Chapter Eleven

In theory, getting into a modern recording studio should be harder than entering a bank vault. There are private phones and closed-circuit TV cameras and security codes on many of the doors. Within a modern studio are hundreds of thousands of dollars in equipment, master recordings that will generate millions, and artists, producers, and musicians who earn the gross national product of a non-oil-producing third-world country.

So the area inside a studio should be one of the safest places in any American city. In truth, most big-city recording studios are rife with drugs, guns, and more than their share of indiscriminate sex. That’s because studios are no longer—if they ever were—a creative oasis. The posse rules at any studio in New York, Chicago, Atlanta, Miami, and places in between. It’s the rare young urban musician, black, white, or Latino, who doesn’t allow friends, acquaintances, and friends of acquaintances to hang, as if studios were the rec room at a community college. It’s not that some artists aren’t sticklers, allowing no unauthorized persons into their sessions. The problem is that at any large facility, with many rooms, each artist or producer will have a different policy regarding access. In one room James Taylor could be cutting a folk-pop ballad, while next door DMX might be laying down a testament to man’s inhumanity to dogs. In the common area, a place of vending machines and flat-screen TVs, where people lounge as engineers tweak drum sounds, everybody has to interact. It can make for some very strange bedfellows.

Around 12:30 a.m., D arrived at Right Track Recording, where Power was producing Bridgette Haze’s vocals in room A and RZA was cutting tracks for the Wu-Tang Clan in room B. Pop songbird next to hard-core posse. D was a bit concerned that when he arrived he’d see little Bridgette surrounded by herb-smoking, rowdy Shaolin MCs. And to his dismay, he was right. Out in the main lounge there were Bridgette and Jen on a black leather sofa, squeezed between six young black men sprawled around them on the sofa and floor. The singer and one of the black men, who looked vaguely familiar from a music video, were battling in a furious game of Madden NFL. Bridgette had the Redskins and the young black man had the Steelers. The space possessed the pungent smell of marijuana, Chinese food, and the funk of Wu posse members who wore heavy jackets indoors but no deodorant. The young man closest to Bridgette wore a red bandanna, a red Iverson jersey, and enough bling-bling to illuminate Times Square. A few of the collected group nodded when D entered, but otherwise their focus stayed on Bridgette Haze’s display of vid-game dexterity.

Mercedez was nowhere to be seen, which irritated D, since it seemed to confirm Jen’s concerns. Then, from the direction of the studio, he heard her voice: “Absolutely. There’s not a nightlife situation that D Security can’t handle.”

“Is that right?” a man said, clearly humoring her.

From around the corner came Mercedez with the publicist Rodney Hampton, whose left hand held a digital camera that rubbed up against his wedding ring. “Hey, man,” Rodney said, extending his free hand to D. “It’s a pleasure to meet you again, D. I couldn’t say this the other night, but any black-owned enterprise that lands a contract with Ivy, I salute. I know how difficult that can be.”

D was a little put off by the brothers-in-business rap. Not that he didn’t believe in it—it was one of his bonds with Tony at TZL—but he detected a glibness about Hampton that put him off. For D, every utterance by the publicist seeking common ground was suspect. Hampton brought his digital camera up and snapped a photo of Bridgette and the homeboys.

“This is gold,” he said, with an emphasis on this. The publicist held the camera at an angle so that D could see the digital images stored within. Photo after photo showed Bridgette huddled up and happy with thugged-out young black men. To D, all the shots looked like the box cover from the porn series Black Dicks in White Chicks, but he kept that insight to himself. Hampton continued, saying, “In a few hours these shots will be all over the web, repositioning Bridgette Haze, opening her up to the hip hop audience and setting the stage for this new record.”

“Bridgette Haze, Hip Hop Queen, huh?”

“No,” Hampton corrected, “Bridgette Haze—Queen of Pop. This trip to New York isn’t just for her to hang out with the Wu. Ivy is also gonna have her do some classic New York music.”

“One of the songs wouldn’t happen to be ‘Green Lights’?”

“Whoa!” Hampton exclaimed. “Ivy really has brought you into his confidence. He sees that as the second single. A great but obscure song. We’ll do the video from the stage of the Apollo. Did he tell you that too?”

“No, that’s a surprise to me. Hey, has it always been the plan or is that something that’s come up recently?”

“Oh,” Rodney said, “I believe he called and told me that last week.”

Power popped his head out of the studio. His eyes were red and Buddha-blessed but there was a determined scowl on his lips. Despite (or perhaps because of) the controlled substances in his system, the man looked ready to work.

“Yo, Bridge, you ready to blow for me, hon?”

“Born ready, boo,” she replied. She stood up and handed off the controls to Jen, who handed them off to one of the Wu posse and got up herself.

Someone cracked, “Where the white women going?” and everybody laughed.

“Must be your stank breath,” someone else said, and suddenly the room turned into the Def Comedy Jam, with snaps flying around the room. On her way to the studio, Bridgette stopped in front of D and gave him a hug and patted his thigh. “Quite a dancer, aren’t you?” she quipped, and then headed into the studio. Jen came up to D as well but offered no hug. Hampton excused himself and followed his client.

“Could I speak to you, D?” Jen asked.

“Sure.”

Jen looked at Mercedez as if she wanted her to leave, but Mercedez didn’t budge and D didn’t instruct her to.

“Look, I’m sorry about what I said before. I may have been a little harsh. You understand, of course. Bridgette is my little sister, I have to be protective.”

D eyed her coolly and replied, “No problem, but in the future, you should bring any complaints to Ivy. Until then, my staff and I will do our best to provide your sister with the best security we can.”

“Fine then, D. Okay.” A couple of the Wu posse wondered if Jen would rejoin them on the sofa, but she demurred and joined her sister in the recording studio.

“You know,” he said to Mercedez, “Bridgette told me Jen liked me.”

“Yeah,” Mercedez replied with a shrug. “Well, I think that must be some kind of game they play. I don’t think Bridge is that comfortable letting people know what she thinks. She’s young and all, you know, despite all the hype. I think she’s the one who likes you.”

“She’s way too young for my old ass.”

“Please,” Mercedez said sharply. “My baby’s father was ten years older than me. All you men are pedophiles, whether you admit it or not.”