YUP , TODAY IN THE RECORD THEY GOT A FAT SECTION (FRONT PAGE EVEN) BOUT LOCAL RAPPERS AND HOW THEY ANT GETTIN NO REPSECT FROM BITCH ASS RADIO STATIONS AND SHIT.........THEY TALK ABOUT DOJA CLICK AND PROJECT AFFILIATED......I HAVENT READ THE WHOLE THING, BUT ITS PRETTY TIGHT.......YALL SHOULD CHECK IT OUT. PEACE
ANY 209 FOLKS CHECK OUT THE STOCKTON RECORD IN THE TODAY SECTION (LOCAL RAPPERS)
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In an area where a billion-dollar agricultural industry collides with abject poverty, hip-hop isn't just identified with gorgeous models, glamorous rides and gleaming jewelry.
Stories of violence and poverty unfold over funky bass lines and haunting lyrics.
While computer technology now is used to create music, b-boys, or breakdancers, still keep an overlooked tradition alive. It's a place where graffiti artists watch their backs for gang-bangers and cops.
This is Stockton hip-hop.
If it hadn't been for hip-hop, Stockton might not have become an All-America city.
Just ask Stockton Mayor Gary Podesto.
Under the bright lights of a Philadelphia auditorium on June 25 and 26, 1999, judges, competitors and a capacity crowd were entertained by the Team Stockton dance troupe that included two break-dancers.
The young dancers gave a breakout performance during the All-America City Award competition and the judges voted them the best among groups from 30 competing cities. That gave Stockton an edge in earning its All-America City designation.
"They were stars," said Podesto, who watched the event. "They made the difference."
Stanley "Big Duna" Hill Jr. thrives as an
underground salesman.
Standing in a bustling parking lot near the Arco gas station at Hammer Lane and El Dorado Street in north Stockton, the 27-year-old is in hustling mode.
It's near dusk on a breezy Friday, and the owner of a Toyota Land Cruiser pumps gas while the driver of a dusty Oldsmobile Cutlass waits his turn.
The portly Hill walks to the driver-side window of a red Acura.
"Hey, got my CD?" he bends down to ask the Latino driver.
"Huh?"
"It's 'Valley Niggaz: Chapter 1,' " Hill says, holding the plastic-wrapped compact disc on the car window's edge. "Twenty tracks for $10."
"Who's on it?"
"Me and some other Stockton rappers," Duna says. "Pop it in and check it out."
It's Stockton-style marketing of a rap album. It works just fine. Hill sells about 15 copies every Friday and Saturday, and that doesn't count the ones he leaves at local records stores, where the owners sell his music on consignment.
This is Stockton with a split personality.
Energetic kids dancing to the heavy beat of hip-hop before thousands of strangers to make their city proud. And the hustling rapper hitting the streets urging motorists to give his CD a shot.
It's as if Stockton officials and bureaucrats can't decide whether they want to embrace a musical genre that will bring young people to local entertainment venues or reject it as too edgy, and, well, too risky.
At the moment, they appear to have taken the latter path.
High insurance rates, strict city policies, lack of political savvy and unity by local promoters and artists, and rap's gangster image have hurt efforts by local rappers to bring their music to concert stages.
It's these elements that have forced the local hip-hop scene underground.
This three-day series examines local hip-hop culture and music -- an underground world rarely seen on TV, heard on the radio or found on chart-topping albums -- and its four main elements: scratching, emceeing, breakdancing and graffiti art.
Although live rap shows have returned after a brief, lively fling in the 1980s, they're brought in by out-of-town promoters and don't feature local rappers or DJs. Local promoters say the city makes the process difficult, although city officials say they have streamlined the application process.
Area radio programmers refuse to play their music, which they label as the same tired gangsta rap. Still local emcees don't shy away from glorifying drugs, violence, the objectification of women and sex.
Although drug money initially was used to finance some local record labels, rappers and hip-hoppers now say the price of such illegal activity -- including long prison terms -- is too high.
Local artists also recognize that while they focus their lyrics on life in Stockton, they're also in danger of losing their cultural and ethnic identity. In a city where no ethnicity dominates, that's easy to do.
Since its creation by poor urban blacks and Latinos in New York City in the early 1970s, hip-hop gradually is becoming co-opted by white suburban teenagers to articulate their antisocial angst.
"The future president is going to be raised on hip-hop," said Jesse "Gooch" Hernandez, president of local rap label Hard On Da Grind Records. "Stockton's like everywhere else. Rap and hip-hop are here to stay."
Stockton city officials briefly recognized a part of the culture in 1999 during the All-America competition. They've been far less hospitable to help it find a home.
"They say Stockton's an All-American city, but this city doesn't accept its own youth," said local emcee Ernest Cabanero, 22. "They have jazz and classical music for senior citizens, but teenagers don't have nothing to do but turn to gangs or get somebody pregnant. It's a crime to do hip-hop."
That's a big obstacle. Whether it's perception or fact, the city's hostile attitude toward hip-hop has helped make it a shadow industry.
It's a fledgling business founded by a loose assortment of street artists and promoters. It still manages to thrive, despite few live concerts and no playtime on the only rap and R&B radio station in town.
Still, if an artist has the skills and wherewithal to move past these road blocks, success is possible.
Hip-hop, after all, is a multi-billion-dollar international industry with corporations using parts of the culture to sell everything from french fries to tampons.
Nationwide sales of rap albums jumped 20 percent during 2000 - the biggest increase for any musical genre, according to SoundScan's year-end music industry report. More than 70 percent of rap music is sold to white teens living in the suburbs, a figure published regularly by magazines such as Billboard, The Source and Vibe.
Bret Mitchell, operations manager at Stockton's Tower Records outlet, said rap and hip-hop are "unbelievably big" in Stockton.
The north Stockton store is one of the international chain's leading outlets for sales of rap and hip-hop music. He said it's hard to keep rap CDs in stock.
In September, Mitchell said rap represented 16 percent of CDs sales at the store, despite only comprising 9 percent of the store's inventory.
"It's obvious it reflects more of the values of people who live here," he said
Vanny Chau -- with her small eyes, smooth brown face and dark brown hair pulled tight in a ponytail -- looks like she belongs on a playground.
It's her loud voice, use of ghetto slang and carefree attitude that give her away as she talks about her life in Stockton and her aspirations to become a singer and rapper.
"I don't write my own raps," said the 16-year-old Bear Creek High School junior, slapping her thigh. "I talk about stress, not gangs and violence."
She sits in her north Stockton duplex, babysitting her 2-year-old niece, who's serving tea to an imaginary friend on a mattress in the living room.
Chau, also known as Krazy A, has rapped since the toddler was born. She takes care of the child every day while her sister works.
Raised on Eighth Street in south Stockton, Krazy A smiles when she talks about "Valley Niggaz: Chapter 1," a new CD of tracks by local rappers and vocalists that includes one of her songs. It's called "Super Bad B----."
She's already used to the fact that, even at 16, she's viewed as a sex object in the gangsta-rap community and must battle gender bias even among other female artists.
"Guys try to flirt and give me their numbers, but it's all business to me," said Chau, who is Cambodian-American. "Females be hating, though. Valley life, I guess.
"Different cultures and sexes are into it."
Chau faces the same racial and gender barriers her pioneering role models -- from Queen Latifah to Salt 'N Pepa -- confronted in the 1980s and '90s.
It's as if nothing has changed in the 25-year history of rap music.
To some men who hold power in the rap community, the sex appeal of female artists is more important than their message, an attitude that afflicts the youth-oriented and sex-fixated entertainment industry.
Skarface, a member of Project Affiliated, a Tracy gangsta-rap group, thinks that needs to change.
"It's another perspective," said Skarface, 28, whose real name is Angel Hernandez. "We live in a male-dominated society. There's always a glass ceiling for them. Even in the rap game."
Playgyrl Slim, a 21-year-old Stockton rapper whose real name is Christine Scroggins, is part of the game, but she's playing by her own rules.
"You're never going to catch me showing my ass to make money," Scroggins said.
Despite the women's talent, a lot of men don't want to give them a chance, said Stockton rapper Dianton Reaves, 32, also known as D-Good.
"It's hard for male rappers," Reeves said. "So, it's going to be hard for female rappers, unless they pay their way in."
Scroggins said it's difficult performing because most people in the rap music industry expect her to play up her sexuality over the vicious gangsta lyrics she spits.
"I always got to prove myself in the rap game," Scroggins said.
Last year, when she was selling copies of her CD, "Voodoo," at Stockton's Weberstown Mall, a man said he wanted "some straight-up, shake-your-ass music."
He was conforming to negative stereotype created by Trina, Lil' Kim, Foxy Brown and other popular female rappers and teen-pop divas who dress erotically and fill their songs with risque romps.
Chau is faced with a double whammy in the business: She's a woman and she's Asian.
Race still plays a divisive role in rap music, despite its increasing mainstream appeal.
Some black rappers still bristle when white suburban kids -- who are likely to have little or no clue about ghetto life -- assume the thuggish posture of gangsta rap.
"It makes me sick because they don't know the lifestyle," said Scroggins.
"There's a difference with college kids buying rap because they're not exposed to the lifestyle," Hernandez said.
The mass appeal of popular rap lyrics that glorify materialism and antisocial behavior might be breaking down some societal barriers.
"I didn't feel rap was a black thing," said Santos Lathipanya, 25, who is Laotian and runs the Stockton rap label Triple 9 Records. "With rap, I represent for my people."
David D. Cook, a Bay Area-based journalist, said hip-hop is a direct result of racism and poverty, which crosses racial and class lines.
"It's a liberating form of expression that has attracted so many other people that are going through a similar thing," Cook said. "Hip-hop is a reflection of pain, but people are trying to market it without trying to cure or hear the pain."
Especially in a city like Stockton, which always has been a hub of racial and cultural diversity -- including a centuries-long influx from Mexico; Chinese, Japanese and Filipino immigrants who worked on farms in the 19th century; and waves of Southeast Asian refugees who moved here after the Vietnam War.
Hip-hop is helping break down racial and social barriers because people relate to the culture, said Kris Parker, a 36-year-old hip-hop pioneer from the Bronx, N.Y., known as KRS-One.
"We remember a time in 1970s when there was no hip-hop," he said in an e-mail interview. "Those of us that were rejected by the American mainstream were inspired to express an identity that would empower us past the injustice we faced."
Lathipanya was influenced heavily by the rap music of Ice Cube and N.W.A. (Niggaz With Attitude) because he and his friends could identify with their street knowledge and lifestyle.
He said that's also what's happened with white suburban kids.
"Instead of rock, the gangsta rappers took over," Lathipanya said.
It's not just poor black and brown kids doing freestyle rhymes.
While parents and friends might complain about white teens acting "black" and dressing "ghetto," they cruise around north Stockton with their car stereos bumping out the latest tracks by Murder Inc., Cash Money Millionaire or Rockafella.
Paul Moran, a Lincoln High School sophomore, spins CDs by rap stars Eminem, Nelly and Fabolous.
He said he started getting into hip-hop last year, after buying Tupac Shakur's "Greatest Hits."
"I'm not acting black because I listen to rap," said the 15-year-old, who is white. "It's just good music."
Moran's parents don't think so.
"They think I'm trying to be ghetto," Moran said. "They don't like what these guys are talking about. They'd like to think it's just a perfect world, but it's not."
Its blunt lyrics are the attraction.
"The beauty of hip-hop is that it's not watered down or disguised as black culture," said Nelson George, a New York City author whose book, "hiphop america," examines the music and style's impact on American culture. *
It's her loud voice, use of ghetto slang and carefree attitude that give her away as she talks about her life in Stockton and her aspirations to become a singer and rapper.
"I don't write my own raps," said the 16-year-old Bear Creek High School junior, slapping her thigh. "I talk about stress, not gangs and violence."
She sits in her north Stockton duplex, babysitting her 2-year-old niece, who's serving tea to an imaginary friend on a mattress in the living room.
Chau, also known as Krazy A, has rapped since the toddler was born. She takes care of the child every day while her sister works.
Raised on Eighth Street in south Stockton, Krazy A smiles when she talks about "Valley Niggaz: Chapter 1," a new CD of tracks by local rappers and vocalists that includes one of her songs. It's called "Super Bad B----."
She's already used to the fact that, even at 16, she's viewed as a sex object in the gangsta-rap community and must battle gender bias even among other female artists.
"Guys try to flirt and give me their numbers, but it's all business to me," said Chau, who is Cambodian-American. "Females be hating, though. Valley life, I guess.
"Different cultures and sexes are into it."
Chau faces the same racial and gender barriers her pioneering role models -- from Queen Latifah to Salt 'N Pepa -- confronted in the 1980s and '90s.
It's as if nothing has changed in the 25-year history of rap music.
To some men who hold power in the rap community, the sex appeal of female artists is more important than their message, an attitude that afflicts the youth-oriented and sex-fixated entertainment industry.
Skarface, a member of Project Affiliated, a Tracy gangsta-rap group, thinks that needs to change.
"It's another perspective," said Skarface, 28, whose real name is Angel Hernandez. "We live in a male-dominated society. There's always a glass ceiling for them. Even in the rap game."
Playgyrl Slim, a 21-year-old Stockton rapper whose real name is Christine Scroggins, is part of the game, but she's playing by her own rules.
"You're never going to catch me showing my ass to make money," Scroggins said.
Despite the women's talent, a lot of men don't want to give them a chance, said Stockton rapper Dianton Reaves, 32, also known as D-Good.
"It's hard for male rappers," Reeves said. "So, it's going to be hard for female rappers, unless they pay their way in."
Scroggins said it's difficult performing because most people in the rap music industry expect her to play up her sexuality over the vicious gangsta lyrics she spits.
"I always got to prove myself in the rap game," Scroggins said.
Last year, when she was selling copies of her CD, "Voodoo," at Stockton's Weberstown Mall, a man said he wanted "some straight-up, shake-your-ass music."
He was conforming to negative stereotype created by Trina, Lil' Kim, Foxy Brown and other popular female rappers and teen-pop divas who dress erotically and fill their songs with risque romps.
Chau is faced with a double whammy in the business: She's a woman and she's Asian.
Race still plays a divisive role in rap music, despite its increasing mainstream appeal.
Some black rappers still bristle when white suburban kids -- who are likely to have little or no clue about ghetto life -- assume the thuggish posture of gangsta rap.
"It makes me sick because they don't know the lifestyle," said Scroggins.
"There's a difference with college kids buying rap because they're not exposed to the lifestyle," Hernandez said.
The mass appeal of popular rap lyrics that glorify materialism and antisocial behavior might be breaking down some societal barriers.
"I didn't feel rap was a black thing," said Santos Lathipanya, 25, who is Laotian and runs the Stockton rap label Triple 9 Records. "With rap, I represent for my people."
David D. Cook, a Bay Area-based journalist, said hip-hop is a direct result of racism and poverty, which crosses racial and class lines.
"It's a liberating form of expression that has attracted so many other people that are going through a similar thing," Cook said. "Hip-hop is a reflection of pain, but people are trying to market it without trying to cure or hear the pain."
Especially in a city like Stockton, which always has been a hub of racial and cultural diversity -- including a centuries-long influx from Mexico; Chinese, Japanese and Filipino immigrants who worked on farms in the 19th century; and waves of Southeast Asian refugees who moved here after the Vietnam War.
Hip-hop is helping break down racial and social barriers because people relate to the culture, said Kris Parker, a 36-year-old hip-hop pioneer from the Bronx, N.Y., known as KRS-One.
"We remember a time in 1970s when there was no hip-hop," he said in an e-mail interview. "Those of us that were rejected by the American mainstream were inspired to express an identity that would empower us past the injustice we faced."
Lathipanya was influenced heavily by the rap music of Ice Cube and N.W.A. (Niggaz With Attitude) because he and his friends could identify with their street knowledge and lifestyle.
He said that's also what's happened with white suburban kids.
"Instead of rock, the gangsta rappers took over," Lathipanya said.
It's not just poor black and brown kids doing freestyle rhymes.
While parents and friends might complain about white teens acting "black" and dressing "ghetto," they cruise around north Stockton with their car stereos bumping out the latest tracks by Murder Inc., Cash Money Millionaire or Rockafella.
Paul Moran, a Lincoln High School sophomore, spins CDs by rap stars Eminem, Nelly and Fabolous.
He said he started getting into hip-hop last year, after buying Tupac Shakur's "Greatest Hits."
"I'm not acting black because I listen to rap," said the 15-year-old, who is white. "It's just good music."
Moran's parents don't think so.
"They think I'm trying to be ghetto," Moran said. "They don't like what these guys are talking about. They'd like to think it's just a perfect world, but it's not."
Its blunt lyrics are the attraction.
"The beauty of hip-hop is that it's not watered down or disguised as black culture," said Nelson George, a New York City author whose book, "hiphop america," examines the music and style's impact on American culture. *
RHYMING FROM A DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE: Below, Vanny Chau, known as "Krazy A," is an aspiring singer and rapper who is Cambodian. The 16-year-old Bear Creek junior faces chauvinism and jealousy in Stockton's underground hip-hop culture.
REALITY RAPS: Twenty-one-year-old Playgyrl Slim, whose real name is Christine Scroggins, not only raps but heads her Stockton-based label, Ace G Records. Scroggins says too many artists and fans want female rappers to capitalize on their sexuality in rhymes.
Twelve-inch records are spread across the carpet in the small bedroom where five young men joke, create music and listen to it.
Corners of thin cardboard holders stick out of plastic crates on the sand-colored floor. Next to the crates is a clear toy box with two giant stuffed Powerpuff Girls dolls. Their paper-plate eyes gaze intently.
Hundreds of records are categorized neatly on three levels of a 6-foot tall shelf. On the wall is a Bear Creek High School diploma.
Black vinyl discs -- recordings by Alicia Keyes, Earth, Wind and Fire and Del the Funky Homosapien -- are strewn on a twin-sized bed next to two old-school Technics turntables.
Alvin Peebles, a beefy 22-year-old in a faded gray
T-shirt, olive cargo shorts and matching green hat, moves the fingers of his right hand with precision while spinning records.
With his left hand, Peebles pinches the silver knob on the scratching mixer, moving it back and forth. Pieces of voices and bits of music permeate the room.
Meanwhile, Darrell Pierce, 22, a friend of Peebles, is toying with a desktop computer -- thumping out a high-tech bass line.
The huge black leather chair he's slouching in makes Pierce's skinny frame look even smaller as he adjusts the knobs and switches on the screen.
The evolution of scratching, a basic element of hip-hop, is starkly revealed in the rear room of this single-story, tan stucco house in north Stockton.
Stockton beat junkies such as Peebles, with his '70s-style turntables, and Pierce, with his post-millennial computer, are carrying on the tradition established 30 years ago by young trailblazers in the South Bronx and other New York City neighborhoods.
"Aw yeah," grunts Pierce to the screen. "We're taking it to that other level."
They illustrate the ongoing evolution of hip-hop DJs from rudimentary record scratching to technically proficient production skills.
Advancements in technology -- and the increased mixing of R&B, rock and jazz by hip-hop DJs -- have made scratching more accessible, helping it flourish in the mainstream while influencing other musical genres.
"A big reason is more people can afford to have home studios," said Jason Leal, 22, a Stockton producer and MC who creates synthesized, less bass-heavy tracks. "Back in the day, a lot of people couldn't afford to go to a big studio. Now, everybody has them (at home)."
It's an underground movement that is flourishing.
"We don't have the support, but that's not going to stop us," he said. "This is creative freedom."
Although its roots are in New York City, the Bay Area influence is evident in Stockton, say local DJs and producers.
They've moved beyond simple baby scratches -- where the DJ moves a vinyl record back and forth under the needle -- to more intricate and rhythmic movements with their fingers and wrists.
There are also different types of DJs. Party DJs spin popular records while battle DJs, known as turntablists, display their skills at competitions.
There's no limit to where scratching can go, said DJ Qbert, a well-known San Francisco performer whose real name is Richard Quitevis.
"You can do whatever you want," said Quitevis, 32. "You can mix punk, rock, jazz into hip-hop. So it keeps growing."
Leal, a soft-spoken former graffiti artist known as Damage, isn't waiting. In fact, he taps his computer keyboard to create scratching sounds and full-length albums.
On one side of his narrow, second-story studio in west central Stockton, Leal has his recording equipment wired to a desktop computer.
With the appropriate software, the entire system, which cost between $3,000 and $4,000, allows Leal to record, program, master and mix music.
It also enables him to scan images and design album covers and posters.
His apartment is so cramped, his recording studio is crammed into the kitchen. He can open his refrigerator without leaving his chair.
He saves money by recording his own rhythm tracks. They'd cost between $100 and $500 if he had to buy them from other producers in Stockton.
Though he relies upon cutting-edge computer technology, the tracks don't have to be clean.
"It doesn't matter if it sounds a little dirty or gritty," Leal said. "That's how it always sounded."
Mike Lawson can relate to that.
Some closets are bigger than The Shack, Lawson's south Stockton studio. He converted a storage shed in the back of his duplex in Conway Homes.
Behind a maroon curtain, the 34-year-old Lawson's bulky frame sits next to a dusty, dated four-track mixer and recorder, drum machine, amplifier, speakers and CD burner. The basics, he calls it.
Known as "Mike D.," Lawson was a DJ in the 1980s before rhyming and producing tracks with C.O.P.S. (Criminals Over-Powering Society), a local rap group. The 1987 graduate of Edison High School also created beats for local rappers and crews such as Trellmixx, H.C.U. and Killa Tribe.
He's recorded in 32-track studios with more than $1 million in equipment, but it didn't help him get "that sound."
"A lot of people got (a lot of expensive) equipment and still can't get that sound," Lawson said. "If you ain't no good at working on a computer, it's not going to work."
Anthony Payne, a Stockton resident who calls himself DJ Smash, moved from collecting funk records, rocking house parties and battling other turntablists to producing tracks for E-40 and Too $hort.
Payne, 33, paid attention to East Coast hip-hop pioneers such as Grandmaster Flash, Kurtis Blow, Marly Marl and Los Angeles-based Dr. Dre as they evolved from DJs to producers.
"The transition is something that gets swept under the rug or paid little attention," Payne said. "The industry is producer-driven now."
Thanks to modern technology, recording tracks has become much easier. Instead of hauling around a drum machine, electronic keyboards and mixers, Payne works with touch-screen keyboards such as the Trinity Triton to build his tracks.
Now, all he needs after perfecting beats on computer software -- which duplicates the sound of professional studio equipment -- is a floppy disk.
Rob Principe, who runs the Scratch DJ Academy in New York City, said scratching is more popular than ever, but the skills still are hard to master.
"DJs are taking music and changing the composition and arrangement by adding scratches, cuts and breaks," said Principe, who started his Manhattan school in February with Run-DMC's Jam Master J and author Reg E. Gaines.
The 28-year-old provides his 1,400 students with equipment and instruction. They start by learning the basic parts of a turntable and simple scratches, while DJs such as Premier and Evil Dee offer guidance.
The academy's goal is to legitimize and validate scratching, which should be studied in universities like jazz, Principe said.
"Unless you know someone or are looking at someone spinning records, and digging into the crates, you won't learn about it," said Principe.
HOME STUDIO EXPLOSION: Jason Leal, 22, of Stockton, is one of a growing number of local producers who have invested in sound equipment to build a home studio. With the appropriate software, Leal's system, which cost between $3,000 and $4,000, allows him to record, program, master and mix music, as well as scan images and design album covers and promotional posters.
Corners of thin cardboard holders stick out of plastic crates on the sand-colored floor. Next to the crates is a clear toy box with two giant stuffed Powerpuff Girls dolls. Their paper-plate eyes gaze intently.
Hundreds of records are categorized neatly on three levels of a 6-foot tall shelf. On the wall is a Bear Creek High School diploma.
Black vinyl discs -- recordings by Alicia Keyes, Earth, Wind and Fire and Del the Funky Homosapien -- are strewn on a twin-sized bed next to two old-school Technics turntables.
Alvin Peebles, a beefy 22-year-old in a faded gray
T-shirt, olive cargo shorts and matching green hat, moves the fingers of his right hand with precision while spinning records.
With his left hand, Peebles pinches the silver knob on the scratching mixer, moving it back and forth. Pieces of voices and bits of music permeate the room.
Meanwhile, Darrell Pierce, 22, a friend of Peebles, is toying with a desktop computer -- thumping out a high-tech bass line.
The huge black leather chair he's slouching in makes Pierce's skinny frame look even smaller as he adjusts the knobs and switches on the screen.
The evolution of scratching, a basic element of hip-hop, is starkly revealed in the rear room of this single-story, tan stucco house in north Stockton.
Stockton beat junkies such as Peebles, with his '70s-style turntables, and Pierce, with his post-millennial computer, are carrying on the tradition established 30 years ago by young trailblazers in the South Bronx and other New York City neighborhoods.
"Aw yeah," grunts Pierce to the screen. "We're taking it to that other level."
They illustrate the ongoing evolution of hip-hop DJs from rudimentary record scratching to technically proficient production skills.
Advancements in technology -- and the increased mixing of R&B, rock and jazz by hip-hop DJs -- have made scratching more accessible, helping it flourish in the mainstream while influencing other musical genres.
"A big reason is more people can afford to have home studios," said Jason Leal, 22, a Stockton producer and MC who creates synthesized, less bass-heavy tracks. "Back in the day, a lot of people couldn't afford to go to a big studio. Now, everybody has them (at home)."
It's an underground movement that is flourishing.
"We don't have the support, but that's not going to stop us," he said. "This is creative freedom."
Although its roots are in New York City, the Bay Area influence is evident in Stockton, say local DJs and producers.
They've moved beyond simple baby scratches -- where the DJ moves a vinyl record back and forth under the needle -- to more intricate and rhythmic movements with their fingers and wrists.
There are also different types of DJs. Party DJs spin popular records while battle DJs, known as turntablists, display their skills at competitions.
There's no limit to where scratching can go, said DJ Qbert, a well-known San Francisco performer whose real name is Richard Quitevis.
"You can do whatever you want," said Quitevis, 32. "You can mix punk, rock, jazz into hip-hop. So it keeps growing."
Leal, a soft-spoken former graffiti artist known as Damage, isn't waiting. In fact, he taps his computer keyboard to create scratching sounds and full-length albums.
On one side of his narrow, second-story studio in west central Stockton, Leal has his recording equipment wired to a desktop computer.
With the appropriate software, the entire system, which cost between $3,000 and $4,000, allows Leal to record, program, master and mix music.
It also enables him to scan images and design album covers and posters.
His apartment is so cramped, his recording studio is crammed into the kitchen. He can open his refrigerator without leaving his chair.
He saves money by recording his own rhythm tracks. They'd cost between $100 and $500 if he had to buy them from other producers in Stockton.
Though he relies upon cutting-edge computer technology, the tracks don't have to be clean.
"It doesn't matter if it sounds a little dirty or gritty," Leal said. "That's how it always sounded."
Mike Lawson can relate to that.
Some closets are bigger than The Shack, Lawson's south Stockton studio. He converted a storage shed in the back of his duplex in Conway Homes.
Behind a maroon curtain, the 34-year-old Lawson's bulky frame sits next to a dusty, dated four-track mixer and recorder, drum machine, amplifier, speakers and CD burner. The basics, he calls it.
Known as "Mike D.," Lawson was a DJ in the 1980s before rhyming and producing tracks with C.O.P.S. (Criminals Over-Powering Society), a local rap group. The 1987 graduate of Edison High School also created beats for local rappers and crews such as Trellmixx, H.C.U. and Killa Tribe.
He's recorded in 32-track studios with more than $1 million in equipment, but it didn't help him get "that sound."
"A lot of people got (a lot of expensive) equipment and still can't get that sound," Lawson said. "If you ain't no good at working on a computer, it's not going to work."
Anthony Payne, a Stockton resident who calls himself DJ Smash, moved from collecting funk records, rocking house parties and battling other turntablists to producing tracks for E-40 and Too $hort.
Payne, 33, paid attention to East Coast hip-hop pioneers such as Grandmaster Flash, Kurtis Blow, Marly Marl and Los Angeles-based Dr. Dre as they evolved from DJs to producers.
"The transition is something that gets swept under the rug or paid little attention," Payne said. "The industry is producer-driven now."
Thanks to modern technology, recording tracks has become much easier. Instead of hauling around a drum machine, electronic keyboards and mixers, Payne works with touch-screen keyboards such as the Trinity Triton to build his tracks.
Now, all he needs after perfecting beats on computer software -- which duplicates the sound of professional studio equipment -- is a floppy disk.
Rob Principe, who runs the Scratch DJ Academy in New York City, said scratching is more popular than ever, but the skills still are hard to master.
"DJs are taking music and changing the composition and arrangement by adding scratches, cuts and breaks," said Principe, who started his Manhattan school in February with Run-DMC's Jam Master J and author Reg E. Gaines.
The 28-year-old provides his 1,400 students with equipment and instruction. They start by learning the basic parts of a turntable and simple scratches, while DJs such as Premier and Evil Dee offer guidance.
The academy's goal is to legitimize and validate scratching, which should be studied in universities like jazz, Principe said.
"Unless you know someone or are looking at someone spinning records, and digging into the crates, you won't learn about it," said Principe.
HOME STUDIO EXPLOSION: Jason Leal, 22, of Stockton, is one of a growing number of local producers who have invested in sound equipment to build a home studio. With the appropriate software, Leal's system, which cost between $3,000 and $4,000, allows him to record, program, master and mix music, as well as scan images and design album covers and promotional posters.
East Stockton. Just before 2 a.m.
Young black and Latino men stand in the vacant gravel parking lot next to Corona Liquors.
Their gold and silver earrings sparkle under the fluorescent pink and blue lights advertising Bud Light and Coors in the store window. Marijuana smoke hangs in the air.
Doja Clik's Aaron "Young Ren" Mena, 28, and Marc "Mr. Peebodie" Welch, 29, drive into the lot. The group -- mostly in baggy shorts, oversized faded T-shirts and basketball shoes -- pays casual attention. Welch gets out to retrieve some tall cans of Miller Genuine Draft.
A bald man with gold front teeth approaches Mena's passenger side window.
"What up?"
Mena's trademark grin slides to the side of his youthful face.
"What's happening?" Mena asks.
"Dropped the new album?"
"Yeah. 'THC' is out."
"Cool."
Ear to the street. There's no better way to find out what rap fans in Stockton want, Mena -- and Doja Clik, his 8-year-old Stockton hip-hop group -- have found out.
The guy with the gold teeth definitely isn't going to hear their new album ("THC") on the radio.
Earlier that night, Clik member Anthony "Antidote" Nelson, 26, talked about the roadblocks faced by area rappers, including trying to get their music played on the radio.
"All the local fans want a group out here in Stockton," Nelson said. "They want a group they can call their own. But local radio is scared to break something local and innovative."
The problem is as old as pop music.
There's always been a degree of disconnect between young musicians creating new forms of music and the status quo.
Local rappers are frustrated because the records they make don't get played on the radio, a complaint common among independent regional artists doing any style of music, from rock to country and blues. It rarely, if ever, happens anymore.
So, hip-hoppers hungry for local music are turning to cable TV.
Radio programmers say they're running a business and have no obligation to play local acts.
They also say local rappers -- often unfamiliar with the music business -- aren't as talented as major artists.
"I don't want KWIN to come off as haters, but we have no obligation to play local music," said Diane Foxx, music director at Silverado Broadcasting-owned KWIN (97.7-FM) radio that plays a mix of urban top-40 music, including rap, R&B, pop-soul and hip-hop.
"KWIN don't want to help anyone out," said Christine Scroggins, a 21-year-old Stockton rapper who goes by the name Playgyrl Slim. "If we (local rap artists) come up, then Stockton comes up."
"Local radio has no respect for Stockton artists," said Stanley Hill Jr., a 26-year-old Stockton rapper known as Big Duna. "They don't give us a chance to show what we can bring to the table. That's the problem."
Stockton radio is homogenized to sound
like radio in every other market, said University of the Pacific communications professor Alan Ray, adding that radio always has been a marketing media first.
"The music is secondary to their goal of selling ad time to businesses," Ray said. "It's fear of the unknown that drives local stations to copy what works in other cities and towns."
The corporate consolidation of radio -- fueled by government deregulation and led by giant companies such as Clear Channel Entertainment Co. -- is at an all-time high.
To earn good ratings -- which help determine how much advertisers can be charged -- and stay competitive, station owners, music programmers and DJs rely heavily on carefully researched playlists aimed at narrow and very specific segments of the audience. There is little margin for error or experimentation.
The result squeezes out local musicians.
No matter, said Nelson, radio still plays an essential role in developing a local music scene.
"We're talking about life, death, happiness, Stockton," said Nelson. "Real (expletive). If that don't mean something, then somebody at KWIN has got their head in the wrong place. It's a double standard against their own city. KWIN is on the bandwagon."
Amanda King, KWIN's program director, said the CDs she gets from local rappers are very raw.
"It's not that the beats aren't good, or they can't flow," said King, 30, a Franklin High School graduate. "There's no creativity. It's the same gangsta rap."
Foxx and King said the majority of local rap material they hear is too profane and violent for mainstream radio.
"Their lyrics are not appropriate," King said. "We look for songs that have a message."
Local rappers say they deal with the same topics as mainstream rappers signed with major labels: money, sex, violence and drugs.
King agrees, but said the quality of the music played on KWIN is just better.
"We do have a lot of talent here," said KWIN's Foxx, adding it's not as polished or developed as performers signed to major record labels.
All the radio station is doing is hurting local hip-hop fans, said Mena.
"Everybody wants to be the first to break out of Stockton and put it down for the town," Mena said.
While local rappers claim there is a lot of payola in the urban radio industry, King said her station accepts no money in exchange for playing records.
Payola is a federal crime, but UOP's Ray said some radio programmers do engage in "plugola," which is frowned upon but perfectly legal.
"Stations will plug something from the major record labels and get trips, concert tickets, CDs, merchandise and other services," he said.
There are other avenues open to rap musicians, said Thaddeus Smith III, 28, who's known as Pismo in Burnt Batch, a Stockton rap group.
College radio is one.
"Without college radio we would not be on radio," said Smith, referring to stations in the Bay Area.
Back in the 1980s, it was UOP's radio station -- the now-defunct KUOP -- that pioneered the playing of hip-hop and rap on Stockton radio.
There's no college radio station here now, though, and D-Good -- Stockton rapper Dianton Reaves -- became so frustrated he started a weekend television show spotlighting local rap artists.
"Valley Streets in Cali" is a half-hour show broadcast at 11 p.m. Saturdays on SJTV (cable-access channel 26).
Since its debut in October 2001, it's been gaining viewership with a mix of music videos, commentary and entertainment news.
"It's just another forum for real people who want real hip-hop in Stockton," Reaves, 32, said.
Big Duna knows what will get people's attention. He hopes it happens soon.
"We need an underground radio station," he said.
ALL THE WAY LIVE: Stockton rapper
D-Good, whose real name is Dianton Reaves, 32, performs at a concert at Oak Grove Park. Area MCs perform at the north Stockton park once a month.
Young black and Latino men stand in the vacant gravel parking lot next to Corona Liquors.
Their gold and silver earrings sparkle under the fluorescent pink and blue lights advertising Bud Light and Coors in the store window. Marijuana smoke hangs in the air.
Doja Clik's Aaron "Young Ren" Mena, 28, and Marc "Mr. Peebodie" Welch, 29, drive into the lot. The group -- mostly in baggy shorts, oversized faded T-shirts and basketball shoes -- pays casual attention. Welch gets out to retrieve some tall cans of Miller Genuine Draft.
A bald man with gold front teeth approaches Mena's passenger side window.
"What up?"
Mena's trademark grin slides to the side of his youthful face.
"What's happening?" Mena asks.
"Dropped the new album?"
"Yeah. 'THC' is out."
"Cool."
Ear to the street. There's no better way to find out what rap fans in Stockton want, Mena -- and Doja Clik, his 8-year-old Stockton hip-hop group -- have found out.
The guy with the gold teeth definitely isn't going to hear their new album ("THC") on the radio.
Earlier that night, Clik member Anthony "Antidote" Nelson, 26, talked about the roadblocks faced by area rappers, including trying to get their music played on the radio.
"All the local fans want a group out here in Stockton," Nelson said. "They want a group they can call their own. But local radio is scared to break something local and innovative."
The problem is as old as pop music.
There's always been a degree of disconnect between young musicians creating new forms of music and the status quo.
Local rappers are frustrated because the records they make don't get played on the radio, a complaint common among independent regional artists doing any style of music, from rock to country and blues. It rarely, if ever, happens anymore.
So, hip-hoppers hungry for local music are turning to cable TV.
Radio programmers say they're running a business and have no obligation to play local acts.
They also say local rappers -- often unfamiliar with the music business -- aren't as talented as major artists.
"I don't want KWIN to come off as haters, but we have no obligation to play local music," said Diane Foxx, music director at Silverado Broadcasting-owned KWIN (97.7-FM) radio that plays a mix of urban top-40 music, including rap, R&B, pop-soul and hip-hop.
"KWIN don't want to help anyone out," said Christine Scroggins, a 21-year-old Stockton rapper who goes by the name Playgyrl Slim. "If we (local rap artists) come up, then Stockton comes up."
"Local radio has no respect for Stockton artists," said Stanley Hill Jr., a 26-year-old Stockton rapper known as Big Duna. "They don't give us a chance to show what we can bring to the table. That's the problem."
Stockton radio is homogenized to sound
like radio in every other market, said University of the Pacific communications professor Alan Ray, adding that radio always has been a marketing media first.
"The music is secondary to their goal of selling ad time to businesses," Ray said. "It's fear of the unknown that drives local stations to copy what works in other cities and towns."
The corporate consolidation of radio -- fueled by government deregulation and led by giant companies such as Clear Channel Entertainment Co. -- is at an all-time high.
To earn good ratings -- which help determine how much advertisers can be charged -- and stay competitive, station owners, music programmers and DJs rely heavily on carefully researched playlists aimed at narrow and very specific segments of the audience. There is little margin for error or experimentation.
The result squeezes out local musicians.
No matter, said Nelson, radio still plays an essential role in developing a local music scene.
"We're talking about life, death, happiness, Stockton," said Nelson. "Real (expletive). If that don't mean something, then somebody at KWIN has got their head in the wrong place. It's a double standard against their own city. KWIN is on the bandwagon."
Amanda King, KWIN's program director, said the CDs she gets from local rappers are very raw.
"It's not that the beats aren't good, or they can't flow," said King, 30, a Franklin High School graduate. "There's no creativity. It's the same gangsta rap."
Foxx and King said the majority of local rap material they hear is too profane and violent for mainstream radio.
"Their lyrics are not appropriate," King said. "We look for songs that have a message."
Local rappers say they deal with the same topics as mainstream rappers signed with major labels: money, sex, violence and drugs.
King agrees, but said the quality of the music played on KWIN is just better.
"We do have a lot of talent here," said KWIN's Foxx, adding it's not as polished or developed as performers signed to major record labels.
All the radio station is doing is hurting local hip-hop fans, said Mena.
"Everybody wants to be the first to break out of Stockton and put it down for the town," Mena said.
While local rappers claim there is a lot of payola in the urban radio industry, King said her station accepts no money in exchange for playing records.
Payola is a federal crime, but UOP's Ray said some radio programmers do engage in "plugola," which is frowned upon but perfectly legal.
"Stations will plug something from the major record labels and get trips, concert tickets, CDs, merchandise and other services," he said.
There are other avenues open to rap musicians, said Thaddeus Smith III, 28, who's known as Pismo in Burnt Batch, a Stockton rap group.
College radio is one.
"Without college radio we would not be on radio," said Smith, referring to stations in the Bay Area.
Back in the 1980s, it was UOP's radio station -- the now-defunct KUOP -- that pioneered the playing of hip-hop and rap on Stockton radio.
There's no college radio station here now, though, and D-Good -- Stockton rapper Dianton Reaves -- became so frustrated he started a weekend television show spotlighting local rap artists.
"Valley Streets in Cali" is a half-hour show broadcast at 11 p.m. Saturdays on SJTV (cable-access channel 26).
Since its debut in October 2001, it's been gaining viewership with a mix of music videos, commentary and entertainment news.
"It's just another forum for real people who want real hip-hop in Stockton," Reaves, 32, said.
Big Duna knows what will get people's attention. He hopes it happens soon.
"We need an underground radio station," he said.
D-Good, whose real name is Dianton Reaves, 32, performs at a concert at Oak Grove Park. Area MCs perform at the north Stockton park once a month.
Stockton's labels vie for shelf-space at local stores
Published Monday, October 14, 2002
The CDs and DVDs inside a glass case are displayed like diamond-studded rings and gold bands.
Owner David Barnes sits behind the counter at his House of Music store on Harding Way in east Stockton.
On the wall beside Barnes hang blue T-shirts with the Interstate 5 shield and the numbers 209 -- Stockton's telephone area code -- in the middle.
A young Latino walks in. A bell on the door chimes. Barnes watches cars through dusty blinds as the customer glances at the case and wall.
"Got 'THC'? Doja Clik's new album? Heard it's out," the customer asks.
"Nope," Barnes shakes his head. "I ain't got them yet."
"They're all out at Tower Records."
"I'm gonna see about getting that," Barnes says through his gold teeth. "Come back next week."
The customer bends down to examine the case then leaves, rattling the bell.
"That don't happen too often," Barnes said.
That's because Stockton group Doja Clik has defied the odds and become successful enough at making and selling its own recordings that a major international chain such as Tower is willing to stock it. (See accompanying story.)
Like most other aspects of hip-hop culture in Stockton, recording and marketing the music remains an underground reality.
"Some local record stores and fans who don't support Stockton rappers ain't showing this city any respect," said Barnes, 35, who allows local hip-hop artists to sell their albums on consignment at his five-year-old store.
Stockton rap record labels struggle with little fan base, minimal resources, negative stereotypes connected to violence and drugs and almost no exposure.
Still, owners of the 12 companies that currently record and release hip-hop in Stockton try to succeed by learning the music business, using cutting-edge technology and marketing the city's violent image.
Despite their rise and fall, independent rap labels are alive and well. They've been part of the Stockton underground music scene for 10 years.
These labels mostly produce gangsta-rap albums but are gradually expanding to incorporate less violent, more positive themes. Gangsta rappers have marketed Stockton's violent image for years.
"Stockton is a factory for gangsta rap," said Dianton Reaves, 32, a local rapper who goes by the name D-Good. "It's because of that violent and criminal reputation. It was real bad in the '80s and '90s. (Drug-dealing and gang-banging) are still happening all around us. But not like it was."
"There's a lot of people in this city who make underground music that's not as violent as the gangster stuff," said Jason Leal, a local emcee and producer who runs Audio Might Productions, a rap music label.
Local artists and police are aware of the stereotype that all gangsta rappers are criminals.
Rappers know that glorifying negative events in the community is good for sales but creates a bad image. With often misogynistic lyrics that romanticize drug dealing, gang-banging, pimping and other illegal activity, critics assume drug money helps finance these labels.
"That's not the case for all rap labels," Reaves said. "We get a bad reputation because of that."
Doug Anderson, a Stockton Police Department spokesman, said assuming all rap labels and artists are connected with illegal activity is foolish.
"There are bad apples in every bunch," he said, noting there have been no criminal investigations, charges or convictions involving local rap record labels and illegal activity or financing.
No matter what the musical tone might be, making their music pay off still is a difficult challenge.
I'm seeing fakes and phonies fronting with their image
Talking about ballin' but can't pass the line of scrimmage
The way I flip my business
I'm paid before I'm finished
I highly recommend this: know your facts and your percentage
Because fools are out to (expletive) you, so deep they'll make you hemorrhage
I'm laughing when I'm spittin' this independent earned spinach
-- "Mudville Alleys" by Antidote
Through trial and error, local independent label owners have learned to spend frugally on promotion. There's a price to be paid for business acumen. But it motivates them to become business savvy.
Angel Hernandez, 28, part of Tracy's Project Affiliated, said his group learned a lot about the music industry when it released its first album ("2Sik: Project Affiliated") in 1998.
It cost $5,150 to manufacture 5,000 copies, and it was recorded in a home studio. While the group produced a technically sound CD, it failed to gain much exposure and wasted money on promotion and marketing, he said.
Project Affiliated is recording its new album at a 24-track studio in Modesto.
"Now, it's about using our money wisely," Hernandez said. "You upgrade the sound."
Project Affiliated also has learned to cut costs by recording a compilation of local artists and/or bringing in other artists with a variety of styles.
Independent label owners can prevent headaches by outlining specific goals and establishing a realistic budget, said Thaddeus Smith III, a 28-year-old Stockton native who founded Shou Records in Oakland in 1997.
"People think the label is making money, but I'm actually in debt," said Smith, who goes by the name of Pismo in Burnt Batch, a Stockton hip-hop group. "You've got to keep the money circulating."
The low cost of modern music-making technology helps local label owners get their product to music shelves. It's cheaper today than five years ago to produce music.
"The technology allows people more creative freedom to make conscious music," said Leal.
Then there's the competitive reality.
Local artists go head-to-head with major record labels at Stockton music outlets such as House of Music, Tower Records and Replay Records. Other stores -- such as Circuit City, Sam Goody and Best Buy -- don't stock local independent albums.
Due to the financial firepower of corporate industry giants such as Sony, MCA and Universal, local record labels barely stand a chance.
"A lot of people think they're going to put a record out and sit back, and it will sell by itself," said Wendy Day, who established Rap Coalition, a New York City-based organization educating artists about the music industry. "That Sony or MCA are going to magically come up and sign every artist on their label."
The most successful independent labels are found in areas with large fan bases willing to buy CDs.
"Places like Houston and Chicago come to mind. But it doesn't have to do with radio play," Day said.
Before Cash Money Millionaires, a New Orleans rap group, signed a multi-million dollar record deal with the giant Universal Music Group, its small label (Cash Money Records) had released 31 albums in six years, said Day.
The Millionaires also had an in-house artist development department, production and marketing departments and a large fan base.
Major label talent scouts also look for rap recordings that won't alienate radio disc jockeys with their foul language and excessively vulgar imagery.
"Major record labels would rather sign an artist that's not as talented with less risk instead of signing a talented artist with more risk because, at the end of the day, they're running a business," Day said.
Success in the independent rap game ultimately depends on fans.
"Rap artists have to create their own demand," Day said. "It's no longer the job of the radio station or label to create demand." *
Published Monday, October 14, 2002
The CDs and DVDs inside a glass case are displayed like diamond-studded rings and gold bands.
Owner David Barnes sits behind the counter at his House of Music store on Harding Way in east Stockton.
On the wall beside Barnes hang blue T-shirts with the Interstate 5 shield and the numbers 209 -- Stockton's telephone area code -- in the middle.
A young Latino walks in. A bell on the door chimes. Barnes watches cars through dusty blinds as the customer glances at the case and wall.
"Got 'THC'? Doja Clik's new album? Heard it's out," the customer asks.
"Nope," Barnes shakes his head. "I ain't got them yet."
"They're all out at Tower Records."
"I'm gonna see about getting that," Barnes says through his gold teeth. "Come back next week."
The customer bends down to examine the case then leaves, rattling the bell.
"That don't happen too often," Barnes said.
That's because Stockton group Doja Clik has defied the odds and become successful enough at making and selling its own recordings that a major international chain such as Tower is willing to stock it. (See accompanying story.)
Like most other aspects of hip-hop culture in Stockton, recording and marketing the music remains an underground reality.
"Some local record stores and fans who don't support Stockton rappers ain't showing this city any respect," said Barnes, 35, who allows local hip-hop artists to sell their albums on consignment at his five-year-old store.
Stockton rap record labels struggle with little fan base, minimal resources, negative stereotypes connected to violence and drugs and almost no exposure.
Still, owners of the 12 companies that currently record and release hip-hop in Stockton try to succeed by learning the music business, using cutting-edge technology and marketing the city's violent image.
Despite their rise and fall, independent rap labels are alive and well. They've been part of the Stockton underground music scene for 10 years.
These labels mostly produce gangsta-rap albums but are gradually expanding to incorporate less violent, more positive themes. Gangsta rappers have marketed Stockton's violent image for years.
"Stockton is a factory for gangsta rap," said Dianton Reaves, 32, a local rapper who goes by the name D-Good. "It's because of that violent and criminal reputation. It was real bad in the '80s and '90s. (Drug-dealing and gang-banging) are still happening all around us. But not like it was."
"There's a lot of people in this city who make underground music that's not as violent as the gangster stuff," said Jason Leal, a local emcee and producer who runs Audio Might Productions, a rap music label.
Local artists and police are aware of the stereotype that all gangsta rappers are criminals.
Rappers know that glorifying negative events in the community is good for sales but creates a bad image. With often misogynistic lyrics that romanticize drug dealing, gang-banging, pimping and other illegal activity, critics assume drug money helps finance these labels.
"That's not the case for all rap labels," Reaves said. "We get a bad reputation because of that."
Doug Anderson, a Stockton Police Department spokesman, said assuming all rap labels and artists are connected with illegal activity is foolish.
"There are bad apples in every bunch," he said, noting there have been no criminal investigations, charges or convictions involving local rap record labels and illegal activity or financing.
No matter what the musical tone might be, making their music pay off still is a difficult challenge.
I'm seeing fakes and phonies fronting with their image
Talking about ballin' but can't pass the line of scrimmage
The way I flip my business
I'm paid before I'm finished
I highly recommend this: know your facts and your percentage
Because fools are out to (expletive) you, so deep they'll make you hemorrhage
I'm laughing when I'm spittin' this independent earned spinach
-- "Mudville Alleys" by Antidote
Through trial and error, local independent label owners have learned to spend frugally on promotion. There's a price to be paid for business acumen. But it motivates them to become business savvy.
Angel Hernandez, 28, part of Tracy's Project Affiliated, said his group learned a lot about the music industry when it released its first album ("2Sik: Project Affiliated") in 1998.
It cost $5,150 to manufacture 5,000 copies, and it was recorded in a home studio. While the group produced a technically sound CD, it failed to gain much exposure and wasted money on promotion and marketing, he said.
Project Affiliated is recording its new album at a 24-track studio in Modesto.
"Now, it's about using our money wisely," Hernandez said. "You upgrade the sound."
Project Affiliated also has learned to cut costs by recording a compilation of local artists and/or bringing in other artists with a variety of styles.
Independent label owners can prevent headaches by outlining specific goals and establishing a realistic budget, said Thaddeus Smith III, a 28-year-old Stockton native who founded Shou Records in Oakland in 1997.
"People think the label is making money, but I'm actually in debt," said Smith, who goes by the name of Pismo in Burnt Batch, a Stockton hip-hop group. "You've got to keep the money circulating."
The low cost of modern music-making technology helps local label owners get their product to music shelves. It's cheaper today than five years ago to produce music.
"The technology allows people more creative freedom to make conscious music," said Leal.
Then there's the competitive reality.
Local artists go head-to-head with major record labels at Stockton music outlets such as House of Music, Tower Records and Replay Records. Other stores -- such as Circuit City, Sam Goody and Best Buy -- don't stock local independent albums.
Due to the financial firepower of corporate industry giants such as Sony, MCA and Universal, local record labels barely stand a chance.
"A lot of people think they're going to put a record out and sit back, and it will sell by itself," said Wendy Day, who established Rap Coalition, a New York City-based organization educating artists about the music industry. "That Sony or MCA are going to magically come up and sign every artist on their label."
The most successful independent labels are found in areas with large fan bases willing to buy CDs.
"Places like Houston and Chicago come to mind. But it doesn't have to do with radio play," Day said.
Before Cash Money Millionaires, a New Orleans rap group, signed a multi-million dollar record deal with the giant Universal Music Group, its small label (Cash Money Records) had released 31 albums in six years, said Day.
The Millionaires also had an in-house artist development department, production and marketing departments and a large fan base.
Major label talent scouts also look for rap recordings that won't alienate radio disc jockeys with their foul language and excessively vulgar imagery.
"Major record labels would rather sign an artist that's not as talented with less risk instead of signing a talented artist with more risk because, at the end of the day, they're running a business," Day said.
Success in the independent rap game ultimately depends on fans.
"Rap artists have to create their own demand," Day said. "It's no longer the job of the radio station or label to create demand." *
FORGOT 1 FROM YESTERDAY
BIG SELLER: Doja Clik's "THC" CD is a popular local hip-hop salute to recreational drug use in Stockton. At left is the Clik's Aaron "Young Ren" Mena.
Smoke high-grade marijuana. Drink cognac. Talk dirty to women. Avoid the player haters.
These aren't just parts of Doja Clik's lifestyle. They're crucial ingredients in the Stockton rap group's simple and successful marketing plan.
"We don't steal or kill," said Aaron "Young Ren" Mena, 28, who founded the east Stockton group. "We just rap, work and live."
Despite never performing at a major show in Stockton or ever having its music played on local radio, Doja Clik has sold 35,000 copies of the four albums it's released since 1994.
The group's newest album, "THC," was the No. 8 seller at Stockton's Tower Records outlet during its first week of release in September.
Mena and his Clik are proof that, despite the many obstacles presented by hip-hop's underground status in Stockton, success stories can be written.
I wake up with an empty Hennessey in palm
All is calm last night I was gone off bomb
Ain't nothing wrong hit the fridge for my last O.E.
Eight double "o" in the morning and I'm still getting keyed
Grab my roach from the ashtray and fire it up
Resonate my membrane, wake and bake and get stuck
-- "Servin' 'Em Up" by Young Ren
Using a formula created by other independent regional rappers such as Oakland's Too $hort and Compton's N.W.A., the Clik has created album sales, a fan base and profits.
Jesse "Gooch" Hernandez, 27, president of Hard On Da Grind Records, Doja Clik's Stockton-based record label. won't talk about the money, but said fans really buy Mena's musical style -- a mixture of
synthesized bells and handclaps peppered over engulfing bass lines.
"The music industry is easy," said Hernandez. "The hardest part is getting people's attention."
The group -- the ever-changing lineup currently includes Mena, Antidote, Suga Bear and Mackaholic -- doesn't sugarcoat its latest effort.
"THC" is a follow-up to "Underground Mailroad," Mena's 1999 solo album that sold 6,000 copies.
The "THC" cover -- bushels of marijuana plants under lamps with "THC," the chemical term for marijuana, spelled out in lime green -- makes it clear where the group's coming from.
"Weed brings people together," Mena said. "People who smoke bud are going to buy the album."
The group's marketing formula -- promoting its albums in the liner notes, making sure record stores are stocked and selling copies through a Web site (dojaclik.com) -- is working.
When "THC" was released, it outsold the "Barbershop" soundtrack and recordings by Nelly and Pink at Tower.
Another indicator of success? A burned copy of Doja's latest album was being sold recently by a vendor at an east Stockton open air mall.
"We're worth being bootlegged," said Mena. "Imitation is the best form of flattery. I don't see anyone bootlegging Garth Brooks."
When Doja Clik was formed, "it was all word of mouth," Mena said.
The group's debut, "Hard on Da Grind," featured Stockton rappers Wizard Wun and Nasty Tre and sold 10,000 copies with no promotion.
In 1997, with more financial backing, the group released "Speed Kills." It featured Bay Area artist JT the Bigga Figga and Merced rapper Young Droop. The album sold 20,000 copies, said Mena.
"That's ghetto gold," he said.
Independent rappers who promote and distribute their own albums earn a bigger percentage of the profits from CD sales than rappers signed to major record labels, Mena and Hernandez said.
They wouldn't comment on exact percentages, but said the group keeps well over 50 percent of CD sales.
A rap artist signed to a major label gets between 8 and 13 percent of a CD's sales price, according to Wendy Day, whose New York City-based Rap Coalition helps rappers manage their finances.
They crashing planes into the World Trade
It's a shame, war games
(expletive) ain't playing, no delaying
Get your gats and pack your straps, get ready for the spraying
Tell your momma to start praying
-- "Mayday" by Young Ren
Although Doja Clik's themes include partying, the music industry, envy, social issues and national dilemmas, no subject is rapped about more than marijuana.
It was something the group members had in common when they got together, said Mena.
"Me and my homies had the same pastime," he said, adding the group was named after a potent variety of marijuana.
Mena and Hernandez are comfortable with their street notoriety. They want more.
"We're on the verge of blowing up," said Mena. "We just needed to learn the (music) business a bit more." *
Smoke high-grade marijuana. Drink cognac. Talk dirty to women. Avoid the player haters.
These aren't just parts of Doja Clik's lifestyle. They're crucial ingredients in the Stockton rap group's simple and successful marketing plan.
"We don't steal or kill," said Aaron "Young Ren" Mena, 28, who founded the east Stockton group. "We just rap, work and live."
Despite never performing at a major show in Stockton or ever having its music played on local radio, Doja Clik has sold 35,000 copies of the four albums it's released since 1994.
The group's newest album, "THC," was the No. 8 seller at Stockton's Tower Records outlet during its first week of release in September.
Mena and his Clik are proof that, despite the many obstacles presented by hip-hop's underground status in Stockton, success stories can be written.
I wake up with an empty Hennessey in palm
All is calm last night I was gone off bomb
Ain't nothing wrong hit the fridge for my last O.E.
Eight double "o" in the morning and I'm still getting keyed
Grab my roach from the ashtray and fire it up
Resonate my membrane, wake and bake and get stuck
-- "Servin' 'Em Up" by Young Ren
Using a formula created by other independent regional rappers such as Oakland's Too $hort and Compton's N.W.A., the Clik has created album sales, a fan base and profits.
Jesse "Gooch" Hernandez, 27, president of Hard On Da Grind Records, Doja Clik's Stockton-based record label. won't talk about the money, but said fans really buy Mena's musical style -- a mixture of
synthesized bells and handclaps peppered over engulfing bass lines.
"The music industry is easy," said Hernandez. "The hardest part is getting people's attention."
The group -- the ever-changing lineup currently includes Mena, Antidote, Suga Bear and Mackaholic -- doesn't sugarcoat its latest effort.
"THC" is a follow-up to "Underground Mailroad," Mena's 1999 solo album that sold 6,000 copies.
The "THC" cover -- bushels of marijuana plants under lamps with "THC," the chemical term for marijuana, spelled out in lime green -- makes it clear where the group's coming from.
"Weed brings people together," Mena said. "People who smoke bud are going to buy the album."
The group's marketing formula -- promoting its albums in the liner notes, making sure record stores are stocked and selling copies through a Web site (dojaclik.com) -- is working.
When "THC" was released, it outsold the "Barbershop" soundtrack and recordings by Nelly and Pink at Tower.
Another indicator of success? A burned copy of Doja's latest album was being sold recently by a vendor at an east Stockton open air mall.
"We're worth being bootlegged," said Mena. "Imitation is the best form of flattery. I don't see anyone bootlegging Garth Brooks."
When Doja Clik was formed, "it was all word of mouth," Mena said.
The group's debut, "Hard on Da Grind," featured Stockton rappers Wizard Wun and Nasty Tre and sold 10,000 copies with no promotion.
In 1997, with more financial backing, the group released "Speed Kills." It featured Bay Area artist JT the Bigga Figga and Merced rapper Young Droop. The album sold 20,000 copies, said Mena.
"That's ghetto gold," he said.
Independent rappers who promote and distribute their own albums earn a bigger percentage of the profits from CD sales than rappers signed to major record labels, Mena and Hernandez said.
They wouldn't comment on exact percentages, but said the group keeps well over 50 percent of CD sales.
A rap artist signed to a major label gets between 8 and 13 percent of a CD's sales price, according to Wendy Day, whose New York City-based Rap Coalition helps rappers manage their finances.
They crashing planes into the World Trade
It's a shame, war games
(expletive) ain't playing, no delaying
Get your gats and pack your straps, get ready for the spraying
Tell your momma to start praying
-- "Mayday" by Young Ren
Although Doja Clik's themes include partying, the music industry, envy, social issues and national dilemmas, no subject is rapped about more than marijuana.
It was something the group members had in common when they got together, said Mena.
"Me and my homies had the same pastime," he said, adding the group was named after a potent variety of marijuana.
Mena and Hernandez are comfortable with their street notoriety. They want more.
"We're on the verge of blowing up," said Mena. "We just needed to learn the (music) business a bit more." *