Our pals at Noisey just ran an interview with “Freeway”, a man who claims to be the original Rick Ross,
it’s a great read for lots of reasons, but it also touches on an
anonymous email that rap journalists and bloggers received last year,
which we’ve put right here:
Hello,
After more than 20 years, I’ve finally
decided to tell the world what I witnessed in 1991, which I believe was
one of the biggest turning point in popular music, and ultimately
American society. I have struggled for a long time weighing the pros and
cons of making this story public as I was reluctant to implicate the
individuals who were present that day. So I’ve simply decided to leave
out names and all the details that may risk my personal well being and
that of those who were, like me, dragged into something they weren’t
ready for.
Between the late 80′s and early 90’s, I was
what you may call a “decision maker” with one of the more established
company in the music industry. I came from Europe in the early 80’s and
quickly established myself in the business. The industry was different
back then. Since technology and media weren’t accessible to people like
they are today, the industry had more control over the public and had
the means to influence them anyway it wanted.
This may explain why in early 1991,
I was invited to attend a closed door meeting with a small group of
music business insiders to discuss rap music’s new direction. Little did
I know that we would be asked to participate in one of the most
unethical and destructive business practice I’ve ever seen.
The meeting was held at a private residence
on the outskirts of Los Angeles. I remember about 25 to 30 people being
there, most of them familiar faces. Speaking to those I knew, we joked
about the theme of the meeting as many of us did not care for rap music
and failed to see the purpose of being invited to a private gathering to
discuss its future.
Among the attendees was a small group of
unfamiliar faces who stayed to themselves and made no attempt to
socialize beyond their circle. Based on their behavior and formal
appearances, they didn’t seem to be in our industry. Our casual chatter
was interrupted when we were asked to sign a confidentiality agreement
preventing us from publicly discussing the information presented during
the meeting. Needless to say, this intrigued and in some cases disturbed
many of us.
The agreement was only a page long but very
clear on the matter and consequences which stated that violating the
terms would result in job termination. We asked several people what this
meeting was about and the reason for such secrecy but couldn’t find
anyone who had answers for us. A few people refused to sign and walked
out. No one stopped them. I was tempted to follow but curiosity got the
best of me. A man who was part of the “unfamiliar” group collected the
agreements from us.
Quickly after the meeting began, one of my
industry colleagues (who shall remain nameless like everyone else)
thanked us for attending. He then gave the floor to a man who only
introduced himself by first name and gave no further details about his
personal background. I think he was the owner of the residence but it
was never confirmed. He briefly praised all of us for the success we had
achieved in our industry and congratulated us for being selected as
part of this small group of “decision makers”. At this point I begin to
feel slightly uncomfortable at the strangeness of this gathering.
The subject quickly changed as the speaker
went on to tell us that the respective companies we represented had
invested in a very profitable industry which could become even more
rewarding with our active involvement. He explained that the companies
we work for had invested millions into the building of privately owned
prisons and that our positions of influence in the music industry would
actually impact the profitability of these investments. I remember many
of us in the group immediately looking at each other in confusion. At
the time, I didn’t know what a private prison was but I wasn’t the only
one.
Sure enough, someone asked what these prisons
were and what any of this had to do with us. We were told that these
prisons were built by privately owned companies who received funding
from the government based on the number of inmates. The more inmates,
the more money the government would pay these prisons. It was also made
clear to us that since these prisons are privately owned, as they become
publicly traded, we’d be able to buy shares. Most of us were taken back
by this. Again, a couple of people asked what this had to do with us.
At this point, my industry colleague who had
first opened the meeting took the floor again and answered our
questions. He told us that since our employers had become silent
investors in this prison business, it was now in their interest to make
sure that these prisons remained filled.
Our job would be to help make this happen by
marketing music which promotes criminal behavior, rap being the music of
choice. He assured us that this would be a great situation for us
because rap music was becoming an increasingly profitable market for our
companies, and as employee, we’d also be able to buy personal stocks in
these prisons. Immediately, silence came over the room. You could have
heard a pin drop. I remember looking around to make sure I wasn’t
dreaming and saw half of the people with dropped jaws. My daze was
interrupted when someone shouted, “Is this a f****** joke?”
At this point things became chaotic. Two of
the men who were part of the “unfamiliar” group grabbed the man who
shouted out and attempted to remove him from the house. A few of us,
myself included, tried to intervene. One of them pulled out a gun and we
all backed off. They separated us from the crowd and all four of us
were escorted outside.
My industry colleague who had opened the
meeting earlier hurried out to meet us and reminded us that we had
signed agreement and would suffer the consequences of speaking about
this publicly or even with those who attended the meeting. I asked him
why he was involved with something this corrupt and he replied that it
was bigger than the music business and nothing we’d want to challenge
without risking consequences. We all protested and as he walked back
into the house I remember word for word the last thing he said, “It’s
out of my hands now. Remember you signed an agreement.” He then closed
the door behind him. The men rushed us to our cars and actually watched
until we drove off.
A million things were going through my mind
as I drove away and I eventually decided to pull over and park on a side
street in order to collect my thoughts. I replayed everything in my
mind repeatedly and it all seemed very surreal to me. I was angry with
myself for not having taken a more active role in questioning what had
been presented to us.
I’d like to believe the shock of it all is
what suspended my better nature. After what seemed like an eternity, I
was able to calm myself enough to make it home. I didn’t talk or call
anyone that night. The next day back at the office, I was visibly out of
it but blamed it on being under the weather. No one else in my
department had been invited to the meeting and I felt a sense of guilt
for not being able to share what I had witnessed. I thought about
contacting the 3 others who wear kicked out of the house but I didn’t
remember their names and thought that tracking them down would probably
bring unwanted attention. I considered speaking out publicly at the risk
of losing my job but I realized I’d probably be jeopardizing more than
my job and I wasn’t willing to risk anything happening to my family.
I thought about those men with guns and
wondered who they were? I had been told that this was bigger than the
music business and all I could do was let my imagination run free. There
were no answers and no one to talk to. I tried to do a little bit of
research on private prisons but didn’t uncover anything about the music
business’ involvement. However, the information I did find confirmed how
dangerous this prison business really was. Days turned into weeks and
weeks into months. Eventually, it was as if the meeting had never taken
place. It all seemed surreal. I became more reclusive and stopped going
to any industry events unless professionally obligated to do so. On two
occasions, I found myself attending the same function as my former
colleague. Both times, our eyes met but nothing more was exchanged.
As the months passed, rap music had
definitely changed direction. I was never a fan of it but even I could
tell the difference. Rap acts that talked about politics or harmless fun
were quickly fading away as gangster rap started dominating the
airwaves. Only a few months had passed since the meeting but I suspect
that the ideas presented that day had been successfully implemented. It
was as if the order has been given to all major label executives. The
music was climbing the charts and most companies when more than happy to
capitalize on it. Each one was churning out their very own gangster rap
acts on an assembly line. Everyone bought into it, consumers included.
Violence and drug use became a central theme in most rap music. I spoke
to a few of my peers in the industry to get their opinions on the new
trend but was told repeatedly that it was all about supply and demand.
Sadly many of them even expressed that the music reinforced their
prejudice of minorities.
I officially quit the music business in 1993
but my heart had already left months before. I broke ties with the
majority of my peers and removed myself from this thing I had once
loved. I took some time off, returned to Europe for a few years, settled
out of state, and lived a “quiet” life away from the world of
entertainment. As the years passed, I managed to keep my secret, fearful
of sharing it with the wrong person but also a little ashamed of not
having had the balls to blow the whistle. But as rap got worse, my guilt
grew.
Fortunately, in the late 90’s, having the
internet as a resource which wasn’t at my disposal in the early days
made it easier for me to investigate what is now labeled the prison
industrial complex. Now that I have a greater understanding of how
private prisons operate, things make much more sense than they ever
have. I see how the criminalization of
rap music played a big part in promoting racial stereotypes and
misguided so many impressionable young minds into adopting these
glorified criminal behaviors which often lead to incarceration.
Twenty years of guilt is a heavy load to
carry but the least I can do now is to share my story, hoping that fans
of rap music realize how they’ve been used for the past 2 decades.
Although I plan on remaining anonymous for obvious reasons, my goal now
is to get this information out to as many people as possible. Please
help me spread the word. Hopefully, others who attended the meeting back
in 1991 will be inspired by this and tell their own stories. Most
importantly, if only one life has been touched by my story, I pray it
makes the weight of my guilt a little more tolerable.
Thank you.
