Excerpt: The Devil's Symphony
The Devil's Symphony: Chapter Two excerpt:
“Whatup cousin,” Randall said to Marcus, who smiled at him. Randall noticed that Marcus had on
black leather gloves and a vintage State Property leather bomber. Something was awkward with Marcus’
gait. “You limping?” Randall asked.
Before Marcus could answer, the vibration of heavy bass emerged from the darkness. The
approaching sound was unmistakable; loud and deep, yet with enough clarity to make out the lyrics. The
vibration literally shook the pavement as it grew closer.
Randall turned to look.
Marcus didn’t bother.
What the crowd first heard, felt and then saw, was Streaks’ and his Gravytrain envoy of five whips,
including Streaks’ gleaming Benz. They were more than a block away and around the corner when the
crowd first heard the squad. Streaks’ truck was third in line, flanked by his generals both in front and
behind.
Damn, that is one bangin’-ass system, Randall thought, hating himself for admiring anything at all
connected to Streaks. But the true tone of the evening was set when Streaks and his entourage turned the
corner.
It was as if Streaks’ Mercedes bathed the entire strip in a white, icy-blue sheen.
Pushing the iridescent midnight black truck slowly up the street, the bass from Streaks’ heralded set
of 12 Sony XS-Series 20-inch speakers sent shockwaves through the gape-mouthed patrons. His twin pair of
Maxos blue-light halogen headlamps shone enough brightness that one could easily mistake the time of day
as high noon, while the roof-racked PIAA lamps threw beams of light skyward, illuminating the broken-
down second floor of Jeronimo’s.
As Streaks and his fleet slowly made their way up the block, Randall’s eyes briefly met his before
Streaks resumed his player posture behind the wheel of his outsized truck.
After the cars turned right on 22nd. Street to make their way to what served as Jeronimo’s parking
lot, Randall then returned his attention to Marcus, who was fiddling with his baggy jeans.
“Did you see that? Streaks is on some other shit tonight,” Randall said, more out of amazement at
Streaks’ audacious posturing.
Marcus seemed enchanted by Randall’s growing outward dislike for Streaks.
“Well, let’s get up in this spot before shit gets out of hand out here,” Randall said, motioning to the
single door guarded by two huge, armed and angry-looking bouncers. “Just don’t expect too much of a show
from them Gravytrain cats.”
Marcus smiled while still fiddling with his pants. “Oh, there will be a good show tonight, I can feel
it.”
The comment struck Randall as odd since he didn’t pick up the sense that Marcus was familiar with
Gravytrain, but he paid it little attention; instead, Randall pulled out the $20 needed to get in.
At the door, Randall received a rougher than usual frisk, while Marcus seemed to breeze through.
Once past security, Randall had to adjust his eyes to compensate for the thick clouds of marijuana
smoke and exhaust from numerous lit Black ‘N Mild cigars.
The cavernous club was dark, dank, and altogether imposing, with 40-inch club speakers perched in
each corner, providing a circular enclosure for the packed bar and cramped stage. The disco lights were
flashing intermittent globes of colors; glittering shards of red, blue and white-light hues danced off the
shimmering jewelry worn by the patrons and their bottles of champagne and glasses of mixed drinks.
Randall’s uneasiness was apparent.
“You don’t like being in here, do you?” Marcus whispered in Randall’s ear. For some reason,
Randall thought it was more than just his darting eyes and unsure stroll that tipped Marcus off; little did
Randall know, Marcus’ intuition came from a deeper, darker source.
Randall didn’t know the reason, but today of all days his resentment towards Streaks finally bubbled
over, and it was indeed beginning to show.
“You need to lighten the fuck up some, Randall. Don’t worry about Streaks and that bullshit earlier.
I told you, you don’t have anything to worry about.”
Marcus threw back his head and laughed, his guffaw seeming to echo off the walls inside of
Randall’s head.
Randall could have sworn he spotted something that looked like a broken cross tattooed on Marcus’
throat. “Unless you think Streaks’ is going to jump off that stage at you.”
As Randall considered the nature of his dislike for Streaks, the house DJ broke off the mix to
announce that Gravytrain was about to take the stage.
Gravytrain had its full complement of members, and judging by their behavior, at least in Randall’s
mind, the crew seemed more menacing than usual.
Streaks grabbed the microphone before proclaiming, “Gravytrain is in the motherfuckin’ house!”
and took off the top to his baby blue Gucci sweat suit and then his contrasting undershirt, revealing an
assortment of thug-related tattoos on his torso, including a large train with “Streaks” under it in bold script.
Streaks obviously had a thing for plush two-piece sweat suits, Randall thought.
Out the corner of his eye, Randall could see Marcus sneering and staring at the stage and towards
Streaks.
Streaks and his Gravytrain crew spirited through their 45-minute-long set, with Streaks working the
like-minded crowd into a frenzy. He, too, worked the women into a lather; his sex appeal evident by the
screams of the adoring females.
Randall was even more put off by this undue fawning and mindless appreciation, while Marcus
never tore his eyes from the stage.
With his pendant glimmering as it swung to and fro during his set, Streaks often clutched his frosty
necklace to make a point.
The crowd seemed to love every verse of the nearly hourlong set. Marcus found it hilarious, but for
an entirely different reason.
“Give it up for Gravytrain!” the house DJ urged, as a spent Streaks left the stage, with crew in tow.
An exhausted Streaks was seen heading toward the darkened VIP area, alone, when Marcus’ smile
grew even wider.
Signed copies of "The Devil's Symphony" now available.
Excerpt: Soul in Ink: The Memoirs of a Journalist
Soul in Ink: The Memoirs of a Journalist: Chapter Two excerpt:
Sometimes, really bad things happen to really good people, and more often than not, I was the reporter sent to cover the fallout.
I, along with Regina Medina, Dana DiFilippo and Christine Olley, comprised the majority of the dayside “crime cubicle” of reporters, the ones usually sent out to cover blood and crime.
At the time, we had, among others, colleagues Dave Gambacorda and Dafney Tales as the night side crime reporters. Regina, I knew, wasn’t one for crime coverage, but I thought that Christine would jump at the chance to cover this story.
But City Desk Editor Barbara Laker didn’t bother asking the other two reporters, who appeared wholly disinterested in the idea of hitting up North Philly. In all fairness, it could have been that they were busy with some ongoing project and just couldn’t free themselves to cover this story.
Of course, I thought I was assigned to cover it because the victim was black; might as well send the black reporter to the black neighborhood to cover the murder of someone black, right? But by this time, I was so accustomed to covering such drama in the inner-city community that I developed a penchant for that type of coverage; I guess Barbara saw that as well; nonetheless, off I went.
And for her part, Barbara wanted a straightforward story ︎ on the tragic killing of West African immigrant Fassara Kouyate, who worked a number of jobs, including at a car wash in North Philly, to support his family.
Cops said that Fassara was shot and killed during a robbery at the car wash.
Barbara wanted me to start there, to speak with any of his co-workers and to find out what sort of person Fassara was. And since the editors had Fassara’s address, Barbara also wanted me to stop by his house and see if any of the grieving relatives would be willing to speak to me. Which meant another house- end.
The media already covered Fassara’s murder, so Barbara didn’t expect much; but what I delivered certainly cemented my status as one of the go-to reporters for ‘hood crime.
I saved the hardest part for last and made my way up Broad Street towards Lehigh Avenue and the Lehigh Car Wash, which sits directly on the corner of the bustling intersection.
The car wash complex is massive - it has two lanes of drive-through car wash traffic, and when I stopped by, it seemed to employ a number of African immigrants.
Moulaye Konandji, one of Fassara’s coworkers at the 24hour car wash, told me he didn’t deserve to die over a few bucks, and that Fassara was a good man who would never bring harm to anyone.
Moulaye’s matter-of-fact mannerism struck me as kind of odd, but it could be that the wanton, random violence in Philadelphia just didn’t shock anyone anymore - not even a co-worker still plying his trade in the same building where, just hours earlier, a peer was shot and killed in cold blood.
But if Moulaye’s reaction was lukewarm at most, I knew there was one place where I would find brimming emotion - and that was at Fassara’s Kensington neighborhood rowhome.
On the way to the Kouyate’s, I thought of the senseless killing of a man who came to America from Mali in 2000, trying to support his family there. Fassara already had relatives in the states; he was killed just days after his return to the States from the Motherland.
By all accounts, the 37-year-old Fassara was a man’s man.
The scene was surreal and very somber once I reached the Kouyate residence. The whole block seemed to be in mourning, and a number of people milled about the residence. All wore the unmistakable mask of pain blended with angst and despair - a look that can only be expressed by a person living in the moment of great loss.
So I approached with great caution and with an extra sense of respect.
I was particularly tactful towards people that were experiencing a profound loss, and the last thing any reporter wanted was to come off as cold and insensitive about the situation - you know, putting the story before the person.
With that in mind, I introduced myself to one of the young men on the porch, gave him my card, and asked to speak to Fassara wife. A trick I picked up was to never say the word “widow” when talking to a grieving spouse. It was just in bad taste to use that term at a scene, especially in the wake of death. And usually, the subject would respond favorably to my inquiry if I showed just the right touch.
And it worked here, as the young man, obviously in pain and reeling from Fassara’s death, said his mother would be home in a few minutes. That exchange with one of the Fassara’s sons proved that my approach was correct.
Signed copies of "Soul in Ink: The Memoirs of a Journalist" now available.
Excerpt: The Jawn 2.0: Philly's Unsigned Talent, 2001-2007
The Jawn: Philly's Unsigned Talent, 2001-2007: 2001 excerpt:
May 17, 2001:
Interview with Concept/One Entertainment.
If hip-hop heads were asked which massive local crew is the mightiest, Concept/One Entertainment may not be the first name spat out.
But the crew represents more than 11 in-house producers, 35 artists, numerous DJs, artist representation specialists and graphic artists. So why is this one of the hottest Philly camps no one has heard of?
“It seems that while Philly has some of the best artists, labels come here and take from
Philly,” said CEO Mandrick Mayo. “It’s like we’re ghosts, but now, labels have to come to us because the sound is fresh.” Fresh indeed.
The crew has a slew of albums out, including North Brick’s “Who Da Click,” and “The Copout,” by DJ Black. They even have the spoken word genre locked down with the fly vibrations of female artist Eloquence, who once rolled with Jill Scott.
The different flavors of the crew lead to a more distinct sound, unlike many of the carbon-copy groups out today. “We’re doing all we can to get our sound out,” stressed executive vice president Edwin Wilkinson. “We’re taking our sound to college campuses, local stages.”
Up next from the squad? Fresh sounds from T-Quest, Mercy Blackout, Lobo and twin 13-year-old MCs Lil Man and Taichia will keep it hot, and around the corner is Eloquence’s release.
If you're feelin’ this crew, dig their sounds at www.conceptoneentertainment.com, and if you need fly beats and production, hit the crew up at VP Wilkinson at 856- 220-2084.
June 21, 2001:
Interview with 20th Street Morroccos.
With an ever-improving crop of hungry, talented MCs and groups, one squadron in particular is storming that next level and reppin’ Philly to the fullest.
The crew, 20th Street Morroccos, has put down some lush rhymes, and their single, “Queens,” an ode to the strong women in their lives, has received good reviews from Power 99. But the crew does more than mouth positives about supporting the community.
They are also donating a portion of their proceeds to local and national women’s groups.
“The song was inspirational,” MC Ice Gritty explains. “We felt the vibe to give back, and our success is a tribute to the women in our lives.”
But don’t get it twisted. The crew -consisting of Ice Gritty, Cool Tone, Rod Bliz, Corey Battle and Big Pooh - lays down the law on their soon-to be-released foray. Fly gems to peep the upcoming release include the battle-savvy mike work on “Simple,” and the amped-up bounce track, “What ’Chall Know ’Bout ’Dis?” The crew, reppin’ as a unit under the Big Moves Entertainment flag, has that distinct Philly sound, but also has a
rare uniqueness and dose of realism in their music.
“We have two producers and we strive on versatility,” said Cool Tone. “But we are also
working, blue-collar MCs.”
20M holds it down when it comes to beats, rhymes and life, and they can hold it down for aspiring MCs in search of that perfect beat or management expertise as well. To get down with the legion and for more info on their tracks, hit the team up at 215-531-7858, or send them an e-mail at IceGritty20M@hotmail.com or HipHop20M@hotmail.com.
June 28, 2001:
Interview with Funk Wizard Snow (PhillyHipHop.com, Greater
Philadelphia Hip-Hop Alliance).
Heads in tune to the dotcom era often struggle to find that local web site that features the nicest in underground Philly hip-hop. Enter www.PhillyHipHop.com and its editor, Funk Wizard Snow.
Snow has been lacing the area with interactive online vibes for the past two years, and he believes the Internet is the route to go for local MCs.
“It’s another avenue for artists to get exposure,” Snow said. “And it’s helping make Philly hip-hop stronger than ever.”
Also strengthening the local scene is the Greater Philadelphia Hip-Hop Alliance, which Snow’s partner Disco Dave heads through the site. Snow contends that most local artists have been jerked by the business, and he envisions the Alliance protecting them.
“We need to unionize artists’ efforts,” Snow said. The first meeting of the GPHHA, which is open exclusively to those with a hip-hop connection and either reside in or are from the region, will be held at 7 p.m. Tuesday, July 27, at 3901 Market St.
Hit up Dave through the site for more info or to register, and while you’re there, peep the Philly Hip-Hop Hall of Fame, submit your work, or hear selected tracks from hot local artists.
Signed copies of "The Jawn 2.0: Philly's Unsigned Talent, 2001-2007," now available.