words: Felipe Delerme pictures: Emiliano Granado
Brooklyn rapper Sean Price laces up his boots as the war for real hip hop wages on. Duck Down!
It’s a late summer afternoon in Brooklyn as Sean Price walks a stage with a humility far removed from a “Jesus Price” persona. The new face of legendary Brooklyn record label, Duck Down Records, he rips through some of his recent material. After a few songs, he brings out Rock, the other half of the former duo, Heltah Skeltah (Price was then known as Ruck). “Yesh yesh, yall. O-G-C Heltah Skeltah be the best, yall!” shouts Rock. His deep growl is still distinct, but the sight is unfamiliar. Even while rhyming together on various Boot Camp projects and both of Sean’s solo albums, the two haven’t promoted any music as Heltah Skeltah since 1998’s Magnum Force. Neither of them look anything like they did when last seen on television, as the face-painted warrior chiefs of the “Operation Lockdown” video. Sean, not necessarily fat, looks to be about 60 pounds heavier, while Rock somehow looks even skinnier than he did as “the skinny one” of the group, almost 10 years ago. But surprisingly, the chemistry is fully intact.
In the mid-’90s, Heltah Skeltah, as a part of the Boot Camp Clik, represented a vision of Brooklyn that struck fear in out-of-towners and pride in its residents. At the height of their popularity, dreadlocked and fatigued, the duo was a reflection of the youth—aesthetically grimey, but charismatic at the same time. Those same youths who once made up the heart of their fan base are few and far between, if present at all, this Saturday in June along New York’s East River. A diverse crowd of some 7,000 is gathered for the Third Annual Brooklyn Hip-Hop Festival. Held at Empire Fulton Ferry State Park in the DUMBO section of Brooklyn, the stage sits directly in front of the river with the Brooklyn Bridge high above. The crowd itself is much more a reflection of its location than the performers. It’s made up of about 50 percent hipsters, a non-existent term in the days of Heltah Skeltah’s debut, when the same patrons would have made likely targets for robbery. A sign of hip hop’s infinite diversity possibly, but more likely a representation of the area’s history as an art haven, altered by the same oft-lamented gentrification that currently affects many of the city’s former artistic pockets. In the surrounding area people fly kites, walk their dogs, and one group is even canoeing in the river, all certainly unaware that a hip hop show was scheduled to take place.
Less than 10 miles east is Brownsville, another Brooklyn neighborhood with a much sharper edge and a rich history in hip hop, having produced underground rap legends M.O.P. and Wu-Tang mastermind, RZA. Born and raised in Brownsvill Projects, Price, now 32, remembers recognizing the perils of his neighborhood at a young age. “I’m from Brownsville so [already] my junior high school time was hood,” he says. “When it came time for high school I was like, I gotta get the fuck outta here.” Enrolling in Manhattan’s High School of Graphic Communication Arts, in the heart of midtown Manhattan, the school seemed like a world away from the trouble he’d already been seeing in junior high. “I thought I was going to some nice, nerdy shit,” remembers Sean. “Man, that school was hell. That’s
where the Decepticons was at! I was up there with Steele [of Smif-N-Wessun]. We got up there and son turned Decept quick. I’m like, Shit, I gotta get involved.” But besides a few brawls alongside the legendary Brooklyn gang, it wasn’t the Decepticons that brought about the worst of his troubles.
At only 18 years old, with a record of various petty crime charges, the selfproclaimed “skid-bid king,” found himself locked up for a murder he didn’t commit. In jail for over a year, he was finally released when a building manager from the neighborhood miraculously supplied a video surveillance tape proving his innocence. Upon his release, he was stunned to discover who else was being recorded. “I had just came home from jail and I looked on the TV and I seen Buckshot and Steele and Tek [in the ‘Who Got da Props’ video], and I’m like, ‘Oh, shit!’ I went up the block to go see Steele, just to say what up, you know, tell him I’m proud. I spent the night at son crib and we was just up smoking and rhyming all night.” It was the first of many such nights and Sean soon signed with Duck Down Records as part of The Fab 5, along with Rock, Starang Wondah, Louieville Sluggah, and Steele’s younger brother, Top Dog. The addition more than doubled the Duck Down roster, which was previously Black Moon (Buckshot, DJ Evil Dee, 5ft) and Smif-N-Wessun (Tek and Steele). In actuality, The Fab 5 was comprised of two separate groups, Rock and Ruck (Sean under his Decepticon name) who made up Heltah Skeltah, and the others as the Originoo Gunn Clappaz.
The brainchild of rapper Buckshot and Andrew “Dru Ha” Freidman, Duck Down Records began as a management company. The two formed a relationship when Friedman managed Buckshot at Nervous Records. “When we signed [Heltah Skeltah] we were just young, wet behind the ears, learning the game,” says Dru Ha. “We weren’t a real operating label at that point. We thought we were, we had the name and all that, but we were owned by Priority.” Releasing O.G.C.’s Da Storm along with Heltah Skeltah’s critically acclaimed Nocturnal in 1996, the label quickly established its product, with the artists reaping full benefits. “After Nocturnal dropped we was feeling ourselves,” says Sean. “We was touring like crazy, getting money, enjoying life. Niggas thought they was superstars.”
In 1998 Heltah Skeltah released their second album, Magnum Force. The album was poorly received critically and sales-wise didn’t come close to Nocturnal’s 250,000 records sold, legitimate for hip hop standards of the time. It was the peak of hip hop’s jiggy era and Magnum Force’s reception among some other poorly received Duck Down projects led Priority Records to sever ties with thelabel. Contractually allowed to retain one act from Duck Down’s roster, Priority chose Heltah Skeltah, but later opted only to keep Rock, the more animated and far more popular of the duo. While Rock entertained dreams of solo stardom, Sean had no deal and had mismanaged the money from the days Duck Down was under Priority. “When you spend money as soon as you get it, you got nothing to save,” he says in retrospect. “And when everything fell through I was assed out. It was too late to try to save then. I went back to the street.” Still the owner of a local barbershop, Sean capitalized on the regular traffic. “We sold drugs outta there. I was gettin’ money for a minute, but when the lease was up, the landlord wouldn’t renew my lease…and that’s when I took a real financial hit. I started scheming again.”
Sean points to this as the time when the realtionship between Dru Ha and himself superceeded that of manager and artist. In the roughest of times, Dru Ha lent Sean money to pay bills, with no forseeable means of getting paid back. The gesture lit a fire under Sean to create music as an investment in Dru’s vision. This material went on to become the foundation for Monkey Barz. On the other side of the fence, Rock’s solo project was at a stand-still. “The plan was, Rock, you get a deal and Ima smash on a few records. Your shit gon’ pop. They gon’ jump back on our dick and we gon’ drop this [Heltah Skeltah record],” remembers Sean. “It didn’t work like that.” A Rock solo album was never released.
With a wealth of solo material, created essentially out of sheer necessity, Sean dropped Monkey Barz in spring of 2005. The album was the first release from Duck Down’s “Triple Threat Campaign” which also included Buckshot’s 9th Wonder collaboration, Chemistry, and Smif-N-Wessun’s Tek & Steele’s: Reloaded. Though Chemistry sold the best of the three, Monkey Barz was the most critically acclaimed. Billing himself on Monkey Barz as the “Brokest Rapper You Know,” Sean took full advantage of his newfound acclaim, taking on countless collaborations with artists known and unknown, charging $1,000 to $1,500. Most of these offers were submitted through MySpace. Following the success of Monkey Barz, aside from the entire Boot Camp album, Sean’s second solo album became the focus of Duck Down. An integral part of the first album was the production of underground beat phenomenon, 9th Wonder. Having contributed three beats in the closing weeks of Monkey Barz’s conception, this time around, Sean wanted to start work on Jesus Price Supastar in 9th’s North Carolina studio. “We let Sean Price do what he wanna do,” says 9th of their creative process. “He has a vivid imagination, so he’s more free than everybody else. We let him go there: You wanna do that? Do it! No problem. I guess that’s the difference between him and everybody else.” Sean’s free association rhyme style works especially well with 9th’s rough edged, deeply soulful production. There is no better example of this than the 9th-produced “P-Body.” The first single for Jesus Price Supastar, the song reunites Price with Rock, but manages to retain his solo persona.
In the press area, before the Brooklyn Hip-Hop Festival, Sean is bombarded by the people responsible for his newfound popularity: independent hip hop publications, websites, and bloggers. He takes questions from every outlet and is seemingly trying to out-crazy each answer with the next. He references his family often and at one point brings his wife in view during a videotaped interview. “They cleaner than last year!” Sean exclaims as he points to his wife’s sneakers. She smiles shyly as he references the testament to their improving financial status.
On a lazy Friday afternoon two weeks after the Festival, Sean’s Flatbush apartment is quiet. Grateful for his new status, he’s quick to point out the changes in his attitude since the last time he saw similar financial comfort. “This time, I’m smart with my money…taking care of my family, I ain’t frivolous. I got a little sneaker habit, but otherwise, I’m cool.” Preparing to purchase a house as a real estate investment, he explains that he wants things that will appreciate in value. No car. No chains. The brokest rapper you knew is now the most investment-weary rapper you know. And in his down time, he’s preparing for when he finally unplugs the mic. “When I’m not rapping, I’m trynna find ways to make other kinds of money legally, without having to stress rap out,” he says. “It’s like a boxer: You box, but you really know you don’t got it in you no more, but you still doing it because you need that money, so you get your whole fucking face bashed in and shit. I just wanna put out good music and get rewarded for it. Just carry on as a husband and a father.”
Tucked in the corner of the top floor of a four-story building is Sean’s apartment. The front hallway leads directly to the kitchen, where his wife is making instant oatmeal for his youngest son Terry. “He don’t really eat meat,” she explains. “I don’t know where he gets that from.” To the left of the kitchen, in the living room, his two sons, Elijah (12) and Terry (7) are playing a streetball video game. Playing in the background is their father’s as-yet unreleased mixtape, Master P. Elijah knows all the words. Sean acknowledges the responsibility in allowing his son access to his music. “He might hear some wild shit so he’ll ask me and I’ll tell him what’s the truth and what’s not,” he says of Elijah. The difference is especially important concerning other rappers. “He’s been fooled into thinking every rapper that talk about bodies and shit, really be doin’ it. I’m like, These niggas ain’t murderers and gangstas. And we not. ’Cause if we were, we wouldn’t have no time to make records.”
Sean’s neighborhood is quiet too. Filled almost exclusively with working class Caribbeans, occasionally a Rasta will greet him with a, “Blessed” or a, “Respect,” but most do not recognize him. “That’s why I like it out here. Nobody knows who I am. I don’t like reggae and they don’t like hip hop, so we good. We don’t bother each other,” he explains. “They could blast they shit, just don’t say shit to me when I blast my shit.” Walking down the street, a few block’s from his house, a man walks up and begins rapping for Sean, acting out lyrics in an impromptu audition. Sean listens and patiently waits for him to finish. “I’m not gon’ say I’m not impressed, but I’m not surprised,” Sean remarks, pointblank. “Your problem never was lack of talent.” Apparently it was a lack of focus, something Sean, having fought hard for every bit of his solo success, simply cannot identify with.
Sean is a busy man right now. He’s most excited about an as-yet untitled project with Detroit producer Black Milk and MC Guilty Simpson. Unfamiliar with Guilty before the collaboration, Sean did his research on Limewire before approving the project. Before that, he’s releasing his Master P mixtape. Comprised mostly of original tracks with a few freestyles, rap fans should also appreciate the humor of the classic No Limit Records-style Pen & Pixel cover: Money and champagne float beside Sean’s deity-like image, framed in front of a diamond-encrusted nameplate. Behind both of those projects is his next official solo album, Mic Tyson, and a long awaited Heltah Skeltah reunion album. He refuses to rush either. “I wanna be able to make rap because it feels right. Not just cause labels say ‘It’s your time.’” Sean has come a long way since he’s had to heed such direction, but it’s not as if he doesn’t have any at all. The difference is, now he’s in full control.
