bap bap and keeps going, sneaks out of that b.i.t.c.h. The flow isn't like time, it's like life. It's like a heartbeat or the way you breathe, it can jump, speed up, slow down, stop, or pound right through like a machine. If the beat is time, flow is what we do with that time, how we live through it. The beat is everywhere, but every life has to find its own flow. and keeps going, sneaks out of that b.i.t.c.h. The flow isn't like time, it's like life. It's like a heartbeat or the way you breathe, it can jump, speed up, slow down, stop, or pound right through like a machine. If the beat is time, flow is what we do with that time, how we live through it. The beat is everywhere, but every life has to find its own flow.

Just like beats and flows work together, rapping and hustling, for me at least, live through each other. Those early raps were beautiful in their way and a whole generation of us felt represented for the first time when we heard them. But there's a reason the culture evolved beyond that playful, partying lyrical style. Even when we recognized the voices, and recognized the style, and even personally knew the cats who were on the records, the content didn't always reflect the lives we were leading. There was a distance between what was becoming rap's signature style-the relentlessness, the swagger, the complex wordplay-and the substance of the songs. The culture had to go somewhere else to grow.

It had to come home.

CRACK'S IN MY PALM No one hired a skywriter and announced crack's arrival. But when it landed in your hood, it was a total takeover. Sudden and complete. Like losing your man to gunshots. Or your father walking out the door for good. It was an irreversible new reality. What had been was gone, and in its place was a new way of life that was suddenly everywhere and seemed like it had been there forever.

Cocaine wasn't new and neither was selling it. There had always been older dudes who grew their pinkie fingernails out to sniff c.o.ke. There were always down-low dealers who partied with their customers as they supplied them. Melle Mel had a song called "White Lines (Don't Do It)" and of course Kurtis Blow called himself "Blow," but for the most part doing c.o.ke was something that happened at private parties, something you might've of heard about but had never really seen. Crackheads were different. They'd smoke in hallways, on playgrounds, on subway station staircases. They got no respect. They were former neighbors, "aunts" and "uncles," but once they started smoking, they were simply crackheads, the lowest on the food chain in the jungle, worse than prost.i.tutes and almost as bad as snitches.

Most of these friends were my parents' age or a little younger. They had no secrets. Skeletal and ashy, they were as jittery as rookie beat cops and their eyes were always spinning with schemes to get money for the next hit. Kids my age were serving them. And these new little kamikazes, who simply called themselves hustlers (like generations before us did), were everywhere, stacking their ones. f.u.c.k waiting for the city to pa.s.s out summer jobs. I wasn't even a teenager yet and suddenly everyone I knew had pocket money. And better.

When Biggie rhymed about how things done changed things done changed he could've meant from one summer to the next. It wasn't a generational s.h.i.+ft but a generational split. he could've meant from one summer to the next. It wasn't a generational s.h.i.+ft but a generational split. Look at our parents, they even f.u.kn scared of us. Look at our parents, they even f.u.kn scared of us. With that line, Big captured the whole transformation in a few words. Authority was turned upside down. Guys my age, fed up with watching their moms struggle on a single income, were paying utility bills with money from hustling. So how could those same mothers sit them down about a truant report? Outside, in Marcy's courtyards and across the country, teenagers wore automatic weapons like they were sneakers. Broad-daylight shoot-outs had our grandmothers afraid to leave the house, and had neighbors who'd known us since we were toddlers forming Neighborhood Watches against us. There was a separation of style, too. Hip-hop was already moving fas.h.i.+on out of the disco clubs and popularizing rugged streetwear, but we'd take it even further: baggy jeans and puffy coats to stash work and weapons, construction boots to survive cold winter nights working on the streets. With that line, Big captured the whole transformation in a few words. Authority was turned upside down. Guys my age, fed up with watching their moms struggle on a single income, were paying utility bills with money from hustling. So how could those same mothers sit them down about a truant report? Outside, in Marcy's courtyards and across the country, teenagers wore automatic weapons like they were sneakers. Broad-daylight shoot-outs had our grandmothers afraid to leave the house, and had neighbors who'd known us since we were toddlers forming Neighborhood Watches against us. There was a separation of style, too. Hip-hop was already moving fas.h.i.+on out of the disco clubs and popularizing rugged streetwear, but we'd take it even further: baggy jeans and puffy coats to stash work and weapons, construction boots to survive cold winter nights working on the streets.

New York wasn't big for gang banging, but every era has its gangs, and during my high school years it was the Decepticons, the Lo-Lifes, even girl gangs like the Deceptinettes. Those broads would just walk up to grown men and punch them in their faces so hard they'd drop. The proliferation of guns on the streets added a different dynamic than the nunchucks, clackers, and kitchen knives kids my older brother's age used to use as weapons in their street fights. The trains were wild. In the early eighties, before I was thirteen, you had graffiti writers tagging trains, knocking conductors out with cans of Krylon if they tried to protect their trains. You had stickup kids looking for jewelry. Forty-fives made it much more likely for you to lose your sheepskin coat-or your life-on the A express. So my friends and I rolled hard for one another.

My man Hill (names changed to protect the guilty) and I were close, and even before we got in the game we were living through the changes it brought. I'd ride the train all the way to East New York with him, he'd get off, go see his girl, and I'd ride back to Marcy alone. One time we were on the train heading to Hill's chick's house and these n.i.g.g.as across the aisle just started ice grilling us. We were outnumbered and only had one gun between us, but we grilled them right back. Nothing jumped off and eventually we got off the train. East New York was one of the most serious neighborhoods in the city, so we agreed that he'd hold on to the gun when he decided to spend the night out there. I hit the train alone to head back to Marcy. On the way back, I ran into the same dudes. Unbelievable. I was sitting on the train next to another young guy who just happened to be there when they came through the car. They sat across the aisle from me. They wanted something with me real bad, but they couldn't figure out if the guy sitting next to me was with me. He wasn't. Still, I was looking at them like I'd murder them for staring at me. When the guy next to me got off they grilled at me for a minute. It was on. It wasn't a rare thing to have to fight your way home. Something as meaningless as a glance often ended up in a scuffle-and worse. You could get killed just for riding in the wrong train at the wrong time. I started to think that since I was risking my life anyway, I might as well get paid for it. It was that simple.

One day Hill told me he was selling crack he was getting from a guy named Dee Dee. I told him I wanted to be down and he took me to meet the dude. I remember Dee Dee talking to us in a professional tone, taking his time so we'd really understand him. He explained that hustling was a business but it also had certain obvious, inherent risks, so we had to be disciplined. He knew that, like him, neither of us even smoked weed, so he wasn't worried that we'd get high off of the work, but he wanted to stress how real the game was, that as a hustle it required vision and dedication. We thought we had both. Plus, my friend had a cousin in Trenton, New Jersey, doing the same thing. All we needed were Metroliner tickets to join him. When Dee Dee was murdered, it was like something out of a mob movie. They cut his b.a.l.l.s off and stuffed them in his mouth and shot him in the back of the head, execution style. You would think that would be enough to keep two fifteen-year-olds off the turnpike with a pocketful of white tops. But you'd be wrong.

LIFE STORIES TOLD THROUGH RAP.

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I was still rhyming, but now it took a backseat to hustling. It was all moving so fast, it was hard to make sense of it or see the big picture. Kids like me, the new hustlers, were going through something strange and twisted and had a crazy story to tell. And we needed to hear our story told back to us, so maybe we could start to understand it ourselves.

Hip-hop was starting to catch up. Fresh Gordon was one of Brooklyn's biggest DJs. He was also seeing some action as a producer after he worked on Salt 'N' Pepa's big hit "Push It." Like a lot of the DJs in the city, Gordy was doing mix tapes, and he had a relations.h.i.+p with my friend Jaz, so he invited us to come rhyme on a track he was recording with Big Daddy Kane. I laid my little verse down, but when I went home I couldn't get Kane's freestyle out of my head. I remember one punchline in Kane's verse: put a quarter in your a.s.s / cuz you played yourself. put a quarter in your a.s.s / cuz you played yourself. "Played yourself" wasn't even a phrase back then. He made it up right there on that tape. Impressive. I probably wrote a million rhymes that night. That tape made it all around New York. It even traveled as far as Miami. (This was back when black radio had slogans that a.s.sured listeners they were "rap free," so hip-hop moved on an underground railroad for real.) People were talking about the second kid on the tape, the MC before Kane-I was getting great feedback. I couldn't believe people even noticed my verse, Kane's was so sick. "Played yourself" wasn't even a phrase back then. He made it up right there on that tape. Impressive. I probably wrote a million rhymes that night. That tape made it all around New York. It even traveled as far as Miami. (This was back when black radio had slogans that a.s.sured listeners they were "rap free," so hip-hop moved on an underground railroad for real.) People were talking about the second kid on the tape, the MC before Kane-I was getting great feedback. I couldn't believe people even noticed my verse, Kane's was so sick.

Kane was Brooklyn's superhero, and an all-time great, but among New York MCs there was no one like Rakim. In Rakim, we recognized a poet and deep thinker, someone who was getting closer to reflecting the truth of our lives in his tone and spirit. His flow was complex and his voice was ill; his vocal cords carried their own reverb, like he'd swallowed an amp. Back in 1986, when other MCs were still doing party rhymes, he was dead serious: write a rhyme in graffiti and every show you see me in / deep concentration cause I'm no comedian. write a rhyme in graffiti and every show you see me in / deep concentration cause I'm no comedian. He was approaching rap like literature, like art. And the songs still banged at parties. He was approaching rap like literature, like art. And the songs still banged at parties.

Then the next wave crashed. Outside of New York, pioneers, like Ice-T in L.A. and Schoolly D in Philly, had rhymed about gang life for years. But then New York MCs started to push their own street stories. Boogie Down Productions came out with a hard but conscious street alb.u.m, Criminal Minded, Criminal Minded, where KRS-One rhymed about catching a crack dealer with an automatic: where KRS-One rhymed about catching a crack dealer with an automatic: he reached for his pistol but it was just a waste / cuz my nine millimeter was up against his face. he reached for his pistol but it was just a waste / cuz my nine millimeter was up against his face. Public Enemy came hard with songs about baseheads and black steel. These songs were exciting and violent, but they were also explicitly "conscious," and anti-hustling. When NWA's Public Enemy came hard with songs about baseheads and black steel. These songs were exciting and violent, but they were also explicitly "conscious," and anti-hustling. When NWA's Straight Outta Compton Straight Outta Compton claimed everything west of New Jersey, it was clear they were ushering in a new movement. Even though I liked the music, the rhymes seemed over the top. It wasn't until I saw movies like claimed everything west of New Jersey, it was clear they were ushering in a new movement. Even though I liked the music, the rhymes seemed over the top. It wasn't until I saw movies like Boyz n the Hood Boyz n the Hood and and Menace II Society Menace II Society that I could see how real crack culture had become all over the country. It makes sense, since it came from L.A., that the whole gangsta rap movement would be supported cinematically. But by the time Dre produced that I could see how real crack culture had become all over the country. It makes sense, since it came from L.A., that the whole gangsta rap movement would be supported cinematically. But by the time Dre produced The Chronic, The Chronic, the music was the movie. That was the first West Coast alb.u.m you could hear knocking all over Brooklyn. The stories in those songs-about g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ging and partying and f.u.c.king and smoking weed-were real, or based on reality, and I loved it on a visceral level, but it wasn't my story to tell. the music was the movie. That was the first West Coast alb.u.m you could hear knocking all over Brooklyn. The stories in those songs-about g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ging and partying and f.u.c.king and smoking weed-were real, or based on reality, and I loved it on a visceral level, but it wasn't my story to tell.

IT'S LIKE THE BLUES, WE GON RIDE OUT ON THIS ONE As an MC I still loved rhyming for the sake of rhyming, purely for the aesthetics of the rhyme itself-the challenge of moving around couplets and triplets, stacking double entendres, speed rapping. If it hadn't been for hustling, I would've been working on being the best MC, technically, to ever touch a mic. But when I hit the streets for real, it altered my ambition. I finally had a story to tell. And I felt obligated, above all, to be honest about that experience.

That ambition defined my work from my first alb.u.m on. Hip-hop had described poverty in the ghetto and painted pictures of violence and thug life, but I was interested in something a little different: the interior s.p.a.ce of a young kid's head, his psychology. Thirteen-year-old kids don't wake up one day and say, "Okay, I just wanna sell drugs on my mother's stoop, hustle on my block till I'm so hot n.i.g.g.as want to come look for me and start shooting out my mom's living room windows." Trust me, no one wakes up in the morning and wants to do that. To tell the story of the kid with the gun without telling the story of why he has it is to tell a kind of lie. To tell the story of the pain without telling the story of the rewards-the money, the girls, the excitement-is a different kind of evasion. To talk about killing n.i.g.g.as dead without talking about waking up in the middle of the night from a dream about the friend you watched die, or not getting to sleep in the first place because you're so paranoid from the work you're doing, is a lie so deep it's criminal. I wanted to tell stories and boast, to entertain and to dazzle with creative rhymes, but every thing I said had to be rooted in the truth of that experience. I owed it to all the hustlers I met or grew up with who didn't have a voice to tell their own stories-and to myself.

My life after childhood has two main stories: the story of the hustler and the story of the rapper, and the two overlap as much as they diverge. I was on the streets for more than half of my life from the time I was thirteen years old. People sometimes say that now I'm so far away from that life-now that I've got businesses and Grammys and magazine covers-that I have no right to rap about it. But how distant is the story of your own life ever going to be? The feelings I had during that part of my life were burned into me like a brand. It was life during wartime.

I lost people I loved, was betrayed by people I trusted, felt the breeze of bullets flying by my head. I saw crack addiction destroy families-it almost destroyed mine-but I sold it, too. I stood on cold corners far from home in the middle of the night serving crack fiends and then balled ridiculously in Vegas; I went dead broke and got hood rich on those streets. I hated it. I was addicted to it. It nearly killed me. But no matter what, it is the place where I learned not just who I was, but who we were, who all of us are. It was the site of my moral education, as strange as that may sound. It's my core story and, just like you, just like anyone, that core story is the one that I have to tell. I was part of a generation of kids who saw something special about what it means to be human-something b.l.o.o.d.y and dramatic and scandalous that happened right here in America-and hip-hop was our way of reporting that story, telling it to ourselves and to the world. Of course, that story is still evolving-and my life is, too-so the way I tell it evolves and expands from alb.u.m to alb.u.m and song to song. But the story of the hustler was the story hip-hop was born to tell-not its only story, but the story that found its voice in the form and, in return, helped grow the form into an art.

Chuck D famously called hip-hop the CNN of the ghetto, and he was right, but hip-hop would be as boring as the news if all MCs did was report. Rap is also entertainment-and art. Going back to poetry for a minute: I love metaphors, and for me hustling is the ultimate metaphor for the basic human struggles: the struggle to survive and resist, the struggle to win and to make sense of it all.

This is why the hustler's story-through hip-hop-has connected with a global audience. The deeper we get into those sidewalk cracks and into the mind of the young hustler trying to find his fortune there, the closer we get to the ultimate human story, the story of struggle, which is what defines us all.

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Just Blaze was one of the house producers at Roc-A-Fella Records, the company I co-founded with Kareem Burke and Damon Dash. He's a remarkable producer, one of the best of his generation. As much as anyone, he helped craft the Roc-A-Fella sound when the label was at its peak: manipulated soul samples and original drum tracks, punctuated by horn stabs or big organ chords. It was dramatic music: It had emotion and nostalgia and a street edge, but he combined those elements into something original. His best tracks were stories in themselves. With his genius for creating drama and story in music, it made sense that Just was also deep into video games. He'd written soundtracks for them. He played them. He collected them. He was even a character in one game. If he could've gotten bodily sucked into a video game, like that guy in Tron Tron did, he would've been happy forever. I was recording did, he would've been happy forever. I was recording The Black Alb.u.m The Black Alb.u.m and wanted Just to give me one last song for the alb.u.m, which was supposed to be my last, but he was distracted by his video-game work. He'd already given me one song, "December 4th," for the alb.u.m-but I was still looking for one more. He was coming up empty and we were running up against our deadlines for getting the alb.u.m done and mastered. and wanted Just to give me one last song for the alb.u.m, which was supposed to be my last, but he was distracted by his video-game work. He'd already given me one song, "December 4th," for the alb.u.m-but I was still looking for one more. He was coming up empty and we were running up against our deadlines for getting the alb.u.m done and mastered.

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At the same time, the promotion was already starting, which isn't my favorite part of the process. I'm still a guarded person when I'm not in the booth or onstage or with my oldest friends, and I'm particularly wary of the media. Part of the pre-release promotion for the alb.u.m was a listening session in the studio with a reporter from The Village Voice, The Village Voice, a young writer named Elizabeth Mendez Berry. I was playing the alb.u.m unfinished; I felt like it needed maybe two more songs to be complete. After we listened to the alb.u.m the reporter came up to me and said the strangest thing: "You don't feel funny?" I was like, a young writer named Elizabeth Mendez Berry. I was playing the alb.u.m unfinished; I felt like it needed maybe two more songs to be complete. After we listened to the alb.u.m the reporter came up to me and said the strangest thing: "You don't feel funny?" I was like, Huh?, Huh?, because I knew she meant funny as in weird, and I was thinking, because I knew she meant funny as in weird, and I was thinking, Actually, I feel real comfortable; this is one of the best alb.u.ms of my career. Actually, I feel real comfortable; this is one of the best alb.u.ms of my career....But then she said it again: "You don't feel funny? You're wearing that Che T-s.h.i.+rt and you have-" she gestured dramatically at the chain around my neck. "I couldn't even concentrate on the music," she said. "All I could think of is that big chain bouncing off of Che's forehead." The chain was a Jesus piece-the Jesus piece that Biggie used to wear, in fact. It's part of my ritual when I record an alb.u.m: I wear the Jesus piece and let my hair grow till I'm done.

This wasn't the first time I'd worn a Che T-s.h.i.+rt-I'd worn a different one during my taping of an MTV Unplugged Unplugged show, which I'd taped with the Roots. I didn't really think much of it. Her question- show, which I'd taped with the Roots. I didn't really think much of it. Her question-don't you feel funny?-caught me off guard and I didn't have an answer for her. The conversation moved on, but before she left she gave me a copy of an essay she wrote about me for a book about cla.s.sic alb.u.ms. The essay was about three of my alb.u.ms: Reasonable Doubt, Vol. 3...Life and Times of S. Carter, Reasonable Doubt, Vol. 3...Life and Times of S. Carter, and and The Blueprint. The Blueprint. That night I went home and read it. Here are some highlights: That night I went home and read it. Here are some highlights: On "Dope Man" he calls himself, "the soul of Mumia" in this modern-day time. I don't think so.

And: Jay-Z is convincing. When he raps, "I'm representing for the seat where Rosa Parks sat/where Malcolm X was shot/where Martin Luther was popped" on "The Ruler's Back," you almost believe him.

And, referring to my MTV Unplugged Unplugged show: show: When he rocks his Guevara s.h.i.+rt and a do-rag, squint and you see a revolutionary. But open your eyes to the platinum chain around his neck: Jay-Z is a hustler.

Wow. I could've just dismissed her as a hater; I remember her going on about "bling-bling," which was just too easy, and, honestly, even after reading her essays I was mostly thinking, "It's a T-s.h.i.+rt. You're buggin." But I was fascinated by the piece and thought some more about what she was saying. It stuck with me and that night I turned it around in my head.

WE REBELLIOUS, WE BACK HOME.

One of Big's genius lines wasn't even a rhyme, it was in the ad lib to "Juicy," his first big hit: Yeah, this alb.u.m is dedicated to all the teachers that told me I'd never amount to nothin, to all the people that lived above the buildings that I was hustlin in front of that called the police on me when I was just tryin to make some money to feed my daughters, and all the n.i.g.g.as in the struggle.

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I loved that he described what a lot of hustlers were going through in the streets-dissed and feared by teachers and parents and neighbors and cops, broke, working a corner to try to get some bread for basic s.h.i.+t-as more than some glamorous alternative to having a real job.

He elevated it to "the struggle." That's a loaded term. It's usually used to talk about civil rights or black power-the seat where Rosa Parks sat / where Malcolm X was shot / where Martin Luther was popped-not the kind of nickel-and-dime, just-toget-by struggle that Biggie was talking about. Our struggle wasn't organized or even coherent. There were no leaders of this "movement." There wasn't even a list of demands. Our struggle was truly a something-out-of-nothing, do-or-die situation. The f.u.c.ked-up thing was that it led some of us to sell drugs on our own blocks and get caught up in the material spoils of that life. It was definitely different, less easily defined, less pure, and harder to celebrate than a simple call for revolution. But in their way, Biggie's words made an even more desperate case for some kind of change. Che was coming from the perspective, "We deserve these rights; we are ready to lead." We were coming from the perspective, "We need some kind of opportunity; we are ready to die." The connections between the two kinds of struggles weren't necessarily clear to me yet, but they were on my mind.

THE RENEGADE, YOU BEEN AFRAID.

The day after the listening session, Just finally played a track for me. It opened with some dark minor organ notes and then flooded them with bra.s.sy chords that felt like the end of the world. It was beautiful. When a track is right, I feel like it's mine from the second I hear it. I own it. This was the record I'd been waiting for. I spit two quick verses on it-no hook, no chorus, just two verses, because we were running out of time to get the alb.u.m done and mastered and released on schedule. I called it "Public Service Announcement."

The subject of the first verse wasn't blazingly unique. It's a variation on a story I've been telling since I was ten years old rapping into a tape recorder: I'm dope. Doper than you. But even when a rapper is just rapping about how dope he is, there's something a little bit deeper going on. It's like a sonnet, believe it or not. Sonnets have a set structure, but also a limited subject matter: They are mostly about love. Taking on such a familiar subject and writing about it in a set structure forced sonnet writers to find every nook and cranny in the subject and challenged them to invent new language for saying old things. It's the same with braggadacio in rap. When we take the most familiar subject in the history of rap-why I'm dope-and frame it within the sixteen-bar structure of a rap verse, synced to the specific rhythm and feel of the track, more than anything it's a test of creativity and wit. It's like a metaphor for itself; if you can say how dope you are in a completely original, clever, powerful way, the rhyme itself becomes proof of the boast's truth. And there are always deeper layers of meaning buried in the simplest verses. I call rhymes like the first verse on "Public Service Announcement" Easter-egg hunts, because if you just listen to it once without paying attention, you'll brush past some lines that can offer more meaning and resonance every time you listen to them.

The second verse for "Public Service Announcement" was almost entirely unrelated to the first verse. I wrote the second verse, which opens with the lyric, I'm like Che Guevara with bling on, I'm complex, I'm like Che Guevara with bling on, I'm complex, as a response to the journalist. When someone asked me at the time of the Unplugged show why it was that I wore the Che T-s.h.i.+rt, I think I said something glib like, "I consider myself a revolutionary because I'm a self-made millionaire in a racist society." But it was really that it just felt right to me. I knew that people would have questions. Some people in the hip-hop world were surprised by it. There are rappers like Public Enemy and Dead Prez who've always been explicitly revolutionary, but I wasn't one of them. I also wasn't a Marxist like Che-the platinum Jesus piece made that pretty clear. as a response to the journalist. When someone asked me at the time of the Unplugged show why it was that I wore the Che T-s.h.i.+rt, I think I said something glib like, "I consider myself a revolutionary because I'm a self-made millionaire in a racist society." But it was really that it just felt right to me. I knew that people would have questions. Some people in the hip-hop world were surprised by it. There are rappers like Public Enemy and Dead Prez who've always been explicitly revolutionary, but I wasn't one of them. I also wasn't a Marxist like Che-the platinum Jesus piece made that pretty clear.

Later I would read more about Guevara and discover similarities in our lives. I related to him as a kid who had asthma and played sports. I related to the power of his image, too. The image on the T-s.h.i.+rt had a name: Guerrillero Heroico, heroic guerrilla. The photo was taken after the Cuban Revolution and by the time I wore the T-s.h.i.+rt, it was probably one of the most famous photographs in the world. Like a lot of people who stumble across the image with no context, I was still struck by its power and charisma.

The journalist was right, though. Images aren't everything, and a T-s.h.i.+rt doesn't change who you are. Like I said in the song "Blueprint 2," cause the n.i.g.g.e.r wear a kufi, it don't mean that he bright. cause the n.i.g.g.e.r wear a kufi, it don't mean that he bright. For any image or symbol or creative act to mean something, it has to touch something deeper, connect to something true. I know that the spirit of struggle and insurgency was woven into the lives of the people I grew up with in Bed-Stuy, even if in sometimes f.u.c.ked up and corrupted ways. Che's failures were b.l.o.o.d.y and his contradictions frustrating. But to have contradictions-especially when you're fighting for your life-is human, and to wear the Che s.h.i.+rt and the platinum and diamonds together is honest. In the end I wore it because I meant it. For any image or symbol or creative act to mean something, it has to touch something deeper, connect to something true. I know that the spirit of struggle and insurgency was woven into the lives of the people I grew up with in Bed-Stuy, even if in sometimes f.u.c.ked up and corrupted ways. Che's failures were b.l.o.o.d.y and his contradictions frustrating. But to have contradictions-especially when you're fighting for your life-is human, and to wear the Che s.h.i.+rt and the platinum and diamonds together is honest. In the end I wore it because I meant it.

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT.

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This is a public service announcement / Sponsored by Just Blaze and the good folks at Roc-A-Fella Records / [ [Just Blaze] Fellow Americans, it is with the utmost pride and sincerity that I present this recording, as a living testament and recollection of history in the making during our generation. Fellow Americans, it is with the utmost pride and sincerity that I present this recording, as a living testament and recollection of history in the making during our generation.1 / / [ [Jay-Z] Allow me to re-introduce myself / My name is Hov, OH, H-to-the-O-V / I used to move snowflakes by the O-Z / I guess even back then you can call me / CEO of the R-O-C, CEO of the R-O-C,2 Hov! / Fresh out the fryin pan into the fire / I be the music biz number one supplier / Hov! / Fresh out the fryin pan into the fire / I be the music biz number one supplier / Flyer Flyer3 than a piece of paper bearin my name / Got the hottest chick in the game wearin my chain, that's right / than a piece of paper bearin my name / Got the hottest chick in the game wearin my chain, that's right / Hov, OH-not D.O.C. Hov, OH-not D.O.C.4 / But similar to them letters, "No One Can Do It Better"/ / But similar to them letters, "No One Can Do It Better"/ I check cheddar like a food inspector I check cheddar like a food inspector5 / My homey Strict told me, / My homey Strict told me, "Dude finish your breakfast" "Dude finish your breakfast"6 / So that's what I'ma do, take you back to the dude / with the Lexus, fast-forward the jewels and the necklace / / So that's what I'ma do, take you back to the dude / with the Lexus, fast-forward the jewels and the necklace / Let me tell you dudes what I do to protect this Let me tell you dudes what I do to protect this7 / I shoot at you actors like movie directors [ / I shoot at you actors like movie directors [laughing] / / This ain't a movie dog This ain't a movie dog (oh s.h.i.+t) / (oh s.h.i.+t) / [ [Just Blaze] Now before I finish, let me just say I did not come here to show out, did not come here to impress you. Because to tell you the truth when I leave here I'm GONE! And I don't care WHAT you think about me-but just remember, when it hits the fan, brother, whether it's next year, ten years, twenty years from now, you'll never be able to say that these brothers lied to you JACK! Now before I finish, let me just say I did not come here to show out, did not come here to impress you. Because to tell you the truth when I leave here I'm GONE! And I don't care WHAT you think about me-but just remember, when it hits the fan, brother, whether it's next year, ten years, twenty years from now, you'll never be able to say that these brothers lied to you JACK! / [ / [Jay-Z] thing ain't lie / I done came through the block in everything that's fly / I'm like Che Guevara I'm like Che Guevara8 with bling on I'm complex / I never claimed to have wings on n.i.g.g.a I get my / with bling on I'm complex / I never claimed to have wings on n.i.g.g.a I get my / by any means on by any means on9 whenever there's a drought / Get your umbrellas out because / whenever there's a drought / Get your umbrellas out because / that's when I brainstorm that's when I brainstorm10 / You can blame Shawn, but I ain't invent the game / I just rolled the dice, tryin to get some change / And I do it twice, ain't no sense in me / lyin as if I am a different man / And I could blame my environment / but there ain't no reason / / You can blame Shawn, but I ain't invent the game / I just rolled the dice, tryin to get some change / And I do it twice, ain't no sense in me / lyin as if I am a different man / And I could blame my environment / but there ain't no reason / why I be buyin expensive chains why I be buyin expensive chains11 / Hope you don't think users / are the only abusers n.i.g.g.az / / Hope you don't think users / are the only abusers n.i.g.g.az / Gettin high within the game Gettin high within the game12 / If you do, then how would you explain? / I'm ten years removed, still the vibe is in my veins / / If you do, then how would you explain? / I'm ten years removed, still the vibe is in my veins / I got a hustler spirit, n.i.g.g.a period I got a hustler spirit, n.i.g.g.a period13 / Check out my hat yo, peep the way I wear it / Check out my swag' yo, / I walk like a ballplayer / No matter where you go / you are what you are player / And you can try to change but that's just the top layer / / Check out my hat yo, peep the way I wear it / Check out my swag' yo, / I walk like a ballplayer / No matter where you go / you are what you are player / And you can try to change but that's just the top layer / Man, you was who you was 'fore you got here Man, you was who you was 'fore you got here14 / Only G.o.d can judge me, so I'm gone / / Only G.o.d can judge me, so I'm gone / Either love me, or leave me alone Either love me, or leave me alone15

AMERICAN DREAMIN'

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This is the s.h.i.+t you dream about / with the homies steamin out / Back-back-backing them Beemers out Back-back-backing them Beemers out1 / Seems as our plans to get a grant / Then go off to college didn't pan or even out / We need it now, we need a town / / Seems as our plans to get a grant / Then go off to college didn't pan or even out / We need it now, we need a town / We need a place to pitch, we need a mound We need a place to pitch, we need a mound2 / For now, I'm just a lazy boy / Big dreaming in my La-Z-Boy / / For now, I'm just a lazy boy / Big dreaming in my La-Z-Boy / In the clouds of smoke, been playin this Marvin In the clouds of smoke, been playin this Marvin3 / Mama forgive me, should be thinkin bout Harvard / But that's too far away, n.i.g.g.as are starving / / Mama forgive me, should be thinkin bout Harvard / But that's too far away, n.i.g.g.as are starving / Ain't nothin wrong with aim, just gotta change the target Ain't nothin wrong with aim, just gotta change the target4 / / I got dreams of baggin snidd-ow I got dreams of baggin snidd-ow5 the size of pillows / I see pies everytime my eyes clidd-ose / the size of pillows / I see pies everytime my eyes clidd-ose / I see rides, sixes, I gotta get those I see rides, sixes, I gotta get those6 / Life's a b.i.t.c.h, I hope to not make her a widow / Now see, the life's right there / And it seems right there / It's not quite near, / And it's not like we're / professionals movin the decimals / / Life's a b.i.t.c.h, I hope to not make her a widow / Now see, the life's right there / And it seems right there / It's not quite near, / And it's not like we're / professionals movin the decimals / Know where to cop? Nah! Got a connect? No! Know where to cop? Nah! Got a connect? No!7 / Who in the F knows how to be successful / / Who in the F knows how to be successful / Need a Personal Jesus, I'm in Depeche Mode Need a Personal Jesus, I'm in Depeche Mode8 / They say it's celestial, it's all in the stars / It's like Tony La Russa / / They say it's celestial, it's all in the stars / It's like Tony La Russa / How you play your cards How you play your cards9 / Y'all ain't f.u.c.king with me! / The ironies are / / Y'all ain't f.u.c.king with me! / The ironies are / And at all costs better avoid these bars And at all costs better avoid these bars10 / Now let's start, on your mark / Get set, let's go-get out the car! / Going in circles, it's a vicious cycle / This is a crash course, this ain't high school / Wake up, Muttley, you're dreamin again / Your own reality show, the season begins / / Now let's start, on your mark / Get set, let's go-get out the car! / Going in circles, it's a vicious cycle / This is a crash course, this ain't high school / Wake up, Muttley, you're dreamin again / Your own reality show, the season begins / Step one in this process, scramble up in your projects Step one in this process, scramble up in your projects11 / And head to the heights where big c.o.ke is processed / You gotta convince 'em that you not from the Precinct / Please speak slow, 'cause he no speakey no English / If he takes a liking after a couple of trips / If your money is straight, he's gonna give you consignment / You're now in a game where only time can tell / Survive the droughts, I wish you well.../ / And head to the heights where big c.o.ke is processed / You gotta convince 'em that you not from the Precinct / Please speak slow, 'cause he no speakey no English / If he takes a liking after a couple of trips / If your money is straight, he's gonna give you consignment / You're now in a game where only time can tell / Survive the droughts, I wish you well.../ Survive the droughts? I wish you well? Survive the droughts? I wish you well?12 / How sick am I? I wish you HEALTH / I wish you wheels, I wish you wealth / / How sick am I? I wish you HEALTH / I wish you wheels, I wish you wealth / I wish you insight so you could see for yourself I wish you insight so you could see for yourself13 / You could see the signs, when the jackers is schemin / And the cops is comin, you could read they mind / / You could see the signs, when the jackers is schemin / And the cops is comin, you could read they mind / You could see from behind, You could see from behind,14 you could redefine / The game as we know it, one dream at a time / I'm American dreamin you could redefine / The game as we know it, one dream at a time / I'm American dreamin

EARLY THIS MORNING.