The Pied Piper of Hip Hop
by Steven Hager
EPUB ISBN 978-1-4659-5243-1
copyright 2012 by Steven Hager
Published by Steven Hager at Smashwords
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Never one to let Black History Month slip by without commemoration, Afrika Bambaataa held his third annual party celebrating the occasion of February 25, 1982. As usual, the festivities were staged at the Bronx River Community Center, a squat, fortress-like structure located in the heart of the southeast Bronx. An impressive list of the most famous rappers, DJs and MC groups in the Bronx, including Kool Herc, Grandmaster Flash, the Treacherous Three, Grandwizzard Theodore, and the Cold Crush Brothers, had promised to drop by and perform. The concert was free and, like most rap music extravaganzas, it was expected to be a loose, informal, and unpredictable affair. For this reason, few audience members would have been surprised if many of the advertised performers failed to appear—which, in fact, is exactly what happened.
Around noon, a sound system was installed in the center's gymnasium and a few hours later dance-music began blasting out of a pair of five-foot speaker columns. Almost immediately, a smattering of young black males began drifting into the gym, most of whom lounged against the back wall and stared at the stage.
It would be difficult to designate a precise moment when the concert officially "began." It's fairly easy, however, to pinpoint the moment the concert first stopped. That happened at 7:15, shortly after a gun fight broke out just outside the center's main entrance.
The shots sounded surprisingly innocuous—"like a string of firecrackers," said one observer—and most of the audience never heard them because they were dancing to "I Want You Back" by the Jackson Five. It didn't take long, however, for news of the fight to reach every corner of the gym, causing the crowd to grow restless and uneasy. The mere sight of a revolver at an event like this usually was enough to send everyone stampeding for the exits, in which case the show would be over.
No one knew exactly what had happened, but a lot of wild rumors were spreading. Everyone's worst fears seemed to be confirmed when a housing cop, the sole representative of adult authority, reached behind a stack of records, retrieved an automatic rifle, and ran out the back door. The music stopped and the overhead lights came on. Squinting from the sudden brightness, the audience drifted aimlessly around the room. "Yo, man, what's goin' on outside?" someone in the crowd shouted towards the stage.
The barrel-chested Bambaataa stood stoically behind the turntables, a set of earphones turned askew on his head, the expression on his face vacillating between concern, anger, and disappointment. He noticed a group edging aggressively toward the main entrance and picked up the microphone. "Where you goin'" he asked, his authoritative voice booming over the sound system. "There ain't nothin' goin' on out there."
Bambaataa paused and then addressed the whole audience. "No violence....no violence....no violence," he said evenly, calmly, his voice having a prounounced effect on the more skittish ones in the group. He set the needle on a James Brown record and let it play a few seconds before abruptly lifting it. A few members of the audience—the hardcore dancers—moaned. "You like that?" taunted Bambaataa. "Music. That's what I'm talkin' about." He put the needle back on the record and let it play. The lights went out and the crowd began to dance. Apparently, no one outside was hurt, and the dispute was moved out of the area.
An hour later, the collective moment of panic was forgotten and the gym was filled with several hundred happy, sweating, undulating bodies. The stage, already jammed with equipment, had also become crammed with people, some of whom were waiting to perform, most of whom were just trying to get as close to the action as possible. Periodically, Bambaataa ordered the stage cleared, in which case his security forces would halfheartedly usher a few off the stage. "You can come back later but you have to get off now," said Smitty, head of security, while ejecting them.
Finally, the rapping segment of the show began when Bizzy Bee Starski, the rap equivalent of a lead-off batter, grabbed the microphone and cut a wide swath through the crowd as he pranced across the stage. The dancers, many of whom were dressed in hoodies, leather bomber jackets, basketball sneakers, and jeans, pressed closer to the stage.
"Everybody who likes sex throw your hands in the air!" screamed Bizzy Bee. The audience threw up its hands and roared in approval. With his double-knit slacks and clunky black shoes and impeccable grooming, Bizzy looked a bit out-of-place here, but he was obviously a crowd favorite. Bizzy Bee had already won top-awards for solo rapping two years in a row at the famous Harlem World showdowns. He was among one of the first rappers in the Bronx, and he'd already had years of experience pumping up crowds.
"What's the name of this nation?!!" shouted Bizzy Bee, his wiry body quivering with energy. "Zulu!! Zulu!!" chanted the crowd. "And who's gonna get on down?!" asked Bizzy with a smile.
"Bambaataa!! Bambaataa!!"
Li'l Vietnam
Afrika Bambaataa, founder and number one DJ of the mighty Zulu Nation, grew up at the Bronx River Project, which is situated near the intersection of the Cross Bronx and Bronx River expressways and looks like every other low-income housing project in the city, a cluster of unadorned, 15-story brick buildings circling two small playgrounds. Unlike the nearby South Bronx, the neighborhood survived the '60s relatively intact with few buildings abandoned. The surrounding community is filled with row after row of identical, two-story brick houses, most of which have tiny concrete yards, framed by cast-iron fences. It looks quiet here but this neighborhood once had a reputation for violence that was unequaled in New York.
It all started in 1968 at the nearby Bronxdale Project when seven incorrigible teenagers, who were terrorizing playgrounds, robbing bus drivers, and wreaking havoc throughout the southeast Bronx, began calling themselves the Savage Seven. In imitation of Hell's Angels, they began wearing Levi jackets with a gang-like insignia emblazoned on the back. Before long, others wanted to join and the name had to be changed to the Black Spades. The group was then an official street gang, one of the first to appear since the late '50s, when the widespread use of heroin demolished what was left of the original gangs.