Archive for the ‘Combat Jack Throwback’ Category

Combat Jack Throwback: Tupac Shakur Stayed Having The BEST Weed!

March 26, 2009

All good things come to an end and the kids go back to school next week. Being that I’m headed outta town,
as promised, here’s a throwback of my world famous, award winning blog series recapturing my Top 5 gulliest moments I experienced first hand in the music industry, shit you won’t hear about anywhere else on the whole effin planet but here!

PREVIOUSLY: #5, #4, #3, #2

Courtesy of Byron Crawford

#1. The Time I Smoked A Blunt With Tupac ([||] and sorta)

Back in the early 1990’s, I was working with some more gully Mount Vernon niggas. One’a my former clients, Kenny Smoove landed a label deal with Atlantic Records because of his hit production on the group “Intro”. He discovered and broke the group “Changing Faces” with their smash hit single “Stroke You Up” produced by and featuring R. Kelly (no Michael Jackson pederast). Shit was looking extra good for Kenny. His next project was a rap group called “Ground Zero” who were supposed to be like the East Coast version of NWA. Don’t worry if you don’t recall hearing about them though, they were dropped from the label like about a week after this story took place, but I’m telling you, these negroes were really crazy, like, not right in the head.

They were all cousins (I think maybe inbred) and when they weren’t rhyming or writing “hot shit”, they’d get all smoked out and drunk and start fighting each other for real. Bare fists and knuckles real. Dudes were so crazy even, and if I’m lying, I’m dying, that there was this one incident when, in the midst of a drunken spell, they started fighting amongst each other in middle of the street, said fight eventually escalating into a “friendly” game of gun play where one of ‘em shot another one either in the arm or the leg. Real shits and giggles these guys. Believe me when I say these cats were effin idjits!!! Good dudes though, just not too mentally balanced. Anyways, they had a “road manager” who went by the name of “Easy Lee.” Easy was one of those pretty boy [||] type of dudes with a million dollar smile who was in all actuality, real grimy, so much so that that you wouldn’t wanna trust him near your cash, your girl, your moms, your kids, your video games, your gear, you flat out couldn’t trust this fucker. I wonder why he didn’t just call himself Greezy Lee.

Anyways, Ground Zero stayed producing joints in the studio with Kenny, shit started gelling, sounding mad proper and eventually they ended up getting a gig to perform way out in this ghetto ass club in Queens, New York. It was a promotional date and they were one of many acts opening up for the legendary, late, great Tupac Shakur. This was around the time that ‘Pac was starting to establish his name on the fact that he just made his acting debut in the film “Juice”. I’m thinking “Above The Rim’ also. So on the night of the scheduled performance, Me, “Greezy”, Kenny, Ground Zero, and a few other cats drove out to the club. When we got there, the place was packed with a line going around the entire block. To make matters worse, this was like the coldest night I ever experienced in my life!!! I’m talking a few years before this global warming thing, where it was seriously 2 degrees with a wind chill factor of like negative 25! Some real BRICK shit. Outside, there were hundreds of chicks waiting to get in, hoping, praying to catch a glimpse of Tupac. I gotta give it to them ’cause they was out there dressed in the skimpiest of halter-tops and opened toed shoes. I didn’t get it because I was wearing like three pairs of socks and a pair of 40 Below Timberland boots and being that it was so cold, my toes felt like they were being sliced and diced with razor blades.

To make shit even more horrific, the bouncers at the door didn’t give a rat’s ass who the eff me, Kenny Smoove or Ground Zero were and most definitely were not letting us in. After waiting for like an hour, Tupac shows up with his crew (including the future G.O.A.T., Biggie Smalls, who at the time was content playing his position as one of ‘Pac’s weed carriers). To this day, I’ll never figure out how, but Greezy Lee somehow managed to slip into Tupac’s entourage and disappeared inside the club alongside them. Five minutes go by, I know for sure that my feet are frostbitten and that I’ll probably have to have one of ‘em surgically removed thus becoming gimped up, Ground Zero start getting antsy, cussing at each other, shoving and looking like they’re about to start fighting, shooting in the crowd and at each other when Greezy pops out the club with out his million dollar smile and a bouncer, points in our direction and tells dude to let the us in. Me, Kenny and Ground Zero gets escorted in and right as we’re about to pass security, this other bouncer let’s everybody else in and cuts the flow by sticking his meaty ass hand in my chest, thus blocking my entry. Freezing, stuck and knowing that I just blew my last shot at getting into the ghetto ass club with the name I forgot, I sadly watch the posse enter, doors closing behind them.

So here I am, stuck out in the frozen tundra, toes all blue, with about 500 ghetto ass, open toed shoe wearing half dressed 2pac crazy bitches, with no ride home and no opportunity to see my group perform. Fortunately, I had the keys to the group’s vehicle, so I hop in the whip, turn on the heat and wait for like 2-3 hours for the crew to get back. Around four in the a.m., Greezy, his smile, Kenny and Ground Zero wake me up from out of my slumber by knocking on the window and we all head back to Mount Vernon. They inform me that although the bouncer allowed the group into the club, the promoter took one look at them and said there was no way in hell he’d allow those crazy niggas to get up on stage and perform. They did decide to remain inside (and at my expense) in order to watch Tupac (and Biggie’s) performance. That evening was a wrap.

Anyways, we drive back to Mount Vernon, get to Kenny’s crib when Greezy proudly announces that while he was “backstage” (how the fuck did he manage to get backstage?), he started “going for his” by grabbing all types of shit – others people’s belongings and stuff – until he came upon this real plush looking black leather Pelle Pelle jacket with an image of a black stallion embroidered on the back. Realizing he “just had to have it,” Greezy slipped it on under his coat while Tupac and crew were performing and then casually blended back into the audience. So dude takes out the jacket and I’m like “Yo man, that’s really fucked up, I don’t get down like that!!! ….. Um, what’s in the pockets?” Greezy then goes all up in the pockets and produces a wallet containing none other than Tupac Shakur’s driver’s license! That’s when we all recognize the jacket because ‘Pac had done a lot of promotional shit for “Juice” rocking the same jacket. We all remain silent, not believing that Greezy just jacked “Bishop” when from the other pocket, he pulls out the largest, ripest, pungent most beautifullest pillow sack of Chronic weed I had ever seen in my life. We were all in awe because in New York and around that time, most of us still wasn’t privy to Chronic other than what Snoop, Dre and Nate Dogg over on the West Coast were rapping and sanging about.

As we lounged back and smoked the Chronic, Greezy and his smile was like our hero for a coupla hours, and I, for the life of me, couldn’t get out of my mind the image of ‘Pac’s tiny ass [||] being ushered out of the club, wrapped all up in blankets and sheets, just in order to keep warm, with no coat on and no weed to smoke, middle finger pointed high in the sky for the niggas that ganked him, his wallet, his drivers license and his smoke. I don’t know what Greezy ended up doing with the jacket, and ‘Pac’s license, I just don’t fuck with cats like that anymore. I think I remember something about how he made mad money selling off the rest of that bomb ass weed though. I just hope that this incident wasn’t the camel’s straw that eventually triggered that crazy ass nigga Tupac to go off the deep end, resulting in him hating B.I.G., Puffy and just about anything else East Coast related. On the real though, good looking out for that solid ‘Pac, Thug Life and all that my nigga! R.I.P. You mos def kept some of the best weed I ever had in my life!


Combat Jack Throw Back: Tragedy Khadafi likes his Cris warm

March 24, 2009

I’m still on Spring Break Bitches!!! However, and as promised, here’s a throwback of my world famous, award winning blog series recapturing my Top 5 gulliest moments I experienced first hand in the music industry, shit you won’t hear about anywhere else on the whole effin planet but here!
PREVIOUSLY: #5, #4, #3

Courtesy of Byron Crawford

Tragedy Khadafi is a good dude [||]. He doesn’t, however, get the recognition he deserves. He was a junior member of the legendary Juice Crew, he mentored and actually named Havoc (of “Mobb Deep” fame), he discovered CNN (Capone –N- Noriega) and was fully responsible for their classic underground LP The War Report. He was also featured on the only diss record fired back against 2pac and the Dogg Pound during the East-West coast beef (“LA, LA,” also featuring Mobb Deep and C-N-N).

So the year is 1999 and Trag is feeling a bit down (cause life has a way of kicking a nigga’s ass every now and then). To cheer him up, I suggest that we head to a party that Gorilla Pimp Sean Combs is throwing cross-town. We get to the joint and are ushered into the V.I.P. section which looked great. The walls were draped with some velvety red curtains and the chicks were definitely on some video ho pop off material. Around midnight, Diddy steps in the club and decides to open up the bar in our section. Trag and I go apeshit and start throwing drinks back like we had been stranded in the Sahara desert for 15 days with no canteen in sight.

After an hour of doing some serious man-style drinking, Puff ups the ante (along with some other baller crews chilling in the cut) and decides its time to treat the crowd to bottles of Cristal. This was a few years before Jay-Z said it wasn’t cool to drank Cristal no no’. Word. The wait staff starts bringing out mad ice buckets stocked with yellow bottles and it’s on. Almost everyone in the area has access to at least 2.5 of their own bottles of the fine bubbly. Everything is going real perfecto, chicks looking and smelling good, dancing, trees is burning, niggas is all types of happy with no types of gun talk in the air, the dj (I think it was Flex) is spinning hit after hit after blood clot hit, we’re partying like it’s, well, um, 1999 and Trag is smiling [||].

Anyways, after downing our respective second bottles of Cris, Trag pulls me to the side with a real serious and concerned look in his eye and asks me where the men’s room is. [||]. In my blissfully drunken state, I explain that it’s past the V.I.P. ropes, through the dance floor (jam packed with about 700 sweaty dancing patrons), up the crowded narrow ass stairs, right behind the capacity filled lounge, where finally, there’s probably a line with a wait time of about 10-15 minutes. He processes the information and says “cool.” A few minutes later, there’s like one unattended bottle of Cris left, and from the corner of my eye, I spot Trag grabbing it along with the effin ice bucket, greedy ass motherfucker!

I think nothing of it, but I soon start craving for some more of that free elixir so I make my way to said last bottle that Trag placed back in its bucket. I reach for the bottle and out of nowhere, Trag grabs my wrist and says all stern like, “Dude, chill, you had enough.” I’m getting pissed now cause it aint right to cock block a free bottle of Cris. “Yo, why you hoggin the bottle dude?” I ask, and he pulls me to the side and explains, “I just took the ice bucket behind one’a these velvety red curtain-like drapes and pissed like a gallon’s worth in it!”

Minutes later, as some fine ass Latin mommies make their way to the bottle and start going to town on its contents like it’s going out of style, cute ass brown hands all up in the pissy warm ice bucket and guzzling like it ain’t nobody’s business, I wonder if they even realize that their bubbly was a tad bit warm.

Btw, my man Trag is currently upstate doing a bid on some nonesenical shit. My knicca, hold yer head high man, there’s more bottles waiting out here for you on the get out.

Combat Jack Throwback: Diddy Will Kick Your Ass On Ptwitty TV Live!

March 20, 2009

It’s Spring time Bitches!!! As promised, here’s a throwback of my world famous, award winning blog series recapturing my Top 5 gulliest moments I experienced first hand in the music industry, shit you won’t hear about anywhere else on the whole effin planet but here!


#3. P. Diddy Is A Gorilla Pimp

Let’s take it back to Spring 1995, New York City. Bad Boy Entertainment is hip hop’s number 1 label on the East Coast and the G.O.A.T. Biggie Smalls was still alive. Jessica Rosenbaum (this Jewish chick who promotes hip hop functions) threw a weekly dinner dance event at a club called Esso’s where all the “beautiful” hip hop industry folks could gather, talk mad shit and waste ungodly amounts of money on liquor, party and bullshit.

In addition to his growing record empire, Diddy was making his name as a producer and one of the many artists he produced a song for at the time (I don’t think I ever heard it) was Brooklyn rapper Positive K. K seemed like a cool dude, ran with Audio Two and MC Lyte and even scored a nationwide hit with a single called “I Gotta Man.” Anyways, I’m sitting at a table with my folks and Diddy and his weed carrying entourage make a grand entrance. Shortly thereafter, Positive K walks in dolo. Diddy sees K and approaches him. Apparently, Positive K (or, more specifically, his record label) hadn’t gotten around to paying Diddy his producer fee (which was something like 5 thousand dollars) and Diddy was heated.

In addition, I heard that both Diddy and K were in Los Angeles a week earlier and when Diddy stepped to K about his dough, K was like “You? Nigga please, I’ll get atcha when I get at ya, Bitch!” So, at Club Esso’s, when Diddy steps to K again, he asks “Yo nigga, you got my money?” K looks at Diddy like “whatever nigga” and starts to walk away when Diddy whips out his cell phone (phones at the time were about the size of a brick) and starts whupping on K’s head like it was a Dora the Explorer piñata at a 6 year old’s birthday party!

So the place goes crazy, chicks are screaming, folks are scrambling around and Positive K is steady getting his head pounded out by Diddy and his cell phone. Shit was hectic B.

So, after Diddy feels like K had enough and asks him “whose my bitch, K, WHOSE MY BITCH?!!!” K wimpers out “uncle” through some broken and bloody teeth. Diddy then steps away from K’s crumpled up body and Diddy’s bodyguards (he only had like two at the time), each scoop K up by his armpits and tosses his broken ass out the club and onto the sidewalk. The party resumes, we all get pissy drunk and that’s the last time I heard anything about Positive K (if anyone knows what he’s up to these days, please let me know what’s good with dude).

Now I know Diddy has moved on to become an international star, known and loved by millions. I even caught dude live last night on his Ptwitty TV Live telecast last night. I would love to see some unlucky fellow like 50 Cent or Soulja Boy mouth off to Sean Combs, just to get their effin asses beat like a broke ho’ in front of millions and live on Ptwitty TV. That would be mighty special.

Courtesy of Byron Crawford

Combat Jack Throwback: Pete Rock Is Not A Snitch!

March 18, 2009

Still spring cleaning. So in the meantime, and as promised, here’s a throwback of my world famous, award winning blog series recapturing my Top 5 gulliest moments I experienced first hand in the music industry, shit you won’t hear about anywhere else on the whole effin planet but here!

#4. Pete Rock Is Not A Snitch (Prior, #5)

Back around 1993, Pete Rock was a producer God in the greater New York City area. Shit, dude was God worldwide! He also happened to be in one of the hottest rap groups (Pete Rock & CL Smooth (although I never understood what the eff CL was saying). His remixes for legends like RUN-DMC and Public Enemy further cemented his status as a legend in this Hip Hop game.

Around that time, a lot of of music industry players hailed from the Northern town of Mount Vernon (Puffy, Heavy D and the Boyz, Pete and CL). Anyways, Pete, being the good hardworking and industrious dude that he is, was trying to put a local rap group called the the YG’z (short for “Young Gunz”) on. He provided these dudes with a lil’ cash, supplied them with ample beats and even got them a record deal with I think either Uptown or MCA. Problem was these cats were really turrible. Kinda like Big Shug and Group Home status when they got hooked up by the homie Premier. In addition, word on the street was that these cats were all like ex-cons, stick-up men or professional crooks or some other shit like that and everyone who knew them knew damn well that they had no effin business being in the music industry other than the fact that they knew Pete. They even had a single or something called that come out and it stank like cabbage and chitlins stew. Cutting losses, the label dropped them. Back on the street, slanging, purse snatching and what not, they started leaning on Pete. Hard too. I guess they figured Pete was gonna continue funding them, “riding” with them or whatever the fuck real thugs think they man’s an ’em is supposed to do. Pete, however, realized that these cats were a bad investment of time and energy and tried his damned best to cut these bad news bears off.

That summer, I attended a Mt. Vernon “family day” kinda picnic. It was one of those picturesque days, like in a Dr. Dre or Fresh Prince music video, and everyone was there enjoying Heavy D’s special barbeque chicken and ribs. Pete, with chicken in hand, was posted up in the piece, rapping to some dime pieces on a huge ass picnic blanket when the YG’z show up. Once dudes got there, shit kinda got tense, music turned down low, you know how dramatic thug life be. So one of the YG fellows request Pete’s attention. As Pete promptly got up to talk, the YG sneak swings and knocks Pete Rock in the jaw with an uppercut, catapult launching dude clean over the huge ass picnic blanket spread. The chicks is screaming, cats are scrambling to get out of there, kids is crying, Pete is convulsing on the ground with barbeque sauce all over his bright yellow Cross Colours jersey on account of how his brain got shut down cause he was knocked the fuck out and the YG’z are steady and dilligently rifling through his pockets Debo style. Heav and the rest of the “Mt. Vernon” crew don’t really say shit, looking in each and every direction except Pete’s (I guesss because the YG’z were really that gully). Eventually, Pete gets up, makes it to his feet, dusts hisself off, recovers, immediately realizes what just took place and automatically jumps into a sprint OJ-style Hertz car rental commercial style, across the picnic grounds with the YG’z hot on his tail. [||].

From what I understand, this extortion shit went on for quite some time. A few months later, like around winter time, I was on my way to attend some music industry black tie event in Manhattan. When I get to the venue, I see Pete running the fuck my way in a tuxedo, knees to chest. Doing my best not to get bowled over, I move out of his way. A few seconds later, I see the YG’z (not in tuxedo) running after him, also kness to chest style. Where I’m going with this is that during the entire time that dudes are hazing Pete (let’s say a period of like 9 months), Pete never ever contacted the authorities. He took his multiple beatdowns and terrorizings like a man. Pete might even be on some additional legendary shit as he might have actually been the pioneer of this whole current “stop snitching” movement that’s become the ghetto code from hood to hood. I really respect that. He may be a lot of things, but one thing no one can ever say about the man is that the Soul Brother #1 ain’t nevah snitch.

Courtesy of the homie Byron Crawford.