The Plot Against Hip Hop Read Online Free
was there to do? Fly Ty had nothing to report and was gruff when asked about the investigation, especially the audio tape. The gang guys had called once, spoke very perfunctorily, and hadn’t called back. Ray Ray was asking around but couldn’t be too aggressive. There were so many Bloods and so much blood. Felt like a dead end indeed.
So when D got a call from Walter Gibbs’s office, he was as surprised as he was pleased. However, the invitation that followed was not to talk about Dwayne or death or hip hop. Gibbs had been an early hip hop manager and an indie label head during the breakthrough ’80s. In the ’90s he secured a distribution deal with a major label, then bought a fancy house in the Hollywood Hills to be closer to TV and film. He executive produced a couple of rap soundtracks for urban movies and got his feet wet as an associate producer on one of Wesley Snipes’s action flicks. Gibbs saw his future on celluloid.
Then one day at the posh Polo Lounge in Beverly Hills, Gibbs’s life changed. He was supposed to meet a white ingénue for lunch and maybe a quickie at her nearby condo. On his way over he spotted a table with Lionel Richie, two fine-ass Filipinas, and a balding Jewish man dressed in a pink and white sweater, white pants, rakish shades, and a deep Palm Springs tan. Morgie, a.k.a. Samuel Morgenstern, was in the leisurewear business. He’d met Lionel playing golf at an LA country club and they’d become fast friends, meeting occasionally for drinks and female company at this old Hollywood haunt.
Gibbs had quickly forgotten about his date, drawn to the black popstar power, the Asian beauties, and, most fatefully, Morgie’s business acumen. Turned out Morgie was raised in the same Brooklyn ghetto that had spawned Gibbs—albeit four decades earlier. Morgie’s family had owned two retail outlets in that hood. By the time they met that afternoon at the Polo Lounge, Morgie owned three hundred clothing stores in various ghettos throughout the Northeast, but was trying to figure out the new urban buyer. Clearly Lionel Richie wasn’t the person to ask, but Morgie immediately saw Gibbs as a kindred BK salesman.
Out of that chance meeting a partnership was born. Taking all he’d learned in the hip hop biz and applying it to Morgie’s stores, Gibbs transformed them into new jack emporiums that sold every hot item an urban consumer could want (including a couple of spots that sold some herb out the back). Gibbs was so effective that Morgie even gave the young black man a (small) piece of the business. With that as his calling card, Gibbs began a consulting firm with clients from Coke to Cadillac, all of whom wanted to tap the “urban” market (and the white kids who followed its lead).
And it was this business that got D invited to Gibbs’s swanky lower–Fifth Avenue office. D rolled into the large glass-enclosed conference room and shook hands with various reps from the maker of Lee jeans. They had designed a new straight-legged dungaree aimed at the black/Hispanic/Asian rebel. This particular meeting was focused on coordinating the details of a party to launch the jeans at Macy’s. Lots of hip hop celebs would be in effect, along with some basketball players, video vixens, and various scenesters. D was being brought in to handle security, which would be a well-paying gig.
Gibbs greeted him graciously when he entered but, with seven other folks in the room, D didn’t mention Dwayne or his funeral. Near the end of the meeting a luscious Latina came into the conference room and whispered to Gibbs. He nodded, mumbled “Yeah,” and then excused himself. D wanted to say, Stop! Don’t duck me anymore, motherfucker! But he knew that wasn’t the move. When Gibbs disappeared out the door D was determined to find his personal office and, if he had to, barge in and demand an audience.
Thankfully all that drama wasn’t necessary. As the meeting broke up that same Latina, about twenty-seven with
So when D got a call from Walter Gibbs’s office, he was as surprised as he was pleased. However, the invitation that followed was not to talk about Dwayne or death or hip hop. Gibbs had been an early hip hop manager and an indie label head during the breakthrough ’80s. In the ’90s he secured a distribution deal with a major label, then bought a fancy house in the Hollywood Hills to be closer to TV and film. He executive produced a couple of rap soundtracks for urban movies and got his feet wet as an associate producer on one of Wesley Snipes’s action flicks. Gibbs saw his future on celluloid.
Then one day at the posh Polo Lounge in Beverly Hills, Gibbs’s life changed. He was supposed to meet a white ingénue for lunch and maybe a quickie at her nearby condo. On his way over he spotted a table with Lionel Richie, two fine-ass Filipinas, and a balding Jewish man dressed in a pink and white sweater, white pants, rakish shades, and a deep Palm Springs tan. Morgie, a.k.a. Samuel Morgenstern, was in the leisurewear business. He’d met Lionel playing golf at an LA country club and they’d become fast friends, meeting occasionally for drinks and female company at this old Hollywood haunt.
Gibbs had quickly forgotten about his date, drawn to the black popstar power, the Asian beauties, and, most fatefully, Morgie’s business acumen. Turned out Morgie was raised in the same Brooklyn ghetto that had spawned Gibbs—albeit four decades earlier. Morgie’s family had owned two retail outlets in that hood. By the time they met that afternoon at the Polo Lounge, Morgie owned three hundred clothing stores in various ghettos throughout the Northeast, but was trying to figure out the new urban buyer. Clearly Lionel Richie wasn’t the person to ask, but Morgie immediately saw Gibbs as a kindred BK salesman.
Out of that chance meeting a partnership was born. Taking all he’d learned in the hip hop biz and applying it to Morgie’s stores, Gibbs transformed them into new jack emporiums that sold every hot item an urban consumer could want (including a couple of spots that sold some herb out the back). Gibbs was so effective that Morgie even gave the young black man a (small) piece of the business. With that as his calling card, Gibbs began a consulting firm with clients from Coke to Cadillac, all of whom wanted to tap the “urban” market (and the white kids who followed its lead).
And it was this business that got D invited to Gibbs’s swanky lower–Fifth Avenue office. D rolled into the large glass-enclosed conference room and shook hands with various reps from the maker of Lee jeans. They had designed a new straight-legged dungaree aimed at the black/Hispanic/Asian rebel. This particular meeting was focused on coordinating the details of a party to launch the jeans at Macy’s. Lots of hip hop celebs would be in effect, along with some basketball players, video vixens, and various scenesters. D was being brought in to handle security, which would be a well-paying gig.
Gibbs greeted him graciously when he entered but, with seven other folks in the room, D didn’t mention Dwayne or his funeral. Near the end of the meeting a luscious Latina came into the conference room and whispered to Gibbs. He nodded, mumbled “Yeah,” and then excused himself. D wanted to say, Stop! Don’t duck me anymore, motherfucker! But he knew that wasn’t the move. When Gibbs disappeared out the door D was determined to find his personal office and, if he had to, barge in and demand an audience.
Thankfully all that drama wasn’t necessary. As the meeting broke up that same Latina, about twenty-seven with
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