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Jake Brennan (14:36)

Before he even had a chance to respond to their questions, three of them grabbed them by the arm, by the neck, by the wispy poof of partially bleached hair and started dragging him. Another pulled open the doors to the balcony and the blast of California sunshine quickly overcame the hotel suite's air conditioning. Before Vanilla Ice knew it, he'd been yanked out of the balcony, was being lifted up. No, no, no. Fuck this. I told you I'll sign, I'll pay, I'll do whatever you want. No, no, please don't. Don't. His frantic pleading went unanswered. The four men silently went about their business, hoisting him up over the balcony's guardrail, two men apiece, double teaming a leg and an ankle and hanging Vanilla Ice over the edge of the balcony, multiple stories above the sidewalk, above certain death unless the white boy with the number one record on the Billboard charts gave the South Central gangbangers what they wanted. A cut of his royalties. He swung there delicately. No more screaming, no more pleading. Just fear, shock, silence as he stared down at death. The wind cut more clearly up here. He thought he could hear it. It was the only thing he could hear. The sounds of the men, his tormentors, were momentarily blocked out, just the wind blowing delicately. Then they started shaking him, and the reality of it hit him all over again, the faint taste of iron in his mouth from the busted capillaries in his lungs, a result of them working overtime. Maxed out by the fear and adrenaline pumping through him, he was being hung out of a balcony of his swank Beverly Hills hotel. What the fuck all right, I told you guys. I'll sign it. I'll sign. Don't drop me. Don't fucking do it. I'll sign. I'll sign. Something must have sounded convincing in his voice because the four men pulled him back up onto the balcony, but they weren't through with him. They dragged him back into the hotel suite, shut the sliding balcony doors behind him, blocking out the California sunshine. The lights had dimmed. The TV was off. There was a man. A big man, bigger than the two men who embraced each of his arms and bigger than the two other men who now stood in front of each of the suite's exits. And somehow this big man, clad entirely in blood red, sitting peacefully at the suite's small circular table, who said nothing, just shifted his cigar back and forth between his lips from one side of his mouth to the other. Somehow this very large, very quiet man was more intimidating than even the automatic weapons of the two men in the doorways, now openly brandished. The men holding Vanilla Ice by the arms shoved him down into the chair opposite the big man. The big man said nothing, just slid the papers across the table. Then he picked up the pen and slammed it down on top of the papers. His muscles in his face tightened. The corner of his right eye squinted slightly. His broad chest began to slowly inflate. Everyone in the room could feel his anger. It was as real as the the guns those dudes were holding a few feet away. Vanilla Ice had never been more scared in his life. And that's saying something, considering that seconds before this, he was being hung out over a hotel balcony. The big man spoke. Your signature or your life. Vanilla Ice snatched up the pen and signed his Christian name, Robert Matthew Van Winkle, to the papers, in effect signing over $4 million in royalties from his biggest hit, Ice Ice, Baby, to the big man sitting across from him. And with that, the big man had what he'd come for. A multi million dollar score. Some of which he'd kick back to the artist he'd rep, Chocolate Johnson, who claimed he'd helped Vanilla Ice write the song but was uncredited and uncompensated. Whatever the reason, the big man now had what he coveted much needed capital for his new record label, Death Row Records. The label would be a new kind of label, a big label, an unconventional kind of label. A label that exclusively repped the reality on the streets that its artists came up on and all the violence that came with it. Unconventional, big, violent. Just like its owner. Just like Suge Knight. Suge now with Vanilla Ice's contract in his hands split. He had other business to attend to over in Hollywood. As far as talent went, Chocolate Johnson was cool and all, but he represented the past. Suge's future lay in the young, talented hands of Dr. Dre, who a few weeks back had asked Suge, a friend of a friend from the neighborhood who had a reputation for getting things done to help him out. Similar to LAPD chief Daryl Gates, Suge Knight deployed in any means necessary methodology to his business dealings. And at the moment, that's exactly what Dr. Dre needed. After Cube's departure from NWA in Ruthless Records, it became clear to Dre that Eazy and his manager, Jerry Heller, were screwing him financially as well. Dre wanted out of his contract, but Eazy and Jerry weren't about to let their biggest talent walk out of the door. After all, he'd signed the contract. Suge was eager to help Dre out. The plan was for the two of them to launch and co own along with a couple other partners, Death Row Records. But none of that could happen until Dre was released from his contract with Ruthless. Eazy and Jerry held firm. They wouldn't even sit down at the negotiating table with Dre. So Suge Knight, Blood Street Gang affiliate, former defensive end for the Los Angeles Rams turned music industry mogul on the make, went to work. He knew he needed to be cagey. Eazy E wasn't Vanilla Ice. Eazy was OG a hip hop star, sure, but gangster to his core. And Suge Knight knew easy eating give a Eazy got the call around sundown. Dre wanted to meet up that night to work out once and for all. Eazy agreed to meet Dre over at Galaxy, a studio Dre was working out of in Hollywood, and Easy hit the elevator for the second floor. When the doors opened to the studio lobby, There was no Dr. Dre, just a former LA Ram with Louisville Slugger and four of his thugs brandishing lead pipes. Easy played it cool. Where's Dre at? Suge said nothing, just pulled the contract from his back pocket, unfolded it and showed Easy where to sign. Easy still cool. What the fuck is that? Suge finally spoke. It's a contract releasing Dre from Ruthless. And you're gonna sign? Was Eazy's turn not to speak. He held the silence and just stared at Suge and then let out a simple huh? He was stalling. He knew he was outnumbered, but he didn't yet know what he was going to do. He wondered if he could yank the gat and his waistband out and get a shot off quick enough before Suge and his goons swarmed. And Suge didn't take easy silence lightly. Time for plan B. You see that white van parked out on the street? On your way in here, we got Jerry Heller tied up in the back of that van with a gun to his head. And just in case you ain't the sentimental type, we got two bad motherfuckers perched outside your mama's house over on Muriel. That sealed it for Easy Jerry. He could live without, maybe, but his mom, definitely not. He signed the papers. Suge split, but he wasn't done. Critics may have claimed that gangsta rap was simply exploitative, violent fantasy. But the reality Eazy E spit out on record, the same reality that he and Jerry Heller profited from, was now coming back on them and completely, completely fucking up their program. Once Suge freed Dre from Ruthless, he set about to get his hands on Dre's master recordings, showing up at Eazy's house and demanding them. Soon after, Jerry found his home burglarized, tossed and vandalized. Across the front of his expansive Calabasas mat, someone had written in black marker, payback's a motherfucker, Jerry. We'll be right back after this. Word, Word, Word.

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Stassi Schroeder (23:11)

I am your host, Stassi Schroeder. Welcome to Tell Me Lies, the official podcast. What's the most unhinged thing of season three?

Jake Brennan (23:20)

Steven because he's so evil, I do think he is misunderstood. You see everyone face consequences.

Shopify Advertiser (23:26)

It's intoxicating.

Stassi Schroeder (23:27)

The writers just know how to trick ya. There's always a twist in this show.

Jake Brennan (23:30)

It's nothing you would Expect Tell Me.

Stassi Schroeder (23:32)

Lies, the official podcast now streaming and stream the new season of Tell Me Lies on Hulu and Hulu on Disney.

Jake Brennan (23:41)

Howard Stern did not shock easily, but Eazy E was giving it the old Compton try. Stern, the controversial and highly rated syndicated New York radio host, was more amused with Eazy E than he was shocked. The lifestyle Eazy led fascinated Stern. You can hear it in his voice if you listen to the recording. How many children you got, Eric? Five. You got five kids? Where's your wife? I'm not married. You're not married? What the hell is going on here? Howard's sidekick, Robin Quivers, chimed in and asks, the same women or different women? Different women, Easy replies, different women. Howard now seems shocked. He then asks, you wear condoms when you have sex, E? Nah. Robin asks. You heard about aids, Easy? Yeah, but the people I mess with don't. Robin butts in. How do you know? Easy tells her, because I would have had it myself. They would have had it, Howard. Oh man. Jerry Heller, NWA's manager and co founder of Easy E's record label, Ruthless Records, was shaking his head as he listened back to the recording of the Stern show from earlier that week. He banged the stop button on the cassette player and then shot a look at Eric as he called him across Easy's 8, $600 Italian desk. Jerry was pissed. Eric was nearly blowing it with his excess. And just when they were starting to make real money, not just walking around money either. Bank 10 million a month. Ruthless Records, through the popularity of NWA had blown up. It was the hottest hip hop label on the west coast, and the the swank new offices Jerry and Eazy were now sitting in proved in. Jerry had his office decked out in understated pastels with all the finest and trendiest accoutrements. An elegant type of class, it said. I've been in this business since Michael Jackson had his first nose and can afford to roll low key and go yourself. Easy's office said the opposite. I've been in this business for a hot minute. I'm black, I'm proud, and I got more talent and money than the white man man in the office next to mine and the whole goddamn world needs to know it. Now come on in, make yourself comfortable and let's listen to some baby making music. And as such, his office was a nouveau riche overstatement designed by celebrity interior designer Frank Austin. Plush black couch, massive projection television, Lucite walls, and state of the art stereo system that blasted the latest Ruthless Records artist singles at maximum volume. All Day and night, night. Sometimes for the party he was throwing, sometimes to set the mood and to entertain one of his many female friends. He entertained. So much, in fact, that Jerry had to pay extra for increased cleaning services to remove the bodily fluids that were deposited about the office on a daily basis. But not today. Eazy was pissed. He told Jerry he was going to kill the dude. Kill Suge Knight. He told Jerry Suge was too big a problem, too big a hassle, and that eventually Suge would kill the two of them. As frightened of Suge as Jerry was, he was even more afraid of derailing the gravy train they had rolling through Ruthless every month. Suge might have been an intimidating pain in the ass, but he Wasn't worth blowing 10 mil a month for. He talked easy out of murdering him and instead installed a $75,000 security system. And the two of them set about stashing a small arsenal of weapons in and around the office, in their homes, and then began taking different routes to and from work. And this business of the street was serious business. And business for Eazy E was not good in 1992. He didn't know it at the time, but he would soon learn what Cube and Dre learned before before him. That his manager, Jerry Heller, was screwing him financially. He also didn't know that all the women he was messing with would put him in an early grave. Within three years time, Eazy E would be dead from complications of the AIDS virus. But in 1992, Ice Cube was riding high. His first two records were both critical and commercial successes. And his acting career was just starting to get real. Dr. Dre was just getting started with a new protege named Snoop and about to put Death Row on the map. The same way he did with Ruthless, but with less stomp, more groove. And of course, the ever present reality of his surroundings. MC Ren joined the Nation of Islam and worked on his solo debut. And DJ Ella kept working on his production career. A lot had changed since their beginnings back on the streets of Compton. But the one thing that remained the same was the essence of the music they were all making. The music never departed from the reality around them, no matter how much success changed them. They were products of South Central of Compton. And the product they made and sold was the violent, tough street reality they were raised in. One in the same. Their careers may have changed, but the world certainly hadn't changed. The reality of the street followed them everywhere. It was ubiquitous, from the ever present violence. Cube spat in his lyrics on both coasts to the menacing and Unconventional business tactics of Suge Knight, to Dre's abusive and disgusting conflict resolution with Dee Barnes and Eazy, and Wren's ridiculously insensitive remarks on the incident, and finally to Eazy's deadly sickness. It was all a product of where they'd come from. And every single incident and anecdote had in one way or another been represented in their music previously. And in 1992, on the solo records Ice Cube and Dr. Dre were about to release, they both with different styles, would continue to bring that self central reality to middle America. Dr. Dre's the chronic and Ice Cube's the Predator Both did for 1992 what NWA straight outta Compton did for 1988 held up a mirror to the world they lived in. Both records are incredible in different ways. The Chronic, smooth and slick, a party record, a new style. G funk. 1, 2, 3. Into the 4. The predator is as hard and mean as anything Ice Cube or NWA or any rap artist had released before. It stomps itself into white America's pristine living room with its high pile shag and plastic covered furniture, and lays waste to any pretense of racial equality in society. Again, hardcore reality rap. But unlike Ice Cube's raps on Straight Outta Compton, his lyrics on the Predator, released in November of 1992, they're less predictive and more I told you so. April 29th wasn't necessarily a good day for Ice Cube, but it was an important day, as it was for most residents of Compton in South Central Los Angeles. Reckoning time. Citizens glued themselves to their televisions in their homes, at their work, on bar stools, in restaurants. The verdict was coming in any minute. The jury has reached a verdict on all counts except one. We, the jury, in the above entitled action, find the defendant, Lawrence M. Powell, not guilty. The jury find the defendant Timothy E. Wing. Find the defendant Theodore J. The jury, Stacey C. Coon, not guilty. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, are these your verdicts? She'll say you won. She'll say you all not guilty. Unbelievable. The four cops accused of beating and using excessive force against Rodney King were acquitted on all but one charge brought against them. Despite the fact that these same cops were plainly seen beating on and using excessive force against Rodney King on televisions all over the world, through the video recording George Holiday made. And yet, still no justice. People took to the streets almost immediately. Local news reporters descended. The sound of the sirens came from every direction. Helicopters, news helicopters, not ghetto birds, chopping up smog above downtown LA and Crenshaw. People marching Everywhere, hooting, hollering, chants of the police. The boiling point was nearly reached. April 29th. Springtime, but hot. Hot as a. By the time the afternoon rolled around, an officer was attacked at Florence and Normandy in South Central. Then another officer was struck down a block away at 71st and Raymond. The police were outnumbered in the street. From Parker center police headquarters in downtown la, where a small army of uniformed officers were doing all they could to hold off an angry mob outside of the department, Chief Darrell Gates sent the message out to his officers in the street retreat. Once LAPD cleared out of South Central, shit went off. Bricks bounced off of the police cruisers bailing out of the neighborhood. The streets took on a weird, menacing block party type of vibe. And there was an anger, but there was release. It was almost celebratory. Residents had chased away Gates Boogeyman, the LAPD whose harassment South Central residents had left lived under their whole lives. But quickly the mood darkened further. The violence was too real. White motorists commuting home from work through South Central found themselves dodging bricks and baseball bats at intersections, forced to blast through stop signs and red lights to safety. Some weren't so lucky. Ian McCurry, an Army vet who'd just been saved from homelessness by a friend who lived in Watts, was gunned down trying to stop looters from setting fire to a liquor store. Howard Epstein in LA from Northern California on business, was shot in a Hyde park drive by. And when a crowd surrounded his car and announced the dead driver was white, the mob cheered. The coming six days would see over 50 deaths. 25 black, 16 Latino, 8 white, Asian, Indian, covering a wide array of hellish ends. Beatings, stabbings, fires, car crashes, hit and runs, and most of all, shootings, including 10 shootings by the police or National Guard. But today, on April 29, with the local live action news chopper broadcasting from right overhead, the horror peaked in Technicolor with an attack on one man, a trucker, a driver for Transit Allied Concrete. White dude with long heavy metal hair was pulled from his trailer at the corner of Florence and Normandy and thrown into the street. His name, Reginald Denny. Above Denny, a news helicopter was filming everything and broadcasting it live over Los Angeles televisions. Four black men swarmed Denny. One stepped on his neck, another kicked him in the stomach. A third held a five pound oxygenator stolen from another truck nearby and slammed it down onto Denny's head. Denny staggered about on all fours. As he was pulling himself up, another man came up behind him and from two feet away slammed a brick down hard onto Denny's head. Denny collapsed inches from the cab of his truck. The dude who threw the brick laughed at what he'd done, pointed at Denny and did a little victory dance and then posed above his bloody mangled head and flashed gang signs at the cameras in the helicopter above. After that, they lifted Denny's shirt, pulled down his pants and spray painted his genitals black. And it didn't end there. Residents threw bottles at him, rifled through his pockets, kicked him in his head, hit him with a claw hammer. One dude pulled up on a motorcycle with a shotgun and attempted to blast Denny's fuel tank. He missed and the shit shot drove off. Remarkably, Reginald Denny was able to drag himself into his truck and drive away. His skull was fractured in 91 places. It was a brutal attack, vicious and totally avoidable. But again, just like the Rodney King beating, the senseless violence of the la riots in 1992 was not entirely unpredicted. Straight Outta Compton warned us the music N.W.A created and threw into the face of mainstream America was a direct reflection of the reality the group was forced to live in and endure. Just as the violence South Central residents resorted to and inflicted upon anybody who got in their way and wasn't the same color as them was a direct reflection of the reality they were forced to live in and endure under the discriminatory brutality of the lapd. And right now, over on Los Feliz, on the part of the street that ran west towards central la, just under Griffith park, the LAPD were nowhere to be found while a beat up Honda Accord speeded toward the riots at a 60 mile per hour clip. It's driving driver had just been in the studio over in Atwater Village producing a record when the news of the riots came across the television. He grabbed his mc, ducked into his shipbox and beelined it to get a firsthand glimpse of the chaos. He, along with his MC in the passenger seat were giddy with excitement. The police echoing in their heads, beats from their latest session blasting back at them through the tinny stock stereo speakers. This one trading on a zap sample from their self titled 1980 debut. Damn, that sounded dope. The MC in the passenger seat could see the smoke rising up from South Central and as I got closer he could start to smell it. Punch it. Punch it. Zaps. Proto G Funk blasted back at them. The MC was so excited he was gonna piss himself. He said it and grabbed his 9 millimeter from his waistband and started blasting shots out the window and into the sky as they zipped down Los Feliz at Breakneck's. Now the two of them could taste the adrenaline. By the time they made it to Crenshaw and down to 28th, they'd hit gridlock. There were looters everywhere, broken storefront windows, cars on fire, residents rolling down the street with shopping carts filled with stolen goods, cases of beer, bottles of wine and booze, diapers, clothes, food, whatever they could get their hands on. And the driver and the MC were halted in traffic, not going anywhere. Looters were began to shout out the MC in the passenger seat as they moved by, shaking his hand through the passenger side window, bumping fists, exchanging words of encouragement, Black power revolution. Words the MC was well versed in, words he grew up with in his home, whispered in his ear from his mama, from as far back as he could remember. The excitement was almost too much for him, for the driver, his producer too, and they could see through the windshield about a half block away. Tempo recognized Records. The store. It was on fire, but that wasn't stopping residents from rushing in and grabbing arms full of CDs and VHS tapes. Again this the MC and the driver bailed on the car, left it sitting on Crenshaw and beelined it straight for the record store. People did double takes as the MC passed by and once inside Tempo, they both started filling their arms as quickly as they could, and the smoke was intense. Too intense. The MC bailed and made it all out past the sidewalk and back to where they'd left the Hyundai, which thankfully nobody had yet set on fire. But by now he had a small entourage of hip hop fans who'd recognized him in and outside of the looted record store that were gathered around him. Smoke from more cars and trucks that were set ablaze filled the air, jockeying for position with the hovering news helicopters, the sound of sirens and alarms, residents yelling, screaming jubilee and anger all around. Once the squeaking grind of shopping carts on the concrete was ubiquitous, shattered glass and the ever present chant of the police, all of it surrounding the MC in East Coast Export. He took in the reality all around him as he looked up to the South Central sky and thought to himself. Dre and Cube nailed this. Surrounded by the chaos of the LA riots, he then turned his attention to the young hip hop fans who were now surrounding him, holding out copies of his record that they just looted and were asking him to sign his autograph on. He swiped a pen from one of his fans and on the COVID of the CD the fan held up. He signed his name. Tupac Shakur. I'm jake brennan and this is disgrace. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on 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 Ad Free. Plus you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month, weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special awesome audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com membership for details, rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter and Facebook Disgracelandpod and on YouTube@YouTube.com Rocka Rolla He's a bad, Bad Man.

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