DISGRACELAND - Rick James: Superfreak Is an Understatement

Episode Date: October 23, 2018

Rick James may have been born into a life of crime, but he was determined to make his way in life through music. He intimidated George Clinton, inspired Prince, and more than likely saved Jim Morrison’s life. Rick James was rock ‘n roll’s Zelig. He was also sex-crazed, dangerous, and heavily addicted to crack cocaine. These three traits led to two separate arrests for the kidnapping and torture of two different women. Listen to this episode of Disgraceland to hear the tale of the one and only Superfreak, Rick James. To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at www.disgracelandpod.com. This episode was originally released on October 23, 2018. To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at disgracelandpod.com/membership. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - GET THE NEWSLETTER Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: Instagram YouTube X (formerly Twitter)  Facebook Fan Group TikTok  See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. A quick heads up for those who may be triggered by tales of sexual abuse and violence. This episode of Disgraceland depicts both. The stories about funk superstar Rick James are insane. He was heavily addicted to crack cocaine. He ran drugs for the Colombian cartel.

He escaped from prison and was then released early for fear he would get away with it again. He was in a band would need. Neil Young, Neil Young. Rick James may have been born into a life of crime, but he was determined to make his way in life through music. He intimidated George Clinton, inspired Prince, and more than likely saved Jim Morrison's life. Rick James was rock and roll Zellig. He was also sex crazed and dangerous. But Rick James put a hurt on the funk. He made great music. That music you heard at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Slow Waltz Guitar Low, MK2.

I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to end of the road by boys to men. And why would I play you that specific slice of Motown-Filly cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on November 5, 1992, and that was the day that Rick James turned himself in for the kidnapping and torture of not one but two different women. On this episode, heavy funk, crack cocaine, Motown Philly Cheese, and Rick James. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is the disgrace land. Professional recording studios are hive-like workspaces

where serious-minded crafts men and women turn the sounds and emotions swirling around in their heads into stone-cold hits. But the best studios are also clubhouses helmed by talented producers with expansive rolodexes who surround themselves. with established and up-and-coming rock stars, ace session players, groupies, and hangers-on. Not to mention drug dealers, to make sure there is an ample supply of weed, coke, uppers, downers, booze, and anything else needed to fuel a recording session. Historically, from the 70s to the present, most recording studios have operated under an unspoken,

anything goes so long as the work gets done and the cops don't show up, mandate. This is, after all, the music business, not IBM and definitely not fucking Wii work. Even the most serious sessions operate under a cloud of smoke, despite being intense affairs with taskmaster producers obsessing over take after take. Most sessions, though, are the opposite. Loose affairs, where music is made when the muse appears. But of course, some are flat-out parties where a producer sits at the console, a miss a rager, yet somehow manages to concentrate on the musician tracking in the booth.

There's a lot of socializing and a lot of hanging around waiting to record, and because of the well-connected studio owners and rock star clientele, you never know who you're going to run into in a studio. I, for one, was once kicked out of a studio by James Taylor for simply sitting next to him while he ate his burrito in the studio lounge. My friend Bill Janowitz from the indie band Buffalo Tom has a great picture of his bandmate, Chris Colburn, sitting in the lounge at L.A.'s Cherokee Studios,

watching the finale to the television show Cheers, with none other than Rick James himself. And in his autobiography, Rick James tells the story of Stephen Tyler, of Arrowsmith, poking his head into an early session of Rick's, sharing a couple lines of Coke and telling Rick he could hear his star in the making. There are a million stories like these, but no doubt, the most insane one also involves Rick James. A motherfucker of a musician for sure, but this story doesn't illustrate Rick's stone cold musicianship. It illustrates that Rick James was a stone cold criminal. Rick James, like a lot of musicians, was a bit of a studio rat. He liked the action.

Even when he wasn't recording, he'd hang out at Cherokee Studios in Hollywood to kill time. His buddy Rod Stewart had practically made Cherokee a second home. Bowie recorded there, petty, steely Dan. In the early 90s, while Rick's career was at an all-time low, and while in the throes of a heavy addiction to crack, Cherokee was also hosting Evan Dando of the Lemonheads, who at the time was breaking hearts all over alternative nation with his arresting good looks and chesty, emotional raw vocals.

Dando and Rick made for an odd couple. Rick with his highly stylized, over-sexed punk-funk, and Dando with his ditsy pretty boy vibe and indifferent alt-rock. Despite the different music they played and different images they portrayed, they shared one strong bond, a love of hard drugs. So, in the spring of 19, While Rick hung out in the lounge and watched TV, and while Dando worked on single edits for his about to be released breakthrough album, It's a Shame About Ray, and started setting up shop for his follow-up smash, Come on Feel the Lemonheads. When not recording, the two got down to the business of getting high, Rick James style. And it was all good, until it wasn't.

The news came fast, first over the television, then by word of mouth from studio visitors. Los Angeles was on full. fire. It started in South Central, Normandy in 71st, just east of Inglewood. Some kid threw a rock at a cruiser. Then they pulled a long hair from his truck and bashed him in the head with a brick. And then the looting began. South Central L.A. was pissed. Rodney King's assailants, the LAPD, had gotten off without so much as a blemish on any of the officer's records. The anger had been building for years, and on April 29, 1992, the pressure blew the their fucking roof off the sucker. Riots, unlike anything America had seen since Watts back in 65,

but this was different. LA and 92 had a lawlessness to it, a violence that was hyper real. Maybe it was that now the anger ran that much deeper. Maybe it was that now it was all televised 24-7 on cable news. Whatever the reason, the LA riots were very real and very scary and spreading with no end in sight. Day one turned to day two, and the looting, beatings and fires spread from South Central,

north to downtown, and then back west to Hollywood Boulevard. By now, Rick James, Evan Dando, and the rest of the crew at Cherokee were in full lockdown. They could see the violence spreading straight to their Hollywood location on the television. Luckily, they were armed. For whatever reason, most likely cocaine fuel paranoia, the studio housed a small arsenal of weapons. A fully automatic AK-47s, semi-automatic Glockes, and of course, a police caliber 32 with a double-action revolver. As old school as the custom Trident A-range mixing console in Cherokee's control room. Rick grabbed an AK and headed to the roof.

The rest of the studio regulars mounted up and followed the super freak up the stairs. Dando grabbed a Glock and brought up the rear. When they got to the roof and looked east, they could see the smoke stretching out over the low-slung storefronts and spreading into the fairfax. neighborhood. They dug in. The sun started to fall. The smoke continued to rise. Cops. Nowhere in sight. Sirens in the distance. Helicopters, a mile or so north, hovering above Hollywood Boulevard. And then the voices. Screens. yells. Banshees in the street. Broken glass. More smoke. And flames rising up in the near distance. Fuck this. Make some noise. Shoot the moon. Let the would be looters know that Cherokee was armed not to be fucked with. And if they made a

down to 751 Fairfax, they'd best move on down the line to 753 lest they want to catch some lead. The regulars fired to the sky with abandoned, letting out drunken war cries. Evan Dando by now had his hands on an AK, making for quite the sight. The stone, Nouveau hippie-dippy alternative bay firing an automatic weapon with reckless abandon into the sky. Only in Hollywood. The sound of helicopters in the distance. The sound of sirens, the yelling from the roof, from the street.

It was pure fucking chaos. Dando could feel his heart racing. He lowered his weapon, took a second. Where was Rick, he thought? He turned around and looked to the northeast side of the roof, and there, alone, crouched military style on one knee with his eye fixed down the scope of his AK-47. Rick James could be seen, not firing warning shots off into the air like everyone else, but instead firing shots off into the streets

with the precision of a dispassionate assassin. Rick James led a life of crime, literally. It's hard to imagine now, given his status as an entertainer. But there is no doubt, Rick James, from his childhood to his grave, led a criminal life. Rick James also, of course, led a musical life. His story is peppered by encounters with some of rock and roll's biggest personalities. Miles Davis and Edda James, along with a slew of other great entertainers from back in the day, were seen up close and personal while Little Ricky James ran his.

Hippside his mom who ran numbers for the mob back in Buffalo nightclubs where she collected bets and debts. And this upbringing also afforded Rick a view into how to make it out on the margin society, just like his mom, by any means necessary. As a 15-year-old, Rick got hooked on heroin and started pulling small-time robberies to finance his habit. At 16, he went AWOL from the Navy. How does a 16-year-old even end up in the Navy?

Rick lied about his age and joined the Navy Reserve as a means to avoid being drafted into the Vietnam War. It was a serious mistake. Military life didn't take. And so Rick took off, away without leave and over the border to Toronto to skip out on the Navy and out on the war completely. Upon entering Toronto, three Canadian meatheads, big squares with crew cuts and shitty tattoos barrel toward him from around a corner. And they were drunk but still able to identify Rick for what he was. he was. An American draft dodger. There to drink their beer and screw their women. N'uh. And they're on him fast, raining down punches. Rick was used to holding his own with his fist, but three-on-one,

it was too much. Then suddenly, the punches stopped. But there was still more commotion. Others had joined in the melee and were fighting off the meatheads. Rick was quick to his feet, and they soon had the drunken squares on the run. Rick James dusted himself off and looked up to the two dudes who had just saved his ass, weird-looking skinny dudes that kind of looked like the greasers who'd beat on Rick back in Buffalo, except these guys had some weirdo hippie farmer vibe going on too. Didn't matter. They were all right with Rick. The two introduced themselves as Levan and Garth. Told Rick they were musicians. They hated the squares and knew the beating was unjust. They informed Rick they played in a rockabilly band called the Hawks and asked him if he'd heard of their band leader Ronnie Hawkins.

He hadn't, but Rick told them he too was a musician. and was there in Toronto to get his music going. So they set him off to a coffee shop to get stoned. Toronto in the mid-60s was a wild place. To a young black man who loved R&B and rock and roll, Toronto was a dream. The culture was permissive. Drugs were everywhere.

Pot, coke, acid, and so were the hippies. And these weren't bandwagon-esque hippies. These were the real deal, tune in, drop out, dress however you want, sleep with whoever you want, and listen to whatever you want, type of hippies, at a time when Square still ruled the roost. It was a time when it was legitimately subversive and not yet trendy to be in hippie. And this felt right to Rick, especially coming out of the lips of Joni Mitchell,

the young Canadian songstress who Rick met through a friend. Joni was the shit. She got music deeply. She dug on rock and roll, jazz folk, and like everyone else in Toronto at the time, R&B. She turned Rick on to Moes Allison, and they both sat up together. night after night dissecting Miles Davis's sketches of Spain. So when Rick needed a guitar player for his new band, The Minor Birds, and Joni recommended her friend Neil, Rick didn't have to think about it twice. If this Neil cat was all right with Joni, then Rick was in. But first, Rick

needed some new duds. So he pulled a job with a guy he'd met in the nightclubs. It was a little boutique that featured all the high-end hippie fashion items of the time, denim, fringes, beads, and bangles, that sort of thing. And Rick's guy had a guy, so fencing the goods wouldn't be a problem. And it wasn't. They were in and out in no time, and Rick was flush again

and able to focus on putting his band together. And of course, looking good in the process. Neil Young could give a shit about looking good. Neil Young was too concerned with tearing the paper off of the horsehair walls inside of Toronto's nightclubs with his gut-wrenching, emotionally chaotic guitar playing. Joni was right.

The dude knew his shit. and Joni Mitchell never lies. Neil dug on black R&B in Motown, more than most of the black kids Rick tried playing with back in Buffalo. Neil was a student, a fucking assassin with that guitar. So in 1966, with Neil Young, now in Rick James' band, the minor birds headed to Detroit

to score a deal with the most happening record label in the world at the time, Motown Records. And label president, Barry Gordy, didn't get to be Barry Gordy by not being able to identify. immense talent. So of course, the minor birds were signed to Motown. They quickly recorded a single called It's My Time, and endeavored to become the next big thing. But next big things need more than talent to become next big things. They need all the little things to fall into

place. And when your singer is a criminal and AWOL from the Navy in the middle of a war, it's hard to conquer the charts. Once the Motown advance came through, Rick's manager ratted him out to keep the bred to himself. And when Motown got wind, they dropped the minor birds. And worse than that, the FBI turned up the heat on Rick. They heard about the Motown deal and put the word out to every record label that Rick James was a fugitive and he was not to be signed. Rick was sunk. He did the only thing he could do. Put Ray Charles on the turntable, rolled the joint, took a big hit and turned it up. Then he turned himself in. We'll be right back. after this word, word, word.

Rick was dreaming. The past few years had been intense. He'd gone from hanging with his Motown heroes, Marvin Gay and Stevie Wonder, to being locked up in the brig for desertion. And then he broke out a prison, a legit jailbreak. The excitement of that moment never left him. When the fever dream came,

it was the prison break that jazzed him the most. He could still taste the adrenaline, even now, a year later in his sleep. It got his dick. hard, and it was so powerful. Not that Rick James needed help getting his dick hard. Before and after prison, he'd been on a tear through the new era of free love. And free love was one thing, freedom was another. Rick may have escaped the brig, but he wasn't free. His boys back in Toronto got their shit together without Rick. Neil was in a band with that Stephen Stills cat, Buffalo

Springfield, and they were legit rock stars. And Joni had her thing, Garth and Leavon backed Bob fucking Dylan and started the band, and here was Rick James, dodging G-men and dealing Coke to get by. In his dream, though, he was free, free on stage anyway, whipping through Stevie's fingertips with Hendricks next to him on stage, and Miles looking on approvingly from the audience. It made no sense, but then again it made total sense. Rick was a fucking star and he knew it. He knew he had the same talent running through him that Jimmy, Stevie, and Miles had. But the truth ratcheted up the anxiety. The truth was that he wasn't a musician like Jimmy Stevie or Miles.

He was a fucking criminal, common, ordinary, and definitely not free. The G-men were on his tail, hellhounds, white devils. The heat got to be too hot, and this is where the dream usually went from fever pitch to hyper-real. Rick's heart raced as his brain called back to when he turned himself in that second time. Not for going AWOL, but for breaking out of the brig. and he was received by the other prisoners as a conquering hero, but the guards had a different opinion. Fuck this guy.

The beatings were merciless, and the brass must have known Rick was going to bounce a third time and embarrassed them further, so they ended up settling with his attorney and processing him out of his court-martial on a technicality. Something about enlisting as a minor. And this is usually when Rick would awake. Buoyed by freedom, his dick rock hard,

his eyes squinting through the late morning California sunshine, and his head weighed down, the morass of last night's party. Rick got up off the couch, careful not to step on the half-naked bodies sleeping on the floor. Empty wine bottles and overflowing ashtrays were everywhere. The air stank of grass and Rick had to piss. Bad. He couldn't remember where the nearest bathroom was. This place was huge.

Stephen Stills had too much house. Whatever. Stills was a rock star. He could afford it. Plus, Stills threw great parties and was cool enough to let Rick crash while getting his shit together. Rick duck walked through the kitchen, careful not to wake anyone. There, the first floor bathroom. Thank God.

Rick came to a pathway between the kitchen and the bathroom and stopped dead in his tracks. The blood was everywhere and flowing fast. The hippie was still conscious despite the blood torrenting from his forearms. And he was mumbling. Wait, was he mumbling or doing something else? The motherfucker was chanting and bleeding profusely from his self-inflicted wounds. Rick freaked out, started screaming and running. ran straight for Stills' bedroom.

Stills was already on his feet, fastening the belt of his robe and shaking his head. Shit, he's done it again, hasn't he? He's cutting himself, right? Stills, some stone dude is bleeding out in your hallway. Stills hurried toward his kitchen. Rick followed. The blood had now formed a sizable puddle on the floor around the hippie. Stills pulled the belt of his robe, grabbed a dishrag hanging from the oven,

and quickly fashioned two makeshift turnicates around the cross-legged hippies arms to stop the deluge of blood. And through it all, the hippie kept slowly rocking his shoulders and chanting her. The stills gave him a couple hard slaps on the cheek to snap him out of it. Jim! Jim! Wake up! Jim! The bleeding stopped, and the hippies slowly opened his eyes. And they were beautiful, if not distant. They found their way to Rick, who was looking on in shock. The hippie opened his mouth.

Hey, brother. It's a beautiful morning, isn't it? Rick had no idea what the fuck was going on. Stephen Stills took a step back, led out a sigh of relief and said, Rick James, meet Jim Morrison. Fucking Hollywood, you couldn't take a piss without running into somebody. So Rick James used his Hollywood connections to get his music career off the ground, but it was slow going.

One fall starred after another, and Rick, frustrated with the momentum his friends had found in the music business and that had eluded him, said, fuck it, a man's got to eat, and if the music business wasn't going to provide, then Rick was going to make it happen by any means necessary, just like his mama had done with the mob back in Buffalo. Cocaine was fast becoming the drug of choice as the 60s turned into the 70s. And of course, Rick knew a guy, and that guy knew a guy. And before Rick knew it, he was in Columbia,

squirreling away 15 grams of cartel cocaine into his luggage. The flight to Canada, where Rick had planned on unloading the Coke, was first class. But upon landing, things were. one south. Who was a sharp-dressed black American with a stick pin and expensive luggage? Rick was braced by airport security and thoroughly searched, but not thoroughly enough. He made it through with the blow undetected, but was rattled enough to give up drug dealing and give the music business one more shot. And finally, his timing was right on. Rick's vision of creating an aggressive, sexy new form of music that combined the best of R&B and rock and roll suddenly had a chance in a decade where disco, punk, rock and theatrical funk and heavy metal were all in vogue.

Rick, for the first time in his life, disciplined himself. He pulled together some serious musicians from back home in Buffalo, away from the party scene in Hollywood, dubbed him the Stone City Band, and set about to make his mark on music history, just like Jimmy, Miles, and Stevie before him. And that's exactly what he did. Rick James' first few 70s records, come and get it, busting out of L7 and 1981 street songs, Are in a word Unfucking believeably good

Is that a word? It doesn't matter. Rick James put a new kind of hurt on the funk. It was George Clinton without the bad acid trip. It was Slice Stone without the manic insanity. It was Kisses heavy metal but with musicians who could play. It was Marvin Gay but with a sense of humor. It was James Brown without the preachy social consciousness.

It was disco without the cheese. It was disco rock dudes could get into. It was a party. It was all of these things. It was huge. I, Mary Jane, come and get it, give it to me, baby, super freak. Put those songs on now, even now, and try not to move. Try not to crack that second bottle of wine. Try not to get laid. Those songs are infectious, undeniable hits. And when Rick James unleashed them on the

world, the world loved them. And Rick loved the world right back. It was his time. And he'd be damned if he wasn't going to enjoy himself. Rick was suddenly in vogue and in high demand. He personally brought his heroes the temptations back from the dead with standing on the top. A song he'd penned and produced for them as a favor for Barry Gordy. And Rick had taken his friend, actor Eddie Murphy, all the way to number two in the charts with party all the time. Another track he'd written and produced. With success, the party grew more wild. Sex, always a thing that was available to work James whenever he wanted it,

soon became sex with two women at a time, then three women. And then the orgy started. with regularity. Rick moved through a succession of high-profile relationships with beautiful women. Linda Blair from the Exorcist, the Dukes of Hazards,

Catherine Bach, Marvin Gay's wife, Jan Hunter, Johnny Carson's girlfriend, Kelly Patterson, and eventually a young Elizabeth Schu. All the while, his drug use got more serious. His cocaine use ratcheted up

about 10 notches in the 1980s, just like it did for the rest of the entertainment business. But Rick, criminal-minded as ever, took it to another level, and began free-basing, or as he put it, sucking the devil's dick. And by the early 90s, Rick James had fallen into the funk. Rick was high all the time, heavily addicted to crack and depressed over the state of his career, which was at a new low to start.

despite receiving a songwriting credit and winning a Grammy for MC Hammers, you can't touch this. A monster hit that relied on a sample of Rick's Super Freak. It was his first Grammy. The original version scored a nomination in 1982 for Best Male Rock Vocal Performance, but lost out to Jesse's girl. Fuck Rick Springsteen or whoever. Didn't matter.

Rick couldn't spend his new money fast enough. He was spinning off at the face of the earth. The only thing keeping him grounded, he thought, was the sex. And that's what was going through his mind in 1991 when the prostitute walked into his crack den. It was hard to see her. Rick had blackened out the room by covering the windows with tinfoil, and a dense fog of weed, crack, and cigarette smoke hung just below the ceiling. Rick's girlfriend, Tanya, brought her in. Ah, Rick thought, a gift.

She'll never let your spirits down, and once you get her off the street. She's all right. And they get down to a quick, fucking and sucking and sucking. there in the middle of Rick James' own circle of madness. Rick, his girlfriend, the prostitute would fuck, smoke crack, fuck, smoke crack, fuck some more, and then smoke some more crack. And when the prostitute would get out of line, Rick would smack her around and get her back on the pipe, and then back on her back.

And if that failed, Rick would hold her down, take the hot end of the crack pipe, and give her skin a little singe to let her know who's boss. And this went on for two weeks until the pro split. And when she made it back to her pimp, without any of her. money for her two weeks sabbatical to Funky Town. The pimp beat her mercilessly. Without anywhere to go, she returned to Ricks with fresh bruises. Tanya took her to the hospital on Rick's Jaguar. The ER workers, after dressing her wounds, called the cops and told them what was up. Later that night, 30 of L.A.'s busted down the door at Ricks and arrested him and Tanya for assault.

They had it wrong, Rick told him. It didn't matter. His bail was set for a million dollars. and he was locked up for a week. He could do that time standing on his head. He was used to it, and it wasn't all that bad. The time in lockup allowed him to clean up off the crack. But it didn't last. His trial was coming up. Despite being out on bail, Rick was tense.

He and Tanya hit Argyle and Yuga down in Hollywood to score. Rick bought eight rocks for eight bucks. Shit. No wonder people lost their mind on crack. It was practically free compared to crime. cocaine. Just then, before Rick could get the crack into his pocket, two plane-closed cops with guns out, pointing straight at Rick and Tanya behind the windshield of their jag, started coming for them. Rick freaked out, popped all eight rocks into his mouth and swallowed hard. The cops tore the car

apart and in the end and found nothing. But Rick James was off to the races. The feeling of liberation swept over him. Fuck the police. My girl wants to party all the time. And there's a reason to celebrate. Tanya was pregnant with Rick's baby. Let's get high one more time. The two rented a suite at the St. James on sunset and waited on their dealer friend to show up. More crack was always needed. The dealer arrived.

Rick had no idea who he was, but let him in anyway half convinced that he was the devil himself. Rick was going to suck his dick, but when he passed Rick the pipe, a halo appeared over his head. Shit, this wasn't the devil. The sweet man was an angel. But then, the horned,

started growing from over his head. Rick was super freaked out. Something happened. The dealer split, and Rick and Tanya set about destroying their luxurious suite, tossing the sofa cushions, upending the tables, throwing wine glasses against the wall, pulling the stuffing out of the pillows, frisbeeing room service placed to the ceiling and kicking the television over. It was a much-needed release to the pressure of the impending trial. Once they were done, they sat on the floor, had sex, and got high. This cycle went on for days. Sex, crack, violence, repeat, and then she showed up. Lady M, a music business colleague of Ricks,

who towed the line between a supportive friend and world-class nag. Lady M had a message for Rick, get your shit together, now, right now, or you're done. Ain't no record label going to put your music out if all you do is smoke, crack, beat on women in trash hotel rooms. Oh yeah, Rick thought. Then unleashed on Lady M. He beat her senseless.

And when he was done, he looked down at her, crumpled on the floor, bleeding, crying, shivering, her eyes black. He did the only thing you knew how to comfort her. Offered her crack for her pain. She accepted and hit the pipe. And from then on, it was like the beating never happened. Crack cocaine is a hell of a drug. After a couple days, Lady M split and not soon after decided, fuck Rick James, bitch, and went to the police.

Rick awoke soon after to the news blasted. back at him from the television, that he was being sought by police for the kidnapping and torture of a West Hollywood woman while being out on bail for kidnapping and torture charges for another woman. Rick thought of running, but he was too old for that shit.

He knew what to do. He'd done it before when he was AWOL from the Navy, and after that, when he'd escaped from the brig, a good criminal knows when he's caught, just like a good musician knows when it's time to step off the stage. Rick James, the musician. Rick James the draft dodger Rick James the Coke dealer

Rick James the crackhead Rick James the weak-minded physically abusive creep and tortured women for the kicks Rick James the criminal turned himself in such a disgrace I'm Jake Brennan Disgraceland was created by yours truly

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