DISGRACELAND - Raekwon (Wu-Tang Clan Chapter 2): Dealing Crack, Caught in the Crossfire, and the NYPD Goes TNT

Episode Date: September 7, 2023

Corey Woods, aka Raekwon, was addicted to the styles, sounds, and crimes of hip-hop street culture in the 1980s. He sold weed, coke, and later crack to fund his expensive taste in clothes and parties. But that life wasn’t all glamor. He was shot four times and nearly killed when he was caught in the crossfire. And times were changing. The NYPD launched a street-level anti-drug task force to target low-level dealers – dealers like Raekwon, who found life as he knew it was about to suddenly change.To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com. To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist, they take matters into their own hands. I vowed, I will be his last target. He is not going to get away with this. He's going to get what he deserves. We always say that trust your girlfriends. Listen to the girlfriends.

Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When like young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that.

David O'Yellowo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things, Tana Monsu, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Movies can make you feel, make you dream. Sometimes they even make you appreciate architecture. Is there anybody who's been hotter in a doorway than Elizabeth Taylor? That's the kind of analysis you'll find every week on Dear Movies I Love You, the new podcast from the Exactly Right Network. Every Tuesday, we break down the films we're crushing on, from blockbusters to deep cuts. Listen to Dear Movies I Love You on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis.

The stories about Wu-Tang Clan's Rayquan are insane. As a child in New York City, he saw dead bodies hanging from street. poles, their throat slid open. His own father was reportedly stabbed to death. As a teenager, he was addicted to the style, sounds, and crimes of hip-hop street culture. He stole gold chains and nightclubs. He sold weed and cocaine and later became a successful crack dealer. He was shot four times and nearly killed when he found himself caught in the crossfire. And this is all before Rayquan made great music. Cooking up undeniably great rhymes with the legendary Woutang Clan.

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 Atomic Frog NK2. I played you that clip because I can't afford the rights to Never Gonna Give You Up by Rick Astley. Why would I play you that specific slice of Rick Rollin' Cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on March 14, 1988. And that was the day that the NYPD launched a street-level anti-drug task force that targeted low-level dealers, dealers like Rayquan,

who found life as he knew it was suddenly about to change. On this episode, dead bodies, stealing gold chains, dealing crack, a near-deadly shooting, and Wu-Tang Clan's Rayquan. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. They were packed inside the club, dancing to the music. Everything the DJ was spinning was pretty fucking incredible. Big Daddy Kane, Salt and Pepper, Heavy D in the Boys. The records on the turntables made you want to dance all night.

But to maintain stamina, to keep moving, a body needed a little something extra. Drugs were fuel, the tiger in your tank. Blunts, cocaine, or for the efficient user, there were wool joints. That's blunts with cocaine. Corey Woods, the teenage kid the world would later know as Rayquan. He was good with drugs. The young Rayquan, aka young Corey here, he didn't say no when a joint his lips or a line ran past his nose, but that wasn't the reason that he was here.

The club was the thing, the music, the style, the fashion. That's what Corey was addicted to, not the drugs. Bugle Boys, Tommy Hill Figure, Ocean Pacific, and Converse, gold chains, flat-top fades, velour suits, and Yankees caps. And that was just the guys. The women. Jesus. The women.

Fine. F-I-N-E-Sex on Fuego. Corey couldn't get enough. Barely 18 years old, and already it felt like he discovered the meaning of life itself. To get dressed up, to roll with your crew. out to Union Square, the nightclub on West 14th on a Saturday night, to be fresh. In the late 1980s, at night, Union Square was packed, it pulsed with electricity. For Corey Woods, it was the most exhilarating place you could be.

And part of that exhilaration was the palpable sense of imminent danger. Danger was its own intoxicant. If you wore one of those flag-gold chains around your neck, you'd better be ready to fight for it. Someone else was always gunning for your shit, like that jerk off over there. Nose bloody, chain long gone, hard lesson incoming. The danger didn't end when the club let out. It got worse. In Brownsville, Brooklyn, where Corey grew up, there were more bodies.

And these bodies, however, were different. These bodies didn't buggy down like they did at Union Square. These bodies didn't move at all. They hung from lamp posts. Tongues dangling, fat and swollen from their lips. And they were sprawled out on sidewalks. Their throats cut, oozing blood. These bodies were cautionary tales.

Corey's own father was one of those bodies. Or so, Corey was told. Just like he was told that his dad had OD'd, or that he was rotting away in some jail cell. Thousands of deadbeat dads in New York were at the center of stories just like those. But in reality, Corey's father caught the shodding. sharp end of a long blade. You lived that street life long enough, and that street life is bound to catch up with you.

Corey never knew his dad, but he knew he didn't want to become his dad, just another body on the street, and that was easier said than done. Even on Staten Island, where Corey's mom eventually moved their family, you had the crack game led by a Jamaican crew from Brooklyn that had recently muscled their way into the neighborhood, and you had mom's latest boyfriend, some asshole who left her bruised. and bloodied after another one of their explosive arguments. But while temptation and corruption lurked around every corner, there were some positive things to focus on.

Not a boring part-time job at the A&P. I'm talking run DMC, beat street, crush groove. I'm talking hip-hop, listening to it, watching it, making it, beatboxing and freestyling to pass the time and then on to writing his own rhymes when it felt like choreos. something unique to say. And when he wasn't saying it, he was spraying it, cans of paint shaken up to a B-boy rhythm, graffiti tagging the broke-down canvas of the streets.

Mostly, though, Corey was occupied by his pursuit of style. He had flavor for days. But flavor, style, impeccable taste, it ain't cheap. A dope pair of pants and a nice pair of shoes, that shit's going to cost you. But more than the kind of money and minimum wage job bagging. groceries that the A&P is going to provide. So, if you wanted a chain like the ones he saw dudes wearing in the club, Corey was going to have to take that chain.

And the easiest way to do that was to find an easy mark. Some dummy out on the dance floor or thought he was hot shit because he was wearing hot shit. But, and this is the important part, the dummy out on the dance floor could not be rolling with a crew that had his back. You and your boys dance over in his general direction. You get close, you make like you don't even notice a dude, and then bam, you rip the gold dangling from his neck. When he goes on the defensive, when he puffs his chest out, it's like, what the fuck, give me back my shit. That's in the other dudes in your crew, the biggest dudes, close in on him and convince him to get lost.

Or else. Sometimes, it wasn't even that complicated. Sometimes it was straight up cold-blooded, like, yo, you, take off your fucking shoes. Take them off. What did you say? How are you supposed to get home with no shoes? That sounds like a you problem. Now give me your fucking kicks.

Problems were everywhere, just like the bodies. Problems were around every corner. Growing up in the projects, Corey was surrounded by dealers and users. Guys who kept the piece under their shirts. Guys who did real time. Taking the next evolutionary step in crime from robbing people to selling them dope

seemed not only like a smart move business-wise for Corey, but for a kid like him from the Staten Island projects, seemed like the only move. Small time at first. Buy an eight ball of cocaine or an ounce of weed and break it down into smaller portions and sell the little baggies at a profit. And just be careful where you sell it. On Staten Island, the Jamaicans cornered the market on crack and everything else.

To challenge a crew that powerful and that feared would be like walking up to the biggest dude in the club all by yourself and demanding he give up that gold chain right off of his neck. and that was most definitely not wise. That was how you ended up, just another body on the street. There's two golden rules that any man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl.

You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And rule two, never mess with her friends either. We always say that trust your girlfriends. I'm Anna Sinfield. And in this new season of The Girlfriends, Oh my God, this is the same man. A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist. I felt like I got hit by a truck.

I thought, how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care. So they take matters into their own hands. I said, oh, hell no. I vowed. I will be his last target. He's going to get what he deserves. Listen to the Girlfriends. Trust me, babe.

On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast. This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When, like, young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever, my first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do?

Rather be disappointed in. Do that. Dennis Leary. I wake up and I'm hitting him in the head with a water bomb. And Bruce Jenner is on the aisle in a karate stance, like he's about to attack me, like, making karate noises. And his entire, the Kardashian family over there,

everybody's going, and the air marshal is trying to grab my arms and screaming. I immediately know that I've been asleep walking. David O'Yellowo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Guy Branham. So anyway, Nicole Kidman broke up with Keith Urban. Being half of a country couple was always a hat she was going to wear, not like a life she was going to lead.

Oh, interesting. I like that. Did you practice that on your way over? Gayton Madarazzo from Stranger Things. Zana Monsu. Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the Iheart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Remember when you'd walk into your local video rental place

and there were always those two employees behind the counter arguing about movies? Well, that's us. I'm Millie de Cherico. And I'm Casey O'Brien. And now we're arguing about movies on our podcast, Dear Movies I Love You from the Exactly Right Network. Can I say something about the Criterion Clause? Go ahead, dude.

They're letting too many people in there. Okay, that's another film grape I got two. Sadly, that rental place doesn't exist anymore. It's probably a store that sells, running shoes. Or an ice cream shop with an extra pee and an E at the end. So consider us your slacker movie clerks in podcast form. I would like to establish a timeline of the moment you figured out who Channing Tatum was. Every Tuesday, we dig into the movies we can't stop obsessing over it.

From hidden gems to big screen favorites. New episodes drop every week on the exactly right network. Listen to Dear Movies I Love You on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever. you get your podcasts. His ears were ringing. A blinding high-pitch hum cut through his skull. He pulled himself from the floor and clung to the railing on the stairs. He started to climb.

Each step harder than the last. Jesus, his legs, his legs hurt. His legs felt like they were on fire. He could hardly breathe. He stopped. Chill, man. Chill out. Catch your breath.

He pulled up his left pant leg and looked down. Two holes. Flesh ripped apart. Blood everywhere. Bullets went in. Bullets went out. Now he pulled up the right pant leg. Deja vu.

Two more bullet holes in and out. He made it to the second floor, dragged himself to the apartment door, banged hard with his fist, and his little sister answered. She looked at her brother bleeding and limping, thought about the noises she'd just heard, and put two and two together.

His mother didn't say anything. Just gave him that look. He knew that look. He hated that look. She maintained that look and dialed 911. Corey Woods didn't live here anymore. His lifestyle didn't suit his mom's strict rules. She told him that even though he was 18, he could live with her as long as he liked.

He just had to be home by 9.30 every night. That was a deal breaker, especially for a guy in his line of work. Cream. Cash. dollar bills, y'all. He made a lot of that money well beyond 930 every night. At this time, in the late 80s, Corey and his crew were selling $700 of crack a night out of an apartment clubhouse on Staten Island. $700 on a decent night. On Friday nights, when the clientele had paychecks burning holes in their pockets, they made even more, because that's who was buying,

not strung out junkies. People with steady jobs and steady incomes who just so happened to smoke some crack on the side. Corey called the clubhouse a quote, crack country club, unquote. Just like he had great taste in clothes and style, Corey had great taste in drunks. And the shit wasn't synthetic like some of the cheaper rock you'd find

from other dealers in the city. This was Peruvian White, bought by the quarter kilo and cooked up in the kitchen. You could even call Corey a chef. Word, get around. The clubhouse filled up on evenings. Not unlike the Union Square. a nightclub, bodies handing over cash and then hanging around like it was a VFW hall, but instead

of playing bingo, they were smoking crack and getting high. But when it got that packed inside, Corey wore a gas mask to keep all the smoke out of his lungs. Because if you're the guy holding all the money and all the product, can't risk getting high in a room full of crackheads. Even these crackheads, a fiends, a fiend, give him an inch and they take a mile every time. Corey was on alert. He was careful. He read the room, read the hallway, read the whole building, not just the users. There was another dealer living in this place. A dealer connected to the Jamaican crew. The crew you didn't mess with. Technically, Corey wasn't selling on this guy's turf. It was the other way around. This dealer wanted in on Corey's action. The dealer had a kid run interference in the vestibule in the hallway and plucked buyers before they reached the clubhouse where Corey was stealing.

Now, Corey carried a piece. Most dudes running drugs, they did. They carried guns. It was part of the gig. But most dudes weren't like Corey. Most dudes couldn't wait for an excuse to pull a Glock from their belt and start shooting. Corey wasn't that stupid, especially when he came to other dealers sweating his crew.

And definitely when those dealers were connected to bigger and batter operations. What was he going to do about this other dude selling in his building? go all sunny Corleone on the competition? He knew how that movie ended. Corey was smarter than that. Unlike one of his guys who did put some bullets into that kid's car, the kid who was running interference for the dealer connected to the Jamaicans. One of Corey's guys shot up the car while the kid was in it,

and not just a kid, but also the kid's girl and their baby. Said it was a warning to stop stepping on their business. You want to bed if that warning got passed along? It didn't. And Corey was furious. This was the worst part about working with other people, having to take the heat for someone else's bullshit. Now, Corey had to live every minute of every day fearing retaliation, fearing that the Jamaicans would not hesitate to put a bullet in his head.

And that kind of fear doesn't go away. It becomes part of you. You live with it, just like you live with a nose that breeze air or a dick that swings between your legs. You try to be relaxed in any given situation, but you can't. Being relaxed never comes naturally again. Even just chilling with some friends on the corner shooting the shit, minding your own business, is an exercise in being prepared. Corey and his friends stopped talking to watch that the guy step out of his car.

Corey knew what was about to happen. He could feel it. Dude was seconds away from flashing his piece. And this guy was no stranger. He had beef with one of Corey's friends, a friend who was standing next to Corey on the street corner. And this wasn't Corey's beef. Didn't matter.

Beef didn't discriminate. Beef didn't adjust its intensity or trajectory in order to minimize collateral damage. Catching bullets is all about proximity. So Corey had to get lost. He leapt to his feet. He ran, fast. He heard gunshots erupt behind him like firecrackers. He fled into the lobby of the nearby apartment building,

which just so happened to be his mother's apartment building. And though it was no longer his home, He thought he was safe here. He was wrong. His friend was the first one to follow him inside. Dude's gun was jammed. He struggled to unjam it. Corey panicked.

And the other guy came in fast through the front door. Glock in his hand, 22 shot clip. He started shooting shot after shot after shot. Corey had the floor. The sound of bullets pinged around the lobby. They whizzed over his head as he crawled toward the stairs. Stairs that were so close, but when he grew caught in the middle of a gunfight and time slows to a crawl, the same crawl you were physically making across a dirty lobby floor,

the stairs are also so far away. The lobby filled with smoke, and that ringing, that blinding, high-pitched hum, it had begun to rattle in Corey's skull. And there were other things rattling around in there, too. Memories, bodies hanging from poles, his father bleeding out from a knife wound somewhere, Jamaican drug dealers looking to even the score,

and then he was all over. The shooting stopped. The guy with the Glock was gone, and the smoke began to clear. And that's when Corey felt it, first in one leg and then in the other. Like someone was holding a torch to his skin, searing sick to your stomach pain. Corey had been shot twice in his right thigh. Both of those bullets missed bones and major arteries. And of the two bullets that hit his left leg, one shattered a big chunk of bone just beneath his kneecap.

Surgeons had to cut through a lot of cartilage to repair the damage. and they told him he'd never walked the same again. But still, despite the fact that Corey had been shot twice in each leg, despite the permanent damage his injuries would leave behind, despite a year-long recovery period that found him laid up in the one place he never thought he'd returned to, his mom's apartment, Corey, was lucky. But he was also reflective.

He had a lot of time to think about his legs, about his girlfriend who saw the shooting as a wake-up call and left him. about how all of it, the drugs, the hustling, the drama, all of it depressed, the hell out of him. All this reflection made him crave something else, some meaning, some purpose. He found meaning from the guys who had it worse than him. Guys in the neighborhood who had done hard time were trying to sort out the rest of their lives. Those older guys let the teachings of the 5% nation do the sorting. One of the ways in which the 5% nation helped you find your way,

was to give you a new identity. All five percenters changed their names. Corey chose young God Allah, young God for short. He looked to the supreme numbers for clarity, for knowledge and wisdom, act upon what you know. Corey knew that he couldn't find himself in this situation again, caught in the crossfire. So what was he going to do about it? How is he going to act now? And that's where purpose came in.

He began to write more rhymes. Spiral notebook perched on his lap. He had inspiration from his mom's old records. Cool in the game. Diana Ross, the Jackson Five, and the rhymes of contemporary masters like Slick Rick and Rakim. He wrote non-stop, and the words poured out of him. But even though he was creatively and spiritually invigorated,

Corey was a realist. Whether he was calling himself Corey or a young god, he knew that once he was fully healed, It wasn't like he could just walk down the street and score a record deal. In all likelihood, he'd have to go back to dealing, at least for now. It was all he had. But he'd do it with this newfound wisdom. Wisdom that didn't let him forget that his time on the street was going to run out.

We'll be right back after this world, word, word. There's two golden rules that any man should live by. Rule one, never mess with a country girl. You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And Rule 2, never mess with her friends either. We always say that trust your girlfriends. I'm Anna Sinfield, and in this new season of the girlfriends... Oh my God, this is the same man.

A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist. I felt like I got hit by a truck. I thought, how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care. So they take matters into their own hands. I said, oh, hell no. I vowed I will be his last target. He's going to get what he deserves.

Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When, like, young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever.

My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? I'd rather be disappointed in. Do that. Dennis Leary. I wake up and I'm hitting him in the head with a water bomb. And Bruce Jenner is on the aisle in a karate stance. Like he's about to attack me.

Like making karate noises. And the entire the Kardashian family over there, everybody's going. And the air marshal is trying to grab my arms and screaming. And I immediately know that I've been sleepwalking. David O'Yellow-O. I love this podcast. Whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Guy Branham.

So anyway, Nicole Kimman broke up with Keith Urban. Being half of a country couple was always a hat she was going to wear, not like a life she was going to lead. Oh, interesting. I like that. Did you practice that on your way over? Gayton Matarazzo from Stranger Things. Tena, monjeu. Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver.

and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the Iheart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Remember when you'd walk into your local video rental place and there were always those two employees behind the counter arguing about movies? Well, that's us. I'm Millie de Cherico. And I'm Casey O'Brien. And now we're arguing about movies on our podcast, Dear Movies I Love You from the Exactly Right Network. Can I say something about the Criterion Clause? Go ahead, dude. They're letting too many people in. there. Okay, that's another film, Great, I got two. Sadly, that rental place doesn't exist anymore. It's probably a store that sells running shoes.

Or an ice cream shop with an extra P and an E at the end. So consider us your slacker movie clerks in podcast form. I would like to establish a timeline of the moment you figured out who Channing Tatum was. Every Tuesday,

we dig into the movies we can't stop obsessing over, from hidden gems to big screen favorites. New episodes drop every week on the exactly right network. Listen to Deer Movies I Love You on the iHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. The van kept its distance, white paint, tinted windows, rust creeping its way from the bottom up, expired registration sticker on the plate. The van was unexceptional. Just another beater parked on the block. And the chaos of the Park Hill neighborhood paid it in no mind.

Inside the van, a reel-to-reel spun. Garbled voices crackled from a set of headphones perched on a man's head. Binoculars hung from his neck. Smoke trailed from the cigarette dangling from his mouth. He listened. He watched and he waited. Waiting for a signal. And when that signal came, all hell broke loose.

In the spring of 1988, the New York Police Department began. end a crackdown on the sale, distribution, and the use of illegal drugs throughout the city. They did this by creating a task force called the Tactical Narcotics Team, TNT, for short. Undercover officers hit the streets to carry out buy and bust operations that went like this. One cop buys drugs. Another cop watches the deal go down from a safe distance and then calls him backup to make the arrest. Their efforts were aimed at a very specific target, low-level dealers. You bust these small-fri neighborhood types, you grill them, and then you pass along whatever intel you got to the feds, who were busy chasing down the real targets, kingpins, cartels,

even hip-hop groups. The FBI's shortlist of so-called major criminal organizations would soon include alongside names like the Gambino Crime family, none other than Wu-Tang Clan. But before that happened, back in 1988, on its first day pounding the pavement, the T-Mobile TNT Task Force arrested over 20 dealers in Queens. When operations expanded into Manhattan, 82 vials of crack were seized in 90 minutes. But by the time TNT hit the streets on Staten Island,

where Corey Woods, excuse me, young god Allah, had resumed dealing, the ground-level drug trade had gotten wise. Dealers were paying people in the neighborhood upwards of a hundred bucks a day to act as lookouts. They perched on fire escapes. They hung out of windows. They sat in folding chairs on the sidewalk, and they disrupted the cop's own disruption game. Still, T&T wasn't going to be stopped by a bunch of lookout kids.

The NYPD was pumping a ton of cash into this operation. And even if the dealers continued to find ways to be subversive, moving drugs have become overly complicated. Slinging dope on a stoop or out of an apartment clubhouse would never be simple again. Corey felt the squeeze. Since he returned to dealing drugs after recovery, from his gunshot wounds. He'd been harassed by cops who caught him with a suspiciously large amount of cash during an early morning raid on the projects.

The cops weren't wearing cop clothes. They blended in. They looked just like another weekend crack warrior or fur fix. Corey had no idea how long they've been watching them, but what kind of intel they had. They were probably others, too. Hidden away in vans, reel-to-reels rolling, microphones hot. If they had something on them, they didn't say.

They hadn't witnessed him making a little. a sale, but they knew where that money came from. But now they had not just his face, but his name, a name that would soon become part of a larger file. Corrie had other pressing concerns beyond the NYPD. He was shot again, this time, while driving his uncle's Buick through a neighborhood he wasn't supposed to be in. Two dozen bullets pierced the car in rapid succession. Miraculously, Corey sped away unscathed. And the rivalry between the Park Hill and Stapleton projects on Staten Island was increasing. Park Hill and Stapleton were oil and water.

Park Hill dudes did coke and weed. Stapleton dudes, on the other hand, smoked wet, or weed dipped in a mixture of angel dust and embalming fluid. Crews riding two distinctly different highs had a real hard time riding together. So there were disputes. We're better than U. Wars, street brawls, knives, sliced open skin, baseball bats, split open heads. Some days, you felt like you were drunk.

drowning it at all. That no matter how hard you tread water, no matter how many rhymes you wrote, or how dedicated you could be to the craft, to the thing you truly love most of all, to hip-hop, that it was all useless, that the undertow of the streets would eventually pull you to the bottom. And lucky for Corey, though, he knew a guy, a guy with a blueprint for a way out. Corey Woods had known Bobby Diggs since they were little kids. Bobby was always a good dude, the kind of dude who would give you the shirt off his back, even though he shared that shirt with his brother, even though he had next to nothing. That was then, and this was now. September 1992. Corey was no longer Corey, nor was a young god Allah anymore. That name made him

sound like a kid. He was now going by Rayquan. A name is fresh and flavorful as a style of clothes he wore, a name inspired by some of the names of his older five percenters who served as his mentors. And Bobby was no longer Bobby. He was now. Now, of course, the Rizza, aka the Rizrecta, aka the guy who beat an attempted murder charge, was born anew with purpose and meaning and was ready to use his wisdom. That's supreme number two, to pull himself and eight other dudes out of a life of poverty and crime. Yes, I'm aware that eventually a 10th member, Capadonna, was added to the mix, but we'll

get to him later. So, he assembled the team at his house at 234 Morningstar Road on Staten Island, where he made his pitch. him five years and he'd take all nine of them to number one. But as Rayquan stood in the Rizza's living room surrounded by these eight other guys, he wasn't feeling all kumbaya, my lord. He was surprised to see Dennis Coles, aka Ghostface Killa, also in the room. Ghostface was a Stapleton dude, two other Park Hill denizens that were present. Not just Rayquan, but Lamont Hawkins, aka U-Guard, Jason Hunter, aka inspected deck, and Clifford.

Smith, aka Method Man, Ghostface was the competition, a sworn enemy. In fact, someone from Rayquan's crew had recently shot out the windows of Ghostface's mother's house in retaliation for something that Ghostface had done. This should have been at each other's throats, and there should have been gunshots and blood, but the Rizzo wanted peace. No more beefs. Beefs led to bodies, so did egos. The only way to get that cream was by putting that other shit aside. In cream, cash was king. It ruled everything. In December of 1992, just months after that first official meeting, Wu-Tang clan self-released their debut 12-inch single. Protect Ya Neck took no prisoners. The track was a verbal onslaught, unlike anything that was happening in hip-hop at the time.

One after the other, members of the clan traded verses in dizzying fashion. There were razor-sharp tongues flunting the Wu-Tang style. That style was cocky, defiant, and it was often delivered in code. Code aside, though, the gist was easy to get, and the gist was this. All other rappers had better beware. The Rizzas' production sounded dusty and faded. Contrary to the slick sounds coming from Dr. Drey and his cronies on the West Coast, protect your neck, fuse samples of funk and R&B with evocative springs from Game

in Huff era, Philly Soul. Not to mention the sounds of Kung Fu fight taken from one of the Rizzo's beloved movies, executioners from Shaolin, the kind of the left field touchstone that would become his calling card. The whole thing was a labor of love. And back then, samplers only took quarter inch plugs,

so if you were sampling an old movie from a videotape, it was a whole thing. One chord out from the VCR and into a mixer, another chord out of the mixer's headphone jack, and into the sampler, the chain of chords produced a very distorted signal, which may have phased other producers, but Rizza, using his limitations as strengths,

made the degraded sound work to his advantage. Then there was the manual nature of it all. Missed the part you wanted a sample, and even by a second, stop, rewind the tape, do it again. The other Woutain members didn't witness this process. Riza just had each of them lay down their bars on the microphone, and then he cut them up in the order he wanted. layered on the samples and assembled the track overnight.

And when the rest of the group heard it for the first time the next day, they were mesmerized. Record labels, on the other hand, weren't so easily sold. A nine-man hip-hop group was a cluster fuck. How do you market that? Who was the star? And then there was how the Rizzo wanted to structure the deal. He wanted Wu-Tang as a whole to sign with a record label.

But the deal would be written in a way that all-nosed. nine guys can make solo records with any other label they chose. And that was completely asked backwards from the way record labels traditionally structured deals. So, what was Wu-Tang gonna do? They hustled, just like Rayquan hustled crack on the streets of Staten Island. They showed up unannounced at 89.9 WKCR FM while the legendary stretch in Babito show was on the air, a copy of the Protect You Neck 12-inch in hand, and demanded it be played now.

They hit back at record stores that wouldn't carry the record by pilfering customers from those stores and selling copies out of the trunk of their car. All this guerrilla marketing and sales technique, it built up considerable buzz and strong sales. Steve Rifkin, a loud record, an indie label distributed by RCA, was impressed by how many copies the group was moving on their own. And when he heard Protect Your Neck, he heard something unique, something that no one else was doing, where others saw a complicated web of personalities, Rifkin saw a massive opportunity. Rifkin was also a kindred soul. His father released a single by the Fat Back Band in 1979, one of the contenders for the first ever rap record. Rifkin himself held hip-hop artists on the delicious vinyl label Get MTV Airplay.

The deal that Wu-Tang eventually struck with loud records wasn't the biggest deal money-wise. The advance was just 60 grand, but it gave the members the autonomy they wanted when it came to solo releases and also allowed the group to retain their name, merchandising, and publishing. It was a landmark deal in the history of hip-hop. And Wu-Tang's 1993 debut album was a landmark hip-hop release. Just two months after Enter the Wutang, 36 Chambers, was released and went gold. Larissa's vision was working. Rayquan and the members of Wu-Tang Clan

could finally look in the rear view and see the struggles of their past were seating or so, they thought. April 29th, 1994, San Francisco. Rayquan, Ghostface Killa, and Method Man sat in the back of the minivan. The West Coast promotional tour for 36 chambers had been a blur so far.

But right now, they weren't thinking about promotional tours or about how they had come out of nowhere to dominate the consciousness of hip-hop culture, or how their debut album and album they made their way had gone gold, who was still selling like crazy. Right now, they were thinking about the cruiser that had been following their van for miles. San Francisco police. What the hell did the cops want? They hadn't done anything wrong.

This wasn't Staten Island. This wasn't the past. This was now. This was California A. Wu-Tang was worldwide. legit. The police cruiser hung back like a bad memory, an old wound. Corey felt the fear bubble up.

That same fear that had been a part of him ever since one of the guys shot up the car that belonged to someone connected to the Jamaican drug crew. The cruiser was mimicking their every move. The van made a right. The cruiser made a right. The van slowed down and the cruiser kept pace. This went on for a good five minutes before suddenly and seemingly without reason. The blue lights came on, and then a siren.

The van's driver pulled over. Cops were approaching on foot now. Shotguns drawn and raised. Exit the van on the driver's side and keep your hands where we can see them. Rayquan and Method Man did as they were told. Ghost-faced killer, however, went out the passenger side, and the cops got nervous and cocked their shotguns. On the ground, all of you now!

Two more on-marked police cars pulled up. More cops, more shotguns, locked and locked. loaded. Ray, ghost, and meth hit the pavement face first. They all felt boots squash onto their backs. Their lips tasted gravel and they were handcuffed. The van was searched and then they were taken downtown, each in a separate police car and questioned. Forty-five minutes later, they were released. San Francisco PD didn't issue an apology. They did issue a statement, explaining that the Wu-Tang clan members fit the description of some other black men who happened to be riding around in a van and robbing stores.

Although we respect the fact that the police felt they had a job to do, Method Man said after the trio was set free, the manner in which we were treated was totally uncalled for. Method Man and his fellow clan members didn't know it then, but on that very same day, all the way back in New York, a similar incident was taking place. Only this incident involved the NYPD and a Staten Island resident, a man who was close to some members of the Wu-Tang clan.

Except this man wouldn't catch a break like Ray, Ghost, and Meth. And by the end of the night, this man would be another body on the ground. Beaten, bloodied, lifeless. 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 at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All-Axist member, thank you for supporting the show.

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Trust me, babe, on the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast. This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When, like, young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that.

David O'Yellow-O. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gait and Moderato from Stranger Things, Tena Mongeau, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Movies can make you feel, make you dream. Sometimes they even make you appreciate architecture. Is there anybody who's been hotter in a doorway than Elizabeth Taylor? That's the kind of analysis you'll find every week on Dear Movies I Love You, the new podcast from the Exactly Right Network.

Every Tuesday, we break down the films we're crushing on, from blockbusters to deep cuts. Listen to Dear Movies I Love You on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.