Chapter 1
"Yeah! There you go, Apollo! Turn up that 'Funky Worm' sample," requested Chris "Grimey" Parker of his partner, Apollo Knight. Apollo was the moody, highly talented engineer/producer for BeatBoxx Studios in Berkeley, California. It was located in the detached garage of Apollo's grandmother's house. Grimey, a name he earned from all the dirt he did as a street hustler, was Apollo's partner. Although Apollo was the genius behind the music, Grimey sometimes claimed to be a music producer. His enormous ego demanded it.
Damn, I spend over twenty years of my life learnin' to play the piano and saxophone and these fools won't even listen to my suggestions about lettin' me play the goddamn part live instead of sampling the shit, thought the cardboard-colored Apollo as he sat behind the heart of the studio, his nine-thousand-dollar Mackie Digital 8 Bus mixing console. Riff-Raff, the two thuggish, backward-hat-wearin', dreadlock-sportin', black youngsters behind the soundproof glass in the tiny, homemade vocal booth grew wide grins and pointed to their earphones as Apollo successfully mixed in the sample Grimey requested.
"Turn it up in here on the Tannoy monitors so I can hear it," Grimey insisted. After Apollo turned it on, Grimey rose from his high-back leather chair and bounced his bald head to the groove. His tall, midnight-colored, rail-thin body looked as though it would break in half if he rocked any harder. "That's another hit, Dog!" He flashed Apollo a smile that featured gold fang teeth.
"Yeah, it's cool." Apollo adjusted his long braids and half-heartedly agreed as he adjusted the bass level of the beat. He and Grimey were total opposites mentally and physically. Although Apollo was a little shorter than Grimey, he was much more muscular. Intense dark eyes sat beneath his thick, black eyebrows. A neat goatee and sideburns accented his well-defined jaw line. Apollo seldom spoke unless you were talking about the latest computer equipment, music or music gear. You couldn't get Grimey to shut up. He had an opinion on everything — whether he was knowledgeable on the subject or not.
Grimey tapped Apollo on the shoulder and pointed at the vocal booth. "Them nigga's gonna make us rich! I let Big Tone from Street Lyfe Records hear a sample of this song and he flipped!"
Apollo glared at Grimey. "I told you them dudes is foul. They known for stealin' peoples shit."
"Quit worryin', playa. Our copyrights been filed. Besides, I'd put holes in his fat ass if he tried to steal any of my shit… I mean our shit," he replied with a barracuda-like grin.
Apollo shook his head and returned his attention to the mixing console. Yeah, I bet you did mean your shit.
Grimey pressed the talk-back button on the console so he could speak into the rappers' headphones. "We gonna take a break after y'all do the chorus one mo' time." They nodded their heads in affirmation.
Apollo removed his headphones and turned to Grimey. "Why'd you tell'em that? I need'em to do their adlibs before the time expires on this session. I don't work for free."
Grimey glanced at his watch. "If they run over its all good; I'll charge it to their next session."
"It's not just the money; I'm supposed to meet my girl at 9:30 p.m.; ain't no way they gonna finish the adlibs in an hour if they take a break right now."
Grimey walked over to Apollo, towering over him as Apollo sat in his seat. "Man, fuck that broad. This is business."
Apollo looked into his eyes without a shred of fear. "No, fuck that." He pointed at Riff-Raff in the vocal booth. "I'm leavin' at nine whether it's done or not."
Grimey continued to mean mug Apollo. Then, as if a switch had been thrown, he broke out in a smile. "A'ight, homeboy. If ya chick is more important than gettin' money, then handle ya business." He stepped back from Apollo and went back to head noddin' and pumping his fist Arsenio Hall-style at Riff-Raff.
I don't trust that nigga as far as I can throw a truck, Apollo thought as he began recording the chorus. While the part was recording, he reached into the sandwich bag full of carrot sticks on top of his file cabinet and gnawed on one; he ate carrot sticks like some people smoked cigarettes. After convincing his grandmother to take out a second mortgage and loan him the money to go into business with Grimey, Apollo quit the forklift-driving job he held for two years at the Home Depot in Emeryville. Grimey amassed his share of the expenses from various street hustles, including running a Chop-Shop in Union City.
Apollo lived with his grandmother in the low-income, waterfront section of Berkeley, CA. The nondescript exterior of the garage was in contrast to its cramped but functional interior. Over the past three years, Apollo and Grimey had earned enough from wanna-be superstars to compile some decent equipment.
Nearly everything inside was black. The interior walls, ceiling, furniture and most of the equipment were all black. Even the small refrigerator next to the vocal booth had been spray painted black. Black track lights mounted on the ceiling provided all of the lighting; all the windows and the large garage door were walled over by soundproof material. The only furniture besides the mixing console and pair of wheeled executive chairs was a black futon — covered in a wool, silver and black Oakland Raiders Football blanket — which doubled as a "casting couch" when necessary.
At 9:45 p.m., Apollo successfully finished recording a rough draft of "Funk You," the latest single he produced for Riff-Raff. "That shit is tight!" exclaimed Grimey as he waved Riff-Raff out of the vocal booth.
A smiling Ahmad stepped behind the console to get a good spot to hear the finished version. "How it sound?" He was the darkest of the duo, Riff-Raff, which Grimey had signed to a management contract five months ago. Grimey managed all of the groups Apollo produced except Passion. Tricia, the lead singer of the group, hated Grimey. He was too shifty for her taste. She threatened to leave the group when Jennifer and Pauline considered letting him manage them.
Ahmad's partner, Quinn, followed him and added, "Apollo, turn it up, baby! Lemme hear it!"
With only about ten square feet of space behind the mixing console, Apollo had a hard time maneuvering between the three onlookers. "Y'all niggas step back." He pressed the play button and watched for their reactions. Once he got the "head nod" reaction he was looking for, he turned back to the board and tweaked the mix a little bit. By the time the first chorus played, all four of their necks were bouncing in unison.
"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, nigga! That shit is hot as a muthafucka!" Grimey yelled as he bumped fist with everyone. "We 'bout to get paid!"
"Yeeeeeeah! I feel ya!" Quinn replied as he began "Crip Walkin'" to the beat.
Ahmad mimicked Quinn's dance. "Man! I can't wait to hear this shit on the radio!"
Apollo checked the time and turned down the volume. "A'ight fellas, I gotta bounce." He looked at the dry erase board on the wall behind the console and checked the monthly studio time schedule. "I'll see y'all next Thursday evenin' at six."
Quinn nodded and Ahmad replied, "Cool."
As if feeling left out, Grimey jumped in the conversation. "Yeah, fellas. And don't be late."
Apollo turned and went into the file cabinet next to the console and brought out the receipt book. He turned to Riff-Raff. "It's Friday, y'all ready to close ya tab for this past week?"
The pair of twenty-year-olds dug into the pockets of their baggy jeans. "How much we owe?" asked Quinn as he sorted out his ball of cash.
"You know the rates — thirty dollars an hour. You guys been here two hours a night for five days. Three hundred dolla's," Grimey informed him.
Ahmad counted out a mix of twenty and ten-dollar-bills. "Damn, we should be gettin' a playa discount!"
Apollo looked him in the eye. "You lucky we only chargin' you half price since I'm producin' the music for ya ass."
Grimey turned to each rapper and accepted the cash they held out to him. After counting it, he nodded at Apollo. "It's all here." Apollo handed Ahmad a receipt in return.
"Yo, Grimey. You gonna give us a ride to the B.A.R.T station?" asked Ahmad. "The next train to Richmond leaves at 10:20 p.m."
"Yeah. Y'all go wait by my car. I'll be out there in a minute," Grimey instructed. The duo packed up their note pads of lyrics, tossed their empty water bottles and left. Apollo began the process of shutting down the equipment.
Grimey counted out one hundred dollars. "Here you go, dude." He handed Apollo his cut before pocketing a hundred for himself. "I'll drop a hundred in the 'Studio Fund' safe on my way out."
"Cool." Apollo put the cash in his pocket, then walked to the vocal booth.
Grimey glanced at the schedule board. "You got that chick-group comin' in this weekend?"
Apollo wound up a microphone cable. "Who? You mean, 'Passion'?"
"Yeah. That's them young ho's, right?"
"Yeah. They booked time from five to eight tomorrow night."
Grimey put on his Sean John leather jacket. "Do any of'em Rap?"
Apollo disconnected his Shure microphone from its stand and put it in its case. "Nah, they just sing."
"You outta hook'em up wit' Riff-Raff. My boys can add some flava to they shit!"
No fuckin' way. You ain't messin' up my R&B project wit' that gangsta shit. "Nah, not this time, dude. I'm goin' straight commercial on this one."
Grimey went to the safe next to Apollo's file cabinet and dropped the hundred dollars into the slot on top. "Ain't no money in that. Folks now-a-days wanna hear the hardcore shit."
Apollo walked past Grimey to the module racks while grinning. "You trippin'!"
As Grimey headed for the door, he turned and said, "I'm serious about Street Lyfe Records. They wanna meet wit' us and talk business."
Apollo turned off the rack-mounted outboard gear. "I dunno, dude. They got a bad rep. They steal beats, and I heard the IRS is investigatin' them cats."
Grimey shrugged his shoulders. "You can't believe everything you hear."
"Whatever. I'll holla at you later."