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DISGRACELAND
Ol’ Dirty Bastard (Wu-Tang Clan Chapter 8): An Attempted Murder Rap, Bloodthirsty Rottweilers, and Self-Immolation
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Foreign Guys, if you haven't heard me talk about Groons before, you're about to right now. There's a reason I'm talking about Groons. You know, I love Groons. They're a convenient, comprehensive formula packed into a snack pack of gummies to get you through your day. Guys, this is not a multivitamin, a greens gummy or a prebiotic. It's all of these things. And it's all these things at a fraction of the price. And it tastes great. And also, I'm not standing over my counter with green powder flying all over the place in my kitchen trying to make a drink. You know what I'm saying? Groons is a totally different thing. Daily snack pack of gummies because you can't fit the amount of nutrients Groons fits into just one gummy. Plus, I'm telling you, I'm watching what I'm eating these days and I look forward to eating Groons. They taste great. It's a treat with 6 grams of prebiotic fiber, which is three times the amount of dietary fiber compared to the lean greens powders. For context, that's more than two cups of broccoli and it tastes better than broccoli. There's the Groonie Smith apple flavor. Okay, that's my new go to. That's the Grun's fall flavor. I'm here for it. It's only available through October. It's got the same full body benefits that you know and love from Gruens, but this time tastes like you're walking through an apple orchard in a cable knit sweater. Getting those New England vibes, all that warm apple cider. You know, those apple cider donuts. Maybe you're buying a little corn on the cob for later that day. You know what I'm talking about. Gruen's ingredients are backed by over 35,000 research publications. I love Groons. They taste great, they are super convenient and they are chalk filled with healthy benefits. Grab your limited edition Groonie Smith apple Groons, available only through October. Stock up because they will sell out. Get up to 52% off. Use the code. Disgraceland. I can only drink so much coffee. I get to the middle of the afternoon and I need to start powering through ad reads like this or responding to emails or jumping on a zoom and not falling asleep. And I don't want coffee. Coffee reminds me of the morning. I want that afternoon energy. And I get it from five Hour energy. They've got a ton of tasty caffeine flavors, 17 flavors in fact, sour apple 5 hour energy is like a shot of old school New England to wake me up on a sleepy afternoon. It's a little bit sour, just a tad bit sweet and super tasty. And the best part about my 5 hour energy shot is that I'm getting all the caffeine that I'd find in a 12 ounce premium cup of coffee without any sugar and without the sugar. Crash. These two ounce shots are portable and they're ready for me whenever I'm ready. Ready for you as well because I'm not trying to fall asleep on the zooms guys. And I don't want you crashing out mid afternoon either. So find your flavor at five Hour Energy. Watermelon, Strawberry, Banana, the Sour Apple five Hour Energy. My go to whatever you're looking for. Five Hour Energy. They've got a ton to choose from. Give your caffeine a flavor upgrade with 5 hour energy shots. Get yours in store and online at www.5hourenergy.com or Amazon. Today, if you feel like modern music culture doesn't reflect what you care about, then you're not alone. Disgraceland listeners realize that Chasm, the corporate algorithmic studio storytelling machine, keeps trying to sanitize music, stripping out the true crime. Disgraceland exists to take these stories back and now you can wear that rebellion by sporting some of our new merch, long and short sleeve. Just say no to Chasm T shirts, Disgraceland hoodies, and our zombie Elvis Johnny Paycheck approved black trucker hat. Our merch, like our content, is built for the musically obsessed, the self proclaimed discos who know that real music history is dangerous and free. Far cooler than whatever the hell mainstream music culture is serving us up right now. This merch is way cool. I would wear every item in the shop. It's an exclusive and limited run. It's only available until September 30th, so order yours now at shop. Disgraceland.com Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Wu Tang Clan's Old Dirty Bastard are insane. He once saved a four year old girl who was trapped under a Ford Mustang. He took a limo with an MTV News crew to collect his welfare check. He was charged with attempted murder of an NYPD officer chased by bloodthirsty rottweilers shot by men in ski masks. His fame led to an addiction to cocaine and that addiction led to 10 arrests in the span of a few months. He was granted a weekend furlough from a rehab facility, but went AWOL and wound up on the lam as his Cousin. The RZA once said there was no line between life and art for Old Dirty Bastard. And though his increasingly troubled life came to eclipse as art, ODB did make great music. He was Wu Tang's secret weapon, a blend of drunken old school R B and raw gonzo rap, which had very little precedent and which changed hip hop forever. Unlike that clip I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called AFT or Stern MK2. I played you that clip because I can't afford the rights to you Remind Me by Usher. And why would I play you that specific slice of headstand dance cheese? Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on July 18, 2001. And that was the day that Old Dirty Bastard was sent to a maximum security state prison where he was brutally attacked, set on fire and nearly died. On this episode, a Ford Mustang, welfare checks, rottweilers, ski masks, maximum security, and Wu Tang Clan's Old Dirty Bastard I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgrace. Russell Jones, the man the world knew as Old Dirty Bastard, sat at a table in a small room with his mother sitting to his right and his lawyer to his left. On the table, a cluster of media microphones was trained in his direction. On the opposite side of the room, reporters stood next to their video cameras, many of which were already rolling tape. Dirty, AKA Russell here tried to look relaxed. He reclined in his chair, his long sleeved shirt mostly unbuttoned and his hair pulled back in braids. But Durdy was far from relaxed. He scanned the room with an anxious glare as his lawyer read from a prepared statement. As you are well aware, a Kings county grand jury voted yesterday to exonerate Russell Jones of all wrongdoing in relation to an incident alleged to have taken place on January 15, 1999. Clearly, the incident did not take place, as reported by members of the New York City Police Department. Reporters raised their hands. One wanted to know, was he going to file a lawsuit? Yeah, man, he was going to sue the shit out of him. And another reporter asked, was he scared? Was he scared? Would you be scared if you were driving in your Chevy Tahoe, just making your way through Brownsville on your way to your aunt's house in an unmarked police car with two cops from NYPD's Street Crimes Unit? That's the Stop and Frisk Unit with a rock hard boner to eradicate guns from New York streets, by the way, forces you to pull over for no reason at all, the cops jump out of their car with their weapons drawn, yelling at you like a couple of psychos. And so you roll your window down and say, yo, man, don't shoot. It's just me, you old dirty bastard. And you got your cell phone in your hand, not knowing that that cell phone is gonna come back to haunt you later. And you freak out even more because the cops are walking slowly towards your car and you think, nah, you know they're gonna shoot you. And you can't help but think about Biggie and Tupac, both shot in the street just like this, both dead. So you panic, your nerves get the best of you. You hit the gas, man. You just fucking floor it. And those two cops, they do start shooting. Blam, blam, blam. Holy shit. Eight bullets pierced the back of your car. Your heart is racing. And then those two cops lie in their report and say you shot at them first. That the cell phone you held in your hand was not a cell phone, but a gun. And now you're charged with attempted murder of a police officer. Yeah, he's scared. He answered the reporter's stupid question as succinctly as he could. I'm scared like a motherfucker. For 30 years, counting, he'd been getting scared. It happened gradually. Those 30 years had built up to this. To this strange place. He now found himself, simultaneously one of hip hop's biggest names and one of law enforcement's biggest targets. His wild eyes and his fucked up teeth. The way he jumped on the mic like a gonzo biz marquis, half singing like a shit faced R and B crooner and half rapping like the guy who'd been cooped up in a basement for days. To some he was fearless and to others he was unhinged. But Old Dirty Bastard was not Russell Jones. Dirty was a character, a Persona. Being dirty was Russell's job. Dirty was a conduit for all the bad shit that built up inside him. The five Percenters taught you to build, as in add on to your life, as in the eighth supreme number, that the more positive your build is, the more negativity you can push out of your life. But now, in 1999, despite Wu Tang's phenomenal success, for Russell Jones he was building in the wrong direction. There was so much bad shit to deal with that sometimes it felt like he'd be dirty forever. Back in the day, in the 70s, growing up in the Brooklyn Zoo, it wasn't like this. Life back then was more stable, unlike any other member of Wu Tang. Both of Russell's parents lived at home when he was young. They both worked and they both loved music. Marvin, Otis, Aretha, Jimmy, all kinds of R and B and rock and roll. It provided a soundtrack to the Jones household. Russell, or Rusty as he was known then, sang with his sister to entertain party guests. And he made his own music with his cousins Bobby Diggs and Gary Grice, AKA the RZA and the gza, respectively. But when they were watching kung fu movies at the Deuce in Times Square or hustling apples at a fruit stand in Brooklyn, just like RZA and GZA, Russell got himself a 5% name too. Assan unique like a son unique. That's s o n because there was no father to his wild side. But in the mid-1980s, life as Russell knew it changed. His parents split up. The once stable Jones family home wobbled on its foundation. Russell tried to find stability in a new family by marrying his high school sweetheart. But with three young children of their own and money nearly non existent, they were forced to move into a homeless shelter. Then Russell and Bobby started to hustle more than just apples. In 1991, out in Steubenville, Ohio, they thought they could pave a path out of poverty by peddling dope from New York. And they were wrong. Russell's tenure as a dealer was shorter than Bobby's. He was pinched early on into their Midwest venture and returned back East. But not long after that, boondoggle life as Russell knew it changed once again, this time for the better. He changed his name from a song unique to Old Dirty Bastard, taken from a kung fu movie called Old Dirty. And the Bastard Old represented his love of old school music. Dirty was a reflection of his raw gutter poetry. And bastard, well, there remained no direct lineage for his style. For Dirty and the other members of Wu Tang, the group was meant to be a positive build, a lifeline thrown into the sea of despair. They were all drowning in a way to get safely to a prosperous shore. And in many ways it was. But Wu Tang took Russell Jones from the bush leagues to the majors. And if you want to play in the majors, you do what the all stars do not. 40s of Old English, by the way, which was Russell's intoxicant choice up to this point. All stars did cocaine. Cocaine separated the men from the boys. Richard Pryor and Rick James. They did cocaine, that sacred powder which inspired the creative minds of many a genius. Cocaine was meant to make Russell free, to unlock the deepest pockets of his creative well. Instead, it was a lightning rod for all the bad shit Russell doing. Blow was like Russell looking in the mirror and saying, old dirty bastard three times. Sometimes it made him paranoid. Other times it made him hyper, aware that people really were after him. The hardest thing was telling the difference between the two. November 16, 1994. Brooklyn. Late. Dirty looked over his shoulder as he walked down the street alone. The car behind him had been following him for a few blocks. He didn't know who was behind the wheel and he didn't want to know. He just wanted to get away, to break free. He darted into the backyard of a house nearby and hid. He kept very still and the car idled for a moment, and then the engine rumbled and it drove off. Thank God that was over. Then he heard another low rumble, this one coming from just feet away. Three rottweilers stepped out of the shadows, teeth bared, saliva dripping. Dirty was shaking. He spotted a doggie door at the base of the house's back door, and in his altered and panicked state of mind, he surmised that if he could only make it inside the house through that doggy door, then he could get himself to safety. He bolted. He ran faster than he'd ever run in his life, and the dogs gave chase and their jaws nipped at his heels as he dropped to all fours and shuffled his way past the flap and inside. Then the home's owner, awoken by the dog's frantic barking, shrieked as Dirty barrel past her. She picked up her phone and dialed 911 while Dirty bounded up her stairs to the second floor, Rottweilers in hot pursuit upstairs. He made it inside a room and slammed the door shut behind him, and the dogs were scratching at the door with their claws and ramming it with their heads, and Dirty ran to the window and threw open the sash. The cold November air rushed in. He climbed through the window like he just climbed through the doggy door and jumped. He landed on the lawn below and he could still hear the dogs. And then he heard the sirens, the ones the homeowner had just called blue lights. Getting closer was always something. If it wasn't strange people in cars, it was dogs. And if it wasn't dogs, it was cops. Everyone was after him. Everything made him scared. Five years later, in 1999, at the press conference where his lawyer announced that the NYPD were dropping their attempted murder charge, Dirty sense of fear and paranoia reached a fever pitch. Wu Tang, don't be fucking with nobody, so don't fuck with us, he nervously told the room of reporters. And that goes for the FBI to say CIA and all y' all stay off our backs. You guys feel that? That's the summer. It's starting to fade away. It's the fall creeping in with those cooler temps and quints. My go to brand for great fitting, great looking quality clothing. They got me covered with fall staples that are going to freshen up my wardrobe. I'm rocking the European linen chore jacket right now. It's lightweight enough to layer over a flannel, but heavy enough to keep you warm if you're just wearing a T shirt under it. And it looks awesome. The color is cool. It's this martini olive color and you know who doesn't like olives or martinis? Also, I bragged about Quince's Mongolian cashmere crewneck sweater before for a reason because it looks awesome and it's super comfortable. I've already got one in heather gray, but I'm going to nab the black one from Quince very shortly. Perfect for the fall. Quince is my go to, guys. I've been talking about them for months now. They're my go to for durable, classic clothing without the elevated price tag. What makes quints different? Well, they partner directly with ethical factories and skip the middlemen. So you get top tier fabrics and great craftsmanship at half the price of similar brands. So if you want to look like one of those icons we feature here in Disgraceland and not spend a fortune doing so, then keep it classic and cool this fall with long lasting staples from quince. Go to quince.com disgraceland for free shipping on your order and 365 day returns. That's Q U-I-N-C-E.com disgraceland free shipping and 365 day returns quince.com disgraceland hi, I'm Nancy Cartwright.
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You may know me better as the voice of Bart Simpson on Simpsons Declassified. We're diving into the mysteries that keep the Simpsons from forever young. Have you ever wondered how the Simpsons regularly predicts future events? Who better to ask than the show's creators, performers and writers, the celebrity guests? Be sure to follow and listen to Simpsons Declassified wherever you get your podcasts.
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Hi, I'm Kristen Bell, and if you know my husband, Dax, then you also know he loves shopping for a car. Selling a car? Not so much.
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We're really doing this, huh?
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Thankfully, Carvana makes it easy. Answer a few questions, put in your van or license and done. We sold ours in minutes this morning and they'll come pick it up and pay us this afternoon.
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Bye bye, Truckee.
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Of course, we kept the favorite.
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Hello, other Truckee.
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Sell your car with Carvana today. Terms and conditions apply.
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February 1998 Brooklyn. The girl couldn't move. She was pinned beneath the Ford Mustang, the engine running hot against her skin. She smelled gasoline and thought she could hear the sound of flames crackling. She was terrified. She cried out for help. She could hear her mother somewhere nearby screaming, my baby. Where's my baby? And the girl was only four years old, and just seconds prior she was crossing Fulton street when the Mustang came out of nowhere, fast. She had no time to react and the car hit her straight on. She rolled up onto the Mustang's hood and bounced off as if she were weightless. And it all happened so quickly that she wasn't even sure how she ended up like this, lying flat on the pavement in the hulk of burning steel that had just smashed into her now, crushing her like a buck. She didn't know what to do, and she tried to wriggle free, but it was useless. She cried some more, her heart pounding in her throat and the flames getting louder now and the heat searing. And then she heard another voice. Come on, come on. We can lift this car. The voice got closer, and soon she could see about a dozen sets of hands gripping the car and pulling it into the air. And the Mustang rose. She saw a bunch of faces, one face in particular. The face of the man who rallied a group of bystanders on the street to save a four year old stranger seconds away from death. And she knew who he was. Everyone in the neighborhood knew him. He went by many names. Osiris, Dirt McGirt, Big Baby Jesus a San Unique. His mom called him Rusty. But to this little girl, he was a hero. The story of how old Dirty Bastard saved a girl trapped under a car is the stuff of legend, but it is also 100% true. After all, as Dirty himself once succinctly simply put it, Wu Tang is for the children. And that random act of kindness wasn't so random to Dirty's neighborhood. To most, he was already a local hero. He was a hero because he didn't let the success of Wu Tang go to his head. He stayed humble and down to earth. He gave money to strangers on the street. He paid for people's groceries at the bodega if they were short on change. He bought his mom a house and gave his dad money for a down payment. Yet despite all that, not everyone saw him as a positive force. In 1994, ODB became the most famous Abuser of the welfare system at a time when US President Bill Clinton was pushing for massive welfare reform. After dirty received a $45,000 advance from Elektra Records for his first solo album, return to the 36 chambers, the dirty version, Dirty had an MTV crew follow him as he took a limo to pick up and cash his $375 welfare check. The loophole, of course, was that he had yet to file his taxes and was still collecting welfare based on pre fame income. You know how hard it is for people to live with nothing. Dirty ass. During the MTV news segment, you owe me 40 acres and a mule. Anyway, for real. I'm in this rap game to get money. I got babies. It's time to take care of my babies. I didn't think it would work, but it worked. And we got food stamps. Slick Willie Bubba. Bill Clinton called for welfare overhaul. But Dirty was slicker. He used his welfare card as the COVID art of his solo debut, which sold 81,000 copies in its first week and peaked at number seven on the Billboard 200. My man's living it, RZA told Rolling Stone magazine when asked about the realness of his cousin. There's no line between art and life for him. But soon the art took a back seat to the life. At first, the arrests were minor but plentiful. Petty larceny, bar fights. Then in 1998, the same year he saved the four year old girl, he was charged with second degree harassment of his wife, endangering the welfare of their children and failing to pay child support. He threatened to kill members of security at the House of Blues in LA after he caused a disturbance and was asked to leave. The next year, in 1999, he was pulled over in his Range Rover, arrested for three vials of crack. And two months later, deja vu. Another traffic stop, another stash of cracks seized by police. And two months after that, he was stopped again after he ran a red light in a red convertible Mercedes. Cops searched the car, finding 20 glassine envelopes with more than 500 milligrams of cocaine powder. Possession with intent to sell. These are merely a few examples of his many transgressions. All in all, Durdy was arrested 10 times in the span of a few months. In November of 1999, he was sentenced for crimes he committed in California, which included the House of Blues incident, as well as for wearing a bulletproof vest, which under California law was illegal for, quote, unquote, violent felons. He got three years probation, a $500 fine and 12 months in rehab. Durdy's illegal extracurricular activities cut into his time with Wu Tang. And when the group's third album, the W, dropped in 2000, ODB was featured on just one song. He did manage to appear at a Wu Tang show in New York City that same year, thanks to a weekend furlough granted by his California rehab facility. The show was a big deal. It was the first time in three years that all members of Wu Tang had appeared on stage together. RZA made sure the crowd knew what they were seeing. History. But even historical moments such as those were fleeting. As soon as the show ended, the group splintered apart yet again. Dirty, however, didn't go where he was supposed to. He didn't honor the terms of his furlough and head back to California and back to rehab. Instead, ODB went awol. He walked right out of the Hammerstein Ballroom, right past security, past nypd, past the minders from out west who were supposed to be monitoring him. Dirty was gone. From Manhattan he went to the Bronx. And from the Bronx he went to Jersey. From a safe house in Wollenborough to a home in Florence, Riebling on the Pennsylvania border, surrounded by trees where bird song was carried on the wind. It was peaceful. But Dirty couldn't chill. Not even here, not even out in the woods. He thought about the people who were surely looking for him. Cops, doctors. He thought about other times when he thought he was safe. Like that time just a year ago when he was violently woken up from a deep sleep by men in ski masks who had broken into the house he was staying in. They shoved a gun in his face and took his jewelry. And then they shot him. Point blank. He could still see their eyes peering out from the holes in the mask. But it wasn't just their eyes. He had the eyes of the whole world on him, bearing down like a 2 ton Ford Mustang, crushing him, searing into his flesh, into his very soul. If it wasn't strangers in cars or thieves with ski masts or dogs or cops, it was trees. The fucking trees. So he went back on the road. Not with Wu Tang, but with some friends who were picking up a car across the Delaware in Philly. The city made him more nervous than he expected. His senses were heightened, especially his sense of danger. As soon as they got there, he regretted it. He wanted to be back in the middle of nowhere, back in the New Jersey boonies. His friend said, nah, man, you wanted to come with, you gotta wait for us to do our thing. But Dirty was insistent. Something was off. Filly wasn't right. They had to go back now. So they did. They were almost to the Walt Whitman Bridge when Dirty told him to stop the car. He had to piss and couldn't wait. And they pulled over at a McDonald's and Dirty went inside, hit the head, came out stomach rumbling. Filet o fish sounded real good right about now. He looked up at the menu and he lingered for too long. Oh shit. Is that old Dirty bastard fuck? Some kid in lied made him. But this wasn't the neighborhood in Brooklyn where Dirty was a hero. This was Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where he was a feudal fugitive. So time to go. Get in the car, get across the bridge, hide out with the birds in the trees. But Dirty wasn't fast enough. Philadelphia PD was faster. They rolled up, two cars blocking the car Dirty was in before it could even leave the parking lot. And he couldn't move. He needed someone to come along and save him like he had saved that little girl. But no one was coming. It was Dirty against the world. The world was winning. We'll be right back after this.
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This episode is brought to you by FXX and Hulu. An all new season of Futurama is back. Blending heartfelt moments with razor sharp humor while accidentally saving the day. The Planet Express crew is back, defying gravity and common sense. From the creator of The Simpsons comes 10 new episodes where the romance is hotter, the threats are bigger and the action hits harder. Don't miss the all new season of Futurama. Watch it Mondays on FXX or streaming on Hulu.
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There wasn't much that the RZA wouldn't do for his cousin, Old Dirty Bastard. From the jump, they had a special bond. They cut school to catch kung flu flicks at the Deuce. They stood lookout for each other while applying a five finger discount at stores on Staten Island. And they beatboxed and rhymed on mixed tapes along with their other cousin, the Jizza. From Brooklyn to Steubenville to Shaolin, from the humiliating depths of poverty to the upper echelons of popular culture, Dirty scared some people, but RZA knew the dude was just eccentric. RZA loved Dirty like a brother. RZA had Dirty's back. So when Dirty called RZA from a prison and said, yo, man, you gotta come up here. They're gonna kill me, man. You gotta come up here now and break me out of this place, RZA seriously contemplated it for a moment. For real. RZA played out a jailbreak in his mind. The ins, the outs, the what ifs. Of course, it was a crazy idea, a stupid idea. RZA put that kind of criminal behavior behind him long ago. But he could hear pure fear and desperation in Durdy's voice. The fear was as raw as Dirty's libidinous mind when he held a mic. RZA wanted to help somehow, so he brought attention to Durdy's plight with a note on Wu Tang's website. Old Dirty Bastard fears his life is in jeopardy and that a conspiracy is in effect to kill him. These concerns have been presented to the DA and prison officials have been alerted to the threat to his life. None of these state officials have given any reports regard to this matter. If something happens while ODB is in the custody of these officials, his family, his 13 children, and Wu Tang will seek full retribution in a civil resolution. It was the summer of 2001. Durdy was in Dannemora, aka Clinton Correctional Facility, aka Little Siberia, so named for the prison's cold and remote location some 300 miles north of the city. Little Siberia was Old Dirty Bastard's new maximum security home for the next two to four years. Two to four was better than eight, which is the number of years he originally faced for his laundry list of offenses, including the 20 glassine envelopes of coke he was busted with after he was nabbed in Philadelphia. While on the lam from rehab, Durdy copped a plea deal and got a reduced sentence. Like a number, though, would make a difference. 2, 4, 8. Didn't matter. He knew he'd be lucky to last one year in this place. Little Siberia was no safer than life on the outside. It was more of the same. More paranoia, more terror. But now just concentrated. Dirty was that rare breed of inmate, not just a target. He was a hip hop megastar who thought he was actually a thug. An art imitates life kinda dude. And that was fucking rich. Just as rich as he was. Look at this welfare wannabe fuck mugging for the cameras while collecting a state check and a stretch job. He didn't know the first thing about thug life. Real thug life. Little Siberia would show him. Little Siberia was hell. Little Siberia was worse than hell. This was worse than getting shot at by the nypd. Worse than getting clipped by crazy fuckers in ski masks or chased by bloodthirsty rottweilers. Dannemora wanted what Dirty had. Money, clout, fame. Every hardened inmate wanted to be the one who out crazied Wu Tang's craziest member. The one who put him and his smirking punk ass in his place. The attacks were routine and they were violent and quick. The guards turned a blind eye. Paid off. Or simply beyond caring one. It made Smash Dirty's face bloody with a telephone receiver. Some other dudes pounced on him when he wasn't looking, fucked him up real good and then snapped his leg in half. And when he wasn't getting beat down, he was getting threatened to get beat down. They told him not to close his eyes at night because if he fell asleep they were gonna set his bunk on fire and burn him alive. Dirty was terrified. Things were spiraling out of control. He was at the mercy of prison gangs, the most violent human beings he'd ever encountered in his life. Mercy wasn't even in their lexicon. He needed to do something if he was going to survive. He needed to get himself as far away from everyone else as he possibly could. He wouldn't let them have the satisfaction. He needed to take control. So Old Dirty Bastard lit himself on fire. The stunt got him immediately pulled from the general population, which was exactly what he wanted. But this stunt classified him as mentally unstable. Prison staff put him on Haldol, an antipsychotic medication used to treat schizophrenia. And he gained weight and he had a hard time walking. His movements were labored and clunky and his jaw clenched shut on its own. He was catatonic, a shell of his former self wrapped in an expanding husk. And when he was finally released from prison after nearly two years on the inside, Old Dirty Bastard had changed. And so Too had the. May 1, 2003, was the day Dirty became a free man again. He'd spent 18 months at Little Siberia, followed by another three months at the Manhattan Psychiatric Center. And now it was time to start over, start fresh. It was time, as the 5% elders would say, to work on his build. Let the positive push out the negative. But he faced this challenge in a city that no longer looked the same. The twin towers of the World Trade center had been reduced to rubble. Run DMC's Jam Master Jay had been shot dead in his studio in Queens. The New York Police Department street Crimes unit, the one that accused Durdy of attempted murder in 1999, had been dismantled and Dirty's group, Wu Tang Clan, had moved on without him. In December of 2001, when Dirty was doing time at Dannemora, Wu Tang released their fourth studio album, Iron Flag. It was the first Wu Tang record that didn't feature old Dirty Bastard at all. Also absent for the most part was Capodanna, who by this point was seen by some in the group as traitorous following his association with Michael Caruso, the so called Al Capone of Rays turned personal manager who had been secretly acting as an informant for the federal government. Iron Flag, though received positively by many critics and certified gold a little over a month after its release, did not do as well on the charts as previous Wu Tang albums. It debuted at only number 32 on the billboard,227 spots lower than the W had placed one year prior. Dirty wasn't worried about the charts or about Wu Tang. Dirty was just worried about himself, his build. Dirty needed to protect his neck. He needed to make it. He'd already made it through an extremely traumatizing nearly two year prison term. Just barely. But he did so in theory. That meant he could make it through anything. Money helped. Money talked. Rza offered up 500k, a place to crash, and a studio to start making music again. But Jay Z's label talked louder. Roc A Fella Records offered one million bucks for Dirty to sign on the dotted line. In order to sign with Roc A Fella, however, Dirty had to be let go of his contractual obligations with RZA and Wu Tang Productions. RZA didn't want to let Dirty go. RZA didn't want to let any of them go. But one by one, Ray, meth, ghost, deck, youGod, master killa, they all came to RZA and asked to be set free. All except Jizza, who did handshakes and not ink on paper. But I digress they didn't want out of the group. Wu Tang was forever. Wu Tang would always be there, and they would all come back to it, back to Shaolin in one way or another. No matter how big their egos got or how crazy their solo careers became. What they wanted was to get out of their contracts. The 5050 contracts they'd signed with RZA way back in 1993 as part of Wu Tang's groundbreaking deal with Loud Records. RZA's brother and business partner, Divine really didn't want to let anyone walk. To Divine, this wasn't a personal matter. Put your love in your back pocket, he allegedly told Ghostface. This is business. And in business terms, letting all these guys leave would go down as the worst move in Hip Hop history. He didn't just let $40 million waltz out the door, but in the RZA's eyes, it was personal. As he later explained, he didn't think it was fair to keep his brothers in bondage if they wanted to be free. Their freedom meant more to him than the bottom line. Now, it wasn't that simple. And that beautiful rza, of course, is a brilliant businessman, as he is a brilliant producer, an emcee and wrangler of personalities. Many Wu Tang members have said that they had to fight RZA and Divine to get free. And there's a sense that RZA's Kumbaya narrative was constructed after the fact. Regardless, though, everyone got what they wanted. They were free and dirty. Even got his Roc A Fella deal. For fans, it seemed like it was the beginning of the end. The dissolution of hip hop's greatest dynasty. But non fans of the group, and I'm talking specifically about the nypd, the atf, the FBI, the collective of law enforcement agencies that have been trying to mount a rico, probably prosecution against Wu Tang for years. They all knew this wasn't the end. The law wasn't that naive. They'd seen mafia families splinter apart exactly like this. It never stemmed the tide of crime. It merely made more waves. Violent clashes for power that painted New York streets with blood. Corruption beget more corruption. So the FBI didn't let up. Their file on the Wu Tang got larger and their list of COs got longer. They kept watching, kept waiting, knowing that at any moment, something would happen to blow their case wide open. I'm Jake Brennan and this episode of Disgraceland is to be continued. 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 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 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 GracelandPod and on YouTube@YouTube.com DisgracelandPod Rocka Rolla He's a bad, bad man.
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This episode is brought to you by ESPN. Catch the first WWE premium live event on ESPN, Russell Palooza live on Saturday, September 20th at 7:00pm Eastern Time. It's going to be an epic night in Indianapolis featuring some of the biggest WWE Superstars. This event is only on ESPN, so go to stream.espn.com and sign up to the ESPN app today for your all access pass to Russell Palooza and all WWE Premium Live events.
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