Monsters are tragic beings. They are not evil by choice. They’re born too tall, too strong, too heavy: That is their tragedy. They do not attack humanity intentionally, but because of their size, they cause damage and suffering. Therefore, man defends himself against them. After several stories of this type, the public finds sympathy for the monsters. In reality, they favor the monsters.
—ISHIRŌ HONDA, DIRECTOR OF GODZILLA (1954)
On March 1, 1954, a blast brighter than the sun electrified the skies above Bikini Atoll in the Marshall Islands, whipping up smoke, debris, and vaporized water into that dramatic harbinger of devastation, a mushroom cloud. US military testing of the hydrogen bomb, the most advanced weapon of mass destruction ever unleashed on the planet until then, exceeded all expectations, impacting a much wider area than was previously estimated and raining radioactive fallout on residents of two nearby atolls, who were not evacuated until three days later. The crew of the ironically named Japanese tuna trawler Daigo Fukuryū Maru (Lucky Dragon No. 5), who had the misfortune of casting their nets in the vicinity, suffered severe radiation poisoning from the flurries of toxic grey ash that floated down from the sky, settling on their skin. In the wake of the calamitous bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki that ended WWII nine years earlier, this tragic incident only served to exacerbate existing emotional wounds and galvanize the anti-nuclear movement in Japan.
That same year saw Toho Studios’ release of the original Godzilla (Gojira in Japanese) movie, in which a prehistoric sea monster “awakened” by nuclear testing wreaks havoc on the populace. Though fantastic in nature, the film seemed like a veiled attempt to come to terms with the bomb’s devastation by the only nation to experience its awesome power firsthand. Indeed, it proved to be cathartic, as author David Kalat writes, “Nuclear horror rains down on Tokyo, but without America playing any role in the proceedings or even being mentioned once. Godzilla, a symbol of the Bomb, gave audiences a mechanism by which to rage against the damage done to their country, to decry the arms race, to see their nation as both victim and savior, without transgressing the many taboos that postwar life had imposed on such discussions.”1
Inspired by the 1952 re-release of the original giant monster movie, King Kong (made in 1933), and modeled after 1953’s The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms, Godzilla instantly rose to become a popular hit, without aspiring to the same art-house pretentions that characterized other foreign films of the era. On the contrary, its production values and special effects—considered cutting-edge at the time—involved a man in a latex-rubber suit stomping around painstakingly produced miniature sets. Americans saw a significantly different film with the release of Godzilla, King of the Monsters! (1956), two years later, featuring new footage of actor Raymond Burr intercut with the original as well as dubbing in English. Though the film was still regarded as somewhat campy and schlocky, these additions powered its success stateside, where it grossed $2 million at the box office—ten times that of the previously highest-earning Japanese film, Rashomon (1950).
That classic period piece, directed by world-renowned auteur Akira Kurosawa, shared much in common with its lowbrow counterpart, including the same cast, crew, and studio. Godzilla director Ishirō Honda even called himself a close personal friend and creative consultant to the Japanese master. While Kurosawa’s oeuvre came to earn the highest respect of cinephiles worldwide, Godzilla went on to become a global pop-culture phenomenon, qualifying as the longest-running film franchise ever made, and spawning a whole genre of Japanese films known as kaiju eiga (“strange beast movies”) that featured an assortment of giant monsters. To date, the franchise has been responsible for some thirty-eight films—thirty-three produced by Toho, one by TriStar, and four by Legendary Pictures (the latter two being US film studios).
Over the course of that prolific run, the fearsome beast, originally conceived as a metaphor for the destruction wrought by nuclear weapons, morphed into a likable creature and savior of humanity, who defended Japan against some of his equally bizarre counterparts, such as Rodan, the giant flying Pteranodon, and King Ghidorah, the three-headed, two-tailed, winged serpent from outer space. “Godzilla’s transformation into a heroic defender of the Earth was more than just the softening of a once terrifying movie monster into a family friendly icon. The change represented something about Japan as a nation. Like Japan, Godzilla was sometimes right, sometimes wrong, but always acting on the same underlying principle: the defense of its territory,” Kalat writes. “Perhaps, in some way, the fictional construct of Godzilla helped provide a metaphor … to show that great forces can have both good and bad effects in the world, without being all of one or the other.”2
If there remained some ambiguity about Godzilla’s motives and intentions, Ghidorah offered an appropriate foil—the unapologetic bad guy you loved to hate. Appearing in multiple movies, beginning with Ghidorah, the Three-Headed Monster (1964), the monster quickly rose to become the archnemesis of Godzilla and probably the second most popular of all the kaiju eiga. Conceptually, its name derived from the Japanese pronunciation of Hydra, the mythological Greek sea monster with nine heads, though local legends also spoke of an eight-headed, eight-tailed dragon called Yamata no Orochi. Sometimes referred to as Monster Zero, Ghidorah moved more gracefully than Godzilla and could shoot destructive “gravity beams” from its heads while whipping up gale-force winds with its wings.
Always portrayed as an existential threat originating from off-planet, the golden-scaled creature further distinguished itself from the pantheon of earthly monsters by claiming the title of “king,” suggesting its superiority. But only those with more than just a cursory knowledge of the franchise could appreciate such nuances. Not surprisingly, the biggest fans of Godzilla and his minions were younger audiences exposed to such B-movie fare via TV reruns. Imagine a young DOOM, already a sponge for comic books and cartoons, considering the merits of such a monster.
“Out of that whole Godzilla stuff, Ghidorah was always the villain,” he says. “So, I thought, OK, he’s the oddball. Let’s show a little bit more of his personality—a side of him that people don’t see.”3 Like Doctor Doom, he recognized there was more to the character than just being a bad guy. But since Ghidorah didn’t speak, aside from some high-pitched shrieking, DOOM, the writer, attempted to get inside his head. He ended up settling on an alternative narrative, using the character to hold a mirror up to humanity. “His whole mission is the evolution of humans, to show humans from his extraterrestrial point of view, what we look like,”4 he explained. DOOM’s motive for assuming another villainous persona, then, remained consistent with his recurring theme of redemption. Just like his “killer who loves children” persona, Ghidorah was meant to challenge our allegiances. “I design my characters from the point of view of someone who’s looking at them and thinking of them as bad guys,” he says. “They’re not necessarily bad guys. Hopefully, once you get to know them, you build your own opinions of who they are.”5
Back in the late eighties, when Public Enemy’s Chuck D called rap the “Black CNN,” he unwittingly set the stage for the “keep it real” movement of the nineties. He wanted to speak truth to power as he compared rappers to street journalists telling the stories of an invisible underclass whose voices had been marginalized in the mainstream media. MCs following in his wake felt further compelled to offer their own truths as they saw or experienced it. “Keeping it real,” then, evolved into a mantra representing rappers’ preoccupation with authenticity—not necessarily a bad thing until it became circumscribed with certain unwritten rules. You couldn’t say it if you hadn’t done it, for example, was a warning to the glut of fake gangstas out there who talked the talk but couldn’t walk the walk. As the line between reporter and first-person participant became increasingly blurred, stereotypes started piling up on top of clichés. In the wake of the crack epidemic’s scourge on urban America, selling drugs—or rapping about it—found justification, even glorification, as an acceptable alternative to a minimum-wage job at McDonalds. The term “real,” itself, became twisted, painting a monochrome portrait of ghetto life as representing the entire Black experience.
Perhaps this trend or movement was simply a reaction to rap’s increasing commercialization courtesy of the Hammers and Vanilla Ices, who upended the art form from its humble roots in a quest to cash in. In contrast, the “keep it real” nineties centered rap back on the streets where it was born. Rugged workwear like Carhartt, Dickies, and Timberland boots reflected the era’s non-fashion aesthetic as music videos were often shot against a backdrop of crumbling urban decay. Rampant materialism and conspicuous consumption had yet to poison the art form, and rappers remained focused on serious issues affecting their communities. Leading the pack were conscious, committed artists, who reflected the struggle as they saw it—without compromise or apology. As a result, the decade produced no shortage of classic music. Unfortunately, all the promise and grassroots energy of those times eventually unraveled with the deaths of two of the biggest stars of the day, Tupac and The Notorious B.I.G., only six months apart in 1996.
Ironically, Biggie’s label, Bad Boy, helmed by the flamboyant Puff Daddy (Sean “P. Diddy” Combs), was well-positioned to pick up the pieces. They transitioned seamlessly into the “Jiggy” Era—coined after pop-rapper Will Smith’s 1998 Grammy Award–winning hit, “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It”—known for its slick, glossy sound, coupled with an appetite for luxurious living and conspicuous consumption. With its finger on the pulse of late-stage capitalism, rap may have been moving more units than ever before, minting an exclusive club of black millionaires and moguls in the process. But for those who had followed the music since its inception, the inevitable big sellout had begun. After all, wasn’t that the American way—to start from scratch, make something out of nothing, and then cash out to the highest bidder? Far from being simply a commodity, however, hip-hop remained a cultural expression with deep roots that could not easily be compromised. In the late nineties, when rap was undergoing a huge transformation—from gritty to glitzy, and no longer dominated by the coastal powers of New York and LA—an out-of-work DOOM observed from the sidelines, analyzing the situation. Looking for a way to fit back into the narrative, he decided the only course of action was to keep it way unreal.
“In hip-hop, we get kinda confused. I think we limit ourselves with the whole, ‘I’m the guy’ kinda thing,” he observed. “So, I’m like if hip-hop is all about bragging and boasting, then I’m going to make the illest character who can brag about all kinds of shit. Like why not? It’s all your imagination—go as far as you want.”6 Choosing to model his new persona on a comic-book villain with whom he already shared a nickname was not much of a stretch. “This is the fun part of the approach of the DOOM stuff. I’m not that dude at all. I’m writing about a character. It’s a little based on my personality but it’s definitely exaggerated,”7 he explained. To underscore the point, he became the first and only MC to rap in the third person, referring to his alter ego as “he.” But if his first stab at fiction wasn’t bold enough, he truly took it to the next level with “King Ghidra” (later spelled Geedorah in an effort to absolve himself of any copyright infringement), putting himself in a class of his own.
“Well, it’s really because I consider myself a writer. When I write, I write from different characters, I write through different scenes, different times,” DOOM explained. “I look at it like I’m a fiction writer or someone who writes novels, you’ve got a wide range of characters—even someone who writes scripts for movies, a playwright. It always makes things more eventful. It would be corny if I was just writing from me. [That’s why] I’ve got a whole slew of characters.”8 By stepping outside the accepted parameters of the art form, he had stumbled upon a brilliant conceit that no one else in rap had even considered.
“So, I figured out a way where, all right, this time I’m doing it, but it’s going to be done like how they do it in the movies. They’ll have a character in it, but the character is spawned from the imagination,” he said. “As wild as it may be, if you’re a writer, you can go there and make it real. I like to stick to the writing aspect of it and write these scripts, write these screenplays. The character can do anything. Regular MCs can’t really do that.”9 For inspiration, DOOM credited late-night talk show host and comic, Stephen Colbert, who for a good chunk of his early career, parodied a conservative political pundit in the mold of Bill O’Reilly. Under the aegis of such a character, he had license to make humor out of the most outrageous and provocative statements. DOOM applied the same formula to Mcing, saying, “For people who are attracted to hip-hop music, it’s our job to spark their thoughts, to make them say, ‘What the fuck is he saying that for? Why’s he doing that?’ Then, when they find out it’s just a character, it’s a mind-opening thing. Plus, it’s like, damn, the temptation to just fuck with people’s head like that, I just can’t resist.”10 Chalk up the reign of rap’s King Geedorah to creativity and vision combined with a healthy dose of playful humor and mischief, all qualities overflowing in the mind of DOOM.
His adoption of this nonhuman character did not occur in a vacuum either. DOOM’s fertile imagination had already met its match in his buddy MF Grimm, a true collaborator who acted as a sounding board to bounce ideas off. It was Grimm’s idea to append the “MF” prefix to their rap names as another way to set themselves apart from other MCs. Sure, everyone was already familiar with the role of a master of ceremony, but “MF” offered a riddle without a definitive answer. According to Grimm, its meaning was fluid and might stand for “Mother Fucker,” “Mad Flows,” or “Multiple Frequencies.” In DOOM’s reading, the acronym translated to “Monkey Feet,” “Manhattan’s Finest,” or, most popularly, “Metal Face,” as befitted the character of Doctor Doom.
At the time, the only rappers challenging the orthodoxy of the “keep it real” era, while still being firmly ensconced within it, were a group from Staten Island who called themselves Wu-Tang Clan. As their name suggested, these nine MCs, all members of the Nation of Gods and Earths (Five Percenters), had adopted the imagery and mythology of kung-fu films popular in the seventies and eighties. They even renamed their home borough of Staten Island, “Shaolin,” after the legendary Chinese martial arts academy. Among the many ways they changed the game, both creatively and business-wise, Wu-Tang’s influence loomed large over nineties hip-hop. With provocative and outlandish pseudonyms like Ol’ Dirty Bastard and Ghostface Killah and multiple identities, they gave license to rappers to indulge in a bit of fantasy and role-playing, inspiring no shortage of copycats along the way. Both DOOM and Grimm, like pretty much everyone else in rap, were enamored by the group, who were running things between 1994 and 1995.
Using the Clan as a template, Grimm conceived of his own rap crew, based not on martial arts, but on the monster movies of Japan popular in his youth. Assuming the role of Godzilla, the trademarked star of the genre, would have been a little too obvious and perhaps begging for a lawsuit. Instead, Grimm chose to call himself Jet Jaguar after the giant, self-aware robot who helped Godzilla defeat his foe in the film Godzilla vs. Megalon (1973). DOOM, in keeping with his villainous nature, latched onto Godzilla’s archnemesis. Between 1995 and 1998, DOOM and Grimm would assemble a cast of largely unknown, underground MCs and call themselves Monsta Island Czars (M.I.C).
Though the fictional Monster Island represented Manhattan, they recruited MCs from all over the city, asking them to adopt the names of different monsters from the Japanese kaiju eiga. From Long Beach, DOOM enlisted Tommy Gunn (Thomas Rollins), who assumed the alias Megalon; Rodan (aka Jade One), an original member of KMD, who had moved back to the area after completing high school upstate; and Kongcrete, who shortened his name to Kong (as in King Kong) for this project. Spiega (Traver Brown), who took his name from the giant spider who first appeared in Son of Godzilla (1974), hailed from neighboring Freeport. A Queens rapper known as Kwite Def (KD), of the group Dirt Nation, chose Kamackeris as his new moniker, based on the giant mantis Kamacuras, who also appeared in Son of Godzilla. A Puerto Rican MC from Virginia, whom DOOM brought into the fold, assumed the alias Gigan, after another one of Godzilla’s giant reptilian opponents. Rounding out the roster and recruited to help produce the album was DOOM’s old friend Web D in his monster persona of King Cesar, the lion/reptilian hybrid who first appeared in Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla (1974). Like the Clan, their plan was to strike first as a collective before branching out with solo projects. But the lack of a recording budget, along with the logistics of coordinating so many MCs, made for slow progress. So, M.I.C evolved into a long-term marquee project on which DOOM and Grimm pinned their hopes for a come up.
For now, DOOM had all the time in the world, and he used it to tweak Geedorah’s character, bringing the monster in line with his own mythology, which was a work in progress. “So Geedorah, he’s really into hip-hop. He does it, thinks it, feels it, all that,” he explained. “But the only way he can really express it in 3D here is by telepathically communicating with DOOM and having DOOM write down and relay the messages that he’s sending. So how Geedorah comes vocally on records, there’s almost a spiritual connection between him and DOOM. Geedorah’s style is different and the way you can tell the difference is Geedorah’s more like, how can I say, more royal in his presentation. He’s on a grander scale. That’s how you can tell the difference between the two.”11 While this explanation bordered on the absurd, once the listener accepted the conceit of a rapping dragon from outer space, pretty much anything else was possible.
DOOM could skillfully flip all the silliness into something substantial and profound—for example, when he stayed in character as Geedorah during an interview with CMJ. “They call Godzilla the beast?” he asked. “The equivalent of the beast on Earth would be institutionalism, the big systems, the jails, the police, the fucking government, anything that’s oppressing you. So, of course, I got beef with the beast. That niggas fuckin’ shit up constantly, and when I come and stop the nigga, he gotta get like eight other motherfuckers to try to stop me.”12 Geedorah might be beaten back or even suffer defeat. But like any villain worth his salt, he would always return another day to raise hell.