cont...
We pass by some anonymous student housing; Wall identifies it as the location of the video for "Still Tippin'," the Mike Jones single that featured Wall and Slim Thug. The track, built around a haunting violin lick, is soaked in Houston's car culture. It's not screwed, but it has the languid pace of screw music. The chorus "Still tippin' on four-fours," sampled from an old Slim Thug freestyle, means "still driving with '84 Cadillac rims." The prized rims sell for three or four thousand a set, but Wall warns, "You wear them the wrong place, they'll put a gun to your head and steal them. You usually see them on the cars of fearless young kids or OGs."
Perfectly styled Houston cars are "draped up and dripped out": They sometimes feature a trunk left ajar, showing off interior neon lights. About ten years ago, when there was a lot of bad blood in Houston -- people think it began when Northsiders started stealing Southsiders' cars -- the North rolled in blue cars, the South in red. These days, the color war is over and people trick out their cars in whatever candy color they want.
We drive north, into the Rosewood district. Wall grew up in a middle-class northern suburb (although he says times were often hard for him, because his biological father was a "dope fiend"). For a long time, Houston's hip-hop scene was based on the south side of town, where the Screwed-Up Click did business. If you wanted to buy a screw tape or see a show, you'd have to come south. It's all decentralized now, and part of the reason is that Michael Watts founded Swishahouse Records on the Northside and signed up all the talent in his part of town.
"As you can see, there's a lot of drug addicts around here," Wall says conversationally as we drive down Homestead Road. Outside a check-cashing place stands an emaciated man with his shirt off. The city's unzoned sprawl includes some rough sections: Houston's murder rate is double the national average. Wall steers through some narrow back roads, crowded with small single-story houses, and points out the Swishahouse, which looks the same as every other house on the block. A neighbor comes over to say hello; he has a teardrop tattooed next to his eye.
Wall cruises over to the Sharpstown Center mall; just inside the main entrance is his jewelry store, TV Jewelry. The shop still has the black-and-white tiles that reveal its previous tenant, an Auntie Anne's Pretzels. The stock includes iced-out pendants of Jesus where diamonds festoon his hair, beard and crown of thorns. But the house specialty is another Houston favorite: grilles.
Only three or four years ago, if you wanted to flash gold and diamonds when you smiled, you'd have to knock out some incisors or file down some teeth to glue on the caps. (There were also temporary caps that you could bend over your teeth, but they were prone to coming off if you chewed gum.) The latest models of grilles, though, are essentially high-end retainers that slip over your teeth. They're doing well all over the South, but they're especially popular in Houston. Wall got into the business because he wanted to be able to afford his own grille; he did so well as a salesman, he ended up going into a partnership with jeweler Johnny Dang. It's an American success story: a white kid immersed in black culture, teamed up with a Vietnamese immigrant. They used to do all the molds by hand together, but now they have a backroom operation with state-of-the-art kilns and thirty-two employees capable of turning out 400 to 500 grilles a day. Master P and Chingy have bought grilles from Wall -- Lil Jon dropped $50,000 on two at once.
"At this point, I'm rapping to promote the jewelry store," Wall admits. "I like to make music, but I don't like to rap. I like to DJ." Wall describes himself as a tireless proponent of Houston hip-hop -- the guy who owned 150 screw tapes and was always willing to hand out fliers for shows or peddle mix tapes. That work ethic has made him friends all around town; some people jokingly call him "the mayor."
Wall heads to the Sound Check music complex, a grungy rehearsal space with a framed copy of Born to Run in the bathroom. Behind a door labeled seattle is Wall's studio, filled with a dozen producers and friends, including his guest Slim Thug, a.k.a. Boss Hogg but born Stayve Thomas. Slim, six-foot-six, lounges on a couch with one arm around his beautiful girlfriend, LeToya Luckett (an original member of Destiny's Child -- who also come from Houston). He's passing on some music-industry wisdom to Wall: "You gotta do the radio shit, man."
Slim and Wall trade stories about Mike Jones, and how for a time he called himself "Sache" (pronounced like Versace). "He got that tattooed," Wall says, "but it looked like a jailhouse tattoo. He did it himself."
"When I first knew Mike Jones," Slim says, "he used to hook me up with phones. He always had the two-ways and the new Sprint phones."
Slim has had a ten-year career in Houston. Still only twenty-four, he's just made his national debut with a much-delayed album that has many tracks produced by the Neptunes; it's a high-gloss, L.A. version of the Houston sound. "Man, I've been messing with Pharrell," Slim says. "They want to be in L.A. or Miami; they don't want to come to Houston. They got to do the fly spots." Today, however, during a brief interlude before he goes back on the road, Slim too is concerned with his nonmusical business. For Slim, it's real estate: He owns two record stores and is discussing an expansion into shoe stores.
"Everybody says I'm money-hungry," Slim says a little sheepishly. "It might be true. When I see money, it's like Christmas."
Working in another studio on the other side of town is Bun B, half of the legendary Houston rap duo UGK, finishing up a solo record. (His UGK partner, producer Pimp C, is serving time for an assault conviction but is up for parole in December.) Bun B, a Houston veteran at age thirty-one, born Bernard Freeman, has an easy charm and enough business savvy to offer a nuanced history of the local distribution system. (In short: The collapse of a major distributor a few years back forced local artists and labels to build up their own distribution channels, which made them more astute when the major labels came back around.) Today, however, he is working on tracks for his forthcoming album, Trill, and planning a video with John Tucker, who under the name Dr. Teeth has directed most of the Houston hip-hop videos.
Bun says he always wanted to do a video where he would arrive for a gig via helicopter, but his record company's response was "Can't you get in a Cadillac and ride through the hood?" He shakes his head. "Man, I'm tired of the hood. I want to see choppers and ladders!"
The treatment on Tucker's laptop, however, reads, "Bun B hops into a low rider old school Cadillac drop top . . . "
The conversation turns to cough syrup. Bun has been trying to figure out whether it was responsible for his recent gain of about forty pounds in six months. "I was sipping, but it was sociable," he says. "But then I started buying . . . " After further thought, he decides that mixing the syrup with soda was behind the weight gain, although the codeine-laced syrup has other nasty side effects; in Bun's case, it was screwing up his kidneys.
Asked if screw music's success was based on the popularity of syrup, Bun says no. "The music caught on a lot faster than the syrup," he says. "I could go to Wal-Mart and pop a screw tape in the stereo, but I couldn't go to a bar and ask for syrup." He says that screw music reflects the local vibe, which is laid-back: "You gotta have that cutthroat mentality in New York. But the average life of a Texan is not that intense. He can look at life slowly. He doesn't want to expend that much energy listening to a record at night."
(Posted Aug 11, 2005)
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