By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
By Scott Reitz
I was in Amsterdam cooking a stir-fry for a house full of people when I got the news about 2Pac. I stepped into the rest room for a moment. Midstream, one of my best friends started pounding on the door hollering, "Oh, my God, they shot Pac! They shot Pac!" What, who, huh? "They don't shoot people in Amsterdam," I mumbled to myself in a fog of disbelief and confusion. I zipped up my pants, washed my hands and ran out of the bathroom still unsure of what my man was saying. It was true. One of rap music's favorite sons had been gunned down in Las Vegas, while sitting in a car next to one of the sketchiest men in the history of the music biz.
When I heard the news about The Notorious B.I.G., I was drunk in the St. Louis airport after the first leg of a first-class flight from Toronto to Austin. I had just sat down in the airport bar when I heard the report. What, who, huh? I thought maybe I had heard it wrong. They didn't seem too sure in their report and, man, I just wasn't ready to believe it. I immediately started making collect calls from a pay phone across from the bar--something I used to do quite a lot when I was drunk. Every call resulted in the same answer. Biggie was gone.
It was about 10:40 p.m. on the night before Halloween when I got the news about Jam Master Jay. I was sitting in my room making some last-minute radio edits for my midnight-to-3 show on Houston's KPFT when my phone rang and a DJ friend from New Orleans told me that one of the members of Run-DMC had been shot and killed in a Queens studio. What, who, huh? I immediately closed Cool Edit and forgot about the cuts I needed for tonight's show and hit up the Internet in search of confirmation. Before I could type "www" my phone rang again. It was another DJ. Lil' Tiger had called sounding fairly shaken with the news that, indeed, someone from Run-DMC had been shot and that someone was Jam Master Jay. Then another DJ called. Then another. Then I turned off my ringer and started pulling out crates, looking for Run-DMC records to take to the station.
The murders of Pac and Biggie were sad, but all-too-believable, perhaps even inevitable. Those two--especially Pac--ran their mouths to no end. Pac even went so far as to release globally distributed records that talked about having sex with other rappers' wives and even dissed Prodigy's struggle with sickle cell anemia. Hell, somebody's mama might have pulled the trigger on Pac for talking so bad about her baby boy.
But the death of Jam Master Jay is different. He was never one to pose as a gangsta or to express any sort of negativity. Jay was a mentor to young artists the world over. He taught hundreds of kids the art of scratching at his DJ Academy and helped young artists like Onyx and Rusty Waters (whose record he was producing in the studio the night he was shot) to bring their music to the masses. He was a pioneer who never forgot where he came from, and while reaping the benefits of a hugely successful 20-year career in the rap game, he constantly found ways to give back to those who reminded him of himself when he was just getting started.
That night was a very different show for us at KPFT. What normally is three hours of underground dirty south rap became a Jam Master Jay vigil. About a dozen local DJs showed up out of the blue, heads heavy with woe, eyes droopier than their jeans, just to talk about the man who hipped them to the sounds of hip-hop in the first place. After all, it was Jam Master Jay who showed the world that DJing was a viable art form. Sure, there were guys like Afrikaa Bambaata and Kool Herc before him who laid the foundation for what became the biggest musical revolution of the late 20th century, but Jay was the first superstar DJ. Dr. Seuss and Mother Goose both did their thing, but Jam Master got loose and made DMC the king.
With Jay's mixes behind them, Run-DMC became the first rap act in heavy rotation on MTV and the first with a platinum album. Their albums inspired legions of kids to rap, scratch and wear Adidas--Run-DMC's footwear of choice--and were responsible for bringing the rap section of the record store from the back corner to the front.
In 1985, King of Rock hit rock-and-roll fans almost as hard as it hit the hip-hop community with its driving guitar loops, in-your-face rhymes and deft scratching, and the next year, they were the first group on a major level to experiment with blending rock and rap with their remake of "Walk This Way." The revolutionary mix--Steven Tyler screaming the hook over Joe Perry's looped riffage on top of a slamming Queens beat--ranks in importance with any record in the history of rock. After that record, things were not the same as they were before.
Would there be a Linkin Park or even a Ludacris if it weren't for Jay? Would kids be hounding their parents for sets of turntables in the same way the kids of the 1970s and '80s clamored for guitars? I don't think so. Run-DMC's music broke boundaries, expanded scopes and smashed down walls that had been in place since before any of them had been born. And it continues to do so to this day.
It's hard to imagine what would make someone walk into Jay's studio and shoot the man in the head. Was it a mistake? Was Jay into something that his public didn't know about? Did he screw someone's wife? Rip someone off? I can't imagine any of that. Jay was an artist, a family man and an inspiration. We can't be so naïve as to believe that only sick thugs kill or are killed. But I would like to think that such a shining star in what can be such a dark business would have been exempt from the bullshit that plagues this culture that sometimes seems as rife with murder and mayhem as it is with creativity and spirit.
Jam Master Jay left behind a wife, three children and a billion rap fanatics like myself who can only say, goddamn that DJ made my day.
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