Jake Brennan (28:13)
next November 9, 1993 was a big day for fans of New York hip hop. Two records hit store shelves that day. A Tribe Called Quest released their much anticipated third studio album, Midnight Marauders, and newcomers Wu Tang Clan released their debut, enter the Wu Tang. 36 Chambers tribe was at the height of their powers and their popularity. Midnight Marauders took off like a shot all the way to number eight on the Billboard 200 certified gold in just two months. Wu Tang, on the other hand, wasn't so fast out of the gate. Where Midnight Marauders was hooking up and lean. Enter the Wu Tang was dense. It was grimy, murky, cross stitch of kung fu samples, coded language, alter egos and pop culture references. It wasn't gangsta rap and it wasn't conscious rap, and it wasn't party rap. It was its own thing. It made listeners work. And though many of those listeners put down their hard earned cash for a copy, 30,000 units sold in the first week alone. The album peaked at only number 41 on the Billboard 200, not even close to the number one spot RZA had promised to the rest of the clan. But in his defense, it was a five year plan, and five years had yet to pass since he'd made that promise. Anyway, word began to build. The Klan put in the work. They performed raucous live shows they hit the road and they brought the ruckus to major markets far beyond New York. They were both dead serious and absolute Jesters, A transgressive collective of creative thinkers who wormed their way into the hip hop world and exploded it from within. By January of 1995, a little over a year later, when both the Tribe and Wu Tang albums were certified platinum, Enter the Wu Tang had actually surpassed Midnight Marauders in total sales. That's when the RZ's master plan really kicked in. The plan wasn't just to make that big explosion, but to capitalize off the shrapnel that came from the big bang. The solo albums, the free agent side deals, the part of that initial record contract with Loud granting each member of the group the freedom to make his own records with other record labels. And the more labels Wu Tang could infiltrate, the better. Because if nine different labels are promoting nine artists who happen to be and Wu Tang Clan, ultimately those nine labels are all promoting Wu Tang Clan. Saturate the market with Wu. Increase your chances of making it to number one. Make that money. RZA and Wu Tang Productions did just that. RZA Inc. Deals with most of the guys in the group. A 5050 split on their solo earnings so that they could use the Wu Tang name. And all the way back in early 1990, three months before enter the Wu Tang was even released. Back when Protect Ya Neck was the only official release they had on the market, three members of Wu Tang signed solo deals. JZZA was picked up by Geffen Records, Old Dirty Bastard went with Elektra Records, and Method man signed with Def Jam. Meth's deal was the one that really stood out. At just 23 years old, the youngest member of the group, meth signed for $180,000. $180,000 was three times what loud Records paid for the entire Wu Tang Clan. In 1994, Meth released Tikal, the first solo album by a Wu Tang member. Meth's record deal, the success of his album and the success of Wu Tang's album was a testament not just to RZA's plan, but to the hard work they all were putting into the process. Their reality was changing. But the more reality changed, the more it stayed the same. Just as Meth was celebrating his own triumphs, tragedy struck back home on Staten Island. We're urging everyone to wait and not to draw any conclusions here and to remain calm. This is being fully investigated by the police department, by the district attorney's office. We've been through situations like this in our city before, where what appears one way at first turns out to be another way a little bit later. So it would be a shame if anybody jumped to conclusions here before. At least there was an opportunity to have a full and complete investigation. April 29, 1994. No one on Staten island wanted to hear what Rudy Giuliani had to say that night. But Giuliani was talking all the same, live on the radio, doubting the truth. Doubting what had happened just hours earlier on Park Hill Avenue. As if the neighborhood suffered a mass hallucination. But they did see it. They watched cops kill one of the neighborhood's own. NYPD choked the life right out of them in the open. It was early evening, daylight, escaping like the final breaths of the dead man on the pavement. And now here was Giuliani on air, talking down to them, patronizing them. It's the same old Ever since Giuliani had been sworn in as New York's mayor back in January, things had gotten worse for Park Hill. The cops got real cozy in the 120th Precinct in their special narcotics emergency unit, harassing kids for loitering, humiliating kids by pulling down their pants to check for drugs. And the only thing the increased NYPD drug sweeps did was make a tenuous relationship between the community and law enforcement even worse. And now Case was dead. Ernest Sayon, aka Case, 22 years old, walking up Park Hill Avenue when the cherry bombs started going off. Someone was tossing them, no doubt trying to with the police, not Case. But there he was, just walking in plain sight. The cops took a look at him. The cops knew Case. He had his fair share of brushes with the loss. The cops were probably thinking about that as they watched him walk. Eyewitness accounts vary as to what happened next. Some say that Case did nothing to provoke the attack, that he didn't resist. That a cop walked up right behind him, hit Case in the back of the head with the butt of his pistol. The Case staggered, grabbed hold of a nearby sycamore tree until the cop hit him again and knocked him unconscious. And that the cop dragged him by his hood until his pants came off. But what did happen was a Case wound up face down on the ground, pants around his ankles, hands cuffed behind his back. 3/4 inch gash bleeding from the back of his head. One cough with his knee on Case's back, another with his elbow behind Case's neck. Case struggled to breathe. He choked and gasped for air in the knee on his back and the elbow on his neck felt like a thousand pounds bearing down and squeezing the life right out of his body. An hour later, Ernest K. Seon was taken to a nearby hospital where he was pronounced dead. Official cause of death, quote, asphyxia by compression of the chest and neck while rear handcuffed and prone on the ground. Some news reports labeled Case a drug suspect. Police at the scene claim that, contrary to those eyewitness reports, Case ran when they tried to question a group of men and that he lifted one officer in the air and threw another against a fence and that he was, quote, a very dangerous man in a very dangerous situation. Three of those officers caught desk duty pending an investigation. The community rallied, and they weren't going to be quiet. They weren't going to let Rudy Giuliani tell them how to feel. Hundreds of Park Hill residents marched to Borough hall, candles in hand, and where they looked the NYPD in the eye, called them as they saw them, murderers. On the very same day as Ernest Case Sean's murder, all the way on the other side of the country in San Francisco, Method Man Raekwon and Ghostface Killa found themselves in the same prone position on the ground, face down, handcuffed, police boots on their backs. Unlike Case, they were lucky. Released after 45 minutes, their detainment chalked up to mistaken identity. But to Meth and the guys, just because they were members of the Wu Tang Clan didn't make them different from guys like Case. Case could have been any of them. Because when it came down to it, whether back on Staten island or out on the west coast, then they were all the same. Not artists, not musicians, not hip hop stars, not trailblazers. Breaking the mold and making history, all of that came second. First and foremost, they were all one targets. March 1997 Los Angeles, California. The dude wearing the blue bandana was paying tribute like the capos who walk into Michael Corleone's office at the end of the first golf godfather. Only they weren't in an office. They were inside a packed house of blues. Yo man, you Wu Tang are the realest. Method man had no allegiance to the Crips or to any west coast gang for that matter. But he accepted the compliment. I mean, the dude had a point. Wu Tang Clan ain't nothing to with. And those other New York dudes ran like the Crip continued, not yet you guys. Also true, Meth wasn't about to call Nas and Mobb Deep little. But they did beat feet back to New York after the went down. After Biggie Smalls took five bullets to the chest and abdomen at the Corner of Wilshire and South Fairfax. Guys scattered after that. The east coast crews who have been hanging out west for the Soul Train Awards suddenly caught that New York state of mind. But not mess and not we Wu Tang. As far as Wu Tang saw it, there was no East Coast west coast beef. Just like RZA didn't see beef between Park Hill and Stapleton projects back on Staten Island. It was all love. They knew that Biggie's motive to be on the COVID of Vibe magazine the year prior wasn't to promote some bullshit beef. Biggie just wanted to be on the COVID of Vibe, period. And he made it on the front of the biggest hip hop public application in the world, his man Puffy standing behind him. But there was a catch. The words east versus west were printed in a bold font to the left of his mug. It was all propaganda, media hype, narrative to sell magazines. Too many people took the east west thing seriously, believed it was actually a thing. This was the actual thing. Either you were cool or you weren't cool. It didn't matter what part of the country you lived in. So in early 1997, when it came time for the Klan to reconvene and record their second album, the follow up to the now platinum selling enter the Wu Tang 36 chambers, they didn't think twice about making the record in Los Angeles. And there were too many distractions at home. In New York, RZA booked time at a studio in North Hollywood. LA was going to be about focus, work and the occasional party, like Vibe magazine's Soul Train afterparty. The evening of March 8th, everyone was there. Wesley Snipes, Whitney Houston, Shaq. Biggie's new album, was about to drop, and his new single, hypnotized, got bodies moving. It was a night to remember. Hours later, it was a night to remember for all the wrong reasons. Because hours later, Biggie Smalls was dead. It was a tragedy. Not just the murder of the Notorious B.I.G. but the media circus that helped to inspire it. The media wasn't happy until they tasted blood. And now there was blood. It was all over their hands. Vibe magazine should have taken a bullet, not Biggie Smalls. Inside the House of Blues, Meth watched the Crip pull a pistol from his pocket. He took Meth's hand and pressed the heater in his palm. Go ahead, take it, he said. You're gonna need it. Nah, man, meth said, trying to hand the gun back. I'm good. The Crip was insistent and Meth looked around. The House of Blues was packed. He quickly lost count of how many pairs of eyes were on him. Maybe they weren't all looking at him, but it felt like it. The dudes rocking blue colors. The girls hoping to get up close and personal to a hip hop star. Silver spoon, la brats, wannabe MCs. And then there were the others. The ones who looked like they didn't quite belong. They were there and then they were gone. Amorphous faces, lack of affect, oblivious to the party raging all around them, focused solely on you. And they kept their distance. But they kept their eyes on you too. Eyes that were hidden behind Ray Bans. As soon as you made one of those guys, they disappeared like they'd never been there in the first place. Like your brain made them up. It was hard not to think about what had just happened to Biggie and wonder if these people were here watching you with more intent and more scrutiny because of what had happened. It was also easy to assume that it would only get worse. The Crip pushed the gun back into Meth's hand. Take it. He wasn't asking. Meth shook his head. He needed the crypt to understand. He appreciated the offer, the gesture. But he didn't want a gun. Not now, not ever. And not everyone in Wu Tang felt the same way. Like Method Man. Ghostface Killa knew that they were targets, that their lives were always in danger and always would be in danger, no matter how rich or how famous they became or how far they their past lives in the streets were behind them. Protect yout Neck wasn't just a buzzworthy line, it was a mantra. If ghosts carried a piece, that's what it was for. Protection. There were guys who wanted what you had that would do anything to take it. Dudes who loved Wu Tang but who would still jump any member of the group and rob their ass given the chance. And then there were the guys with grudges. Grudges held over from way back. The past is never dead. It's only sleeping. And later that same year, in 1997, the past woke up and hit back. Steubenville, Ohio, the town where RZA took the stand for attempted murder. Where Ghost took a bullet. And now the town where another man's body was bleeding out on the sidewalk, shot dead with a gun. A gun that, according to the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Tobacco and Firearms, was provided by a group of gun runners that went by the name Wu Tang Clan. I'm Jake Brennan and this episode of Disgraceland is to be continue. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with double Elvis credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page@gracelandpod.com if you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to Disgracelandpod.com membership. Members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland and ad free. Plus you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month, weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com membership for details. 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