A Risky Business

Entertainment: Rappers talk tough about life in the 'hood but when it comes to money, many are babes in the woods. Some top stars never get top dollar.

CHERYL JAMES AND SANDY DENTON knew very little about the music business when they landed their recording contract that transformed a couple of Sears customer-service reps into rap's most successful girl group: Salt 'N' Pepa. How little? In 1985, when their manager said sign on the dotted line, they did: a 1~year contract with Next Plateau Records for 50 cents per album sold (half the going rate) with no option to renegotiate even if they were to become, say, a top 40 hit machine. Three platinum albums later, they made about $100,000 a year each, while their manager and record company raked in millions. "I always knew something wasn't right with it, but I didn't know what," says Denton of their ironclad deal. "We were intimidated by this white business-man telling us it was the right thing to do." Adds James: "We never even thought of a lawyer."

Few young black hip-hop performers do, until it's too late. Dr. Dre (Andre Young), producer of his own top-selling album "The Chronic" as well as Snoop Doggy Dogg's huge hit "Doggystyle," says he plans to file a $20 million lawsuit next month against Ruthless Records for living up to their name and underpaying royalties while he was with the proto-"gangsta" group N.WA. The suit will claim Ruthless took advantage of Dre's lack of business knowledge and that he received only $90,000 a year in royalties for producing N.W.A.’s three platinum albums (more than a million sold of each). In April, Bobby Brown filed a $10 million suit against his former business managers, Jeffrey Turner and Brian Irvine, claming they "took advantage of his naivete about the business." After making $27 million from 1989 to 1993, Brown says he's nearly broke and owes $3 million to the IRS because of his managers shoddy accounting. (Being married to Whitney Houston may have lessened this financial blow.) Similar actions have been going on for years. After KRS~One (Kris Parker) released his debut album, "Criminal Minded," on B-Boy Records in 1987, he sued the now-defunct label for back royalties and to get out of a lengthy contract, citing lack of legal representation when he agreed to the deal. 'As successful as that album was," says Parker, "I never got a cent" The suit was settled out of court.

Labels ripping off managers ripping off artists has long been the food chain in the music
industry, from Little Richard to Billy Joel. But rappers may be even more likely to get eaten
alive. Tough, aggressive survivors, they escape the projects of Chicago or the streets of South-Central LA only to be suckered by record-industry "suits" armed with Mont Blanc pens and 60-page contracts. They unwittingly sign away royalties, publishing rights and contractual freedom in exchange for BMWs (the current signing inducement of choice) and a few grand in fast cash. “These kids are not business savvy nor for the most part are their famlies," says Matt Robinson, vice president of A&R at Capitol Records. A white kid in a grunge band is more likely to have an uncle who's a lawyer. KRS-One was homeless on the streets of New York when he signed his deal. Rap music generated $800 million for the recording industry last year but is still taken less seriously than white-dominated genres like metal or alter-native rock. Says Robinson: "Because the record companies don't see any long term future for rap, they fail to nurture these kids the way they should"

Rap acts are routinely signed for half the $300,000 advance that the average new white alternative band can expect for their first album. Traditionally the performer gets an 8 to 12 percent royalty on the retail price of his record and the option to renegotiate. "'That's not what I see when these kids come to me to get their contracts changed," says Steven Barnes, a top black entertainment lawyer. "'The royalty is usually significantly lower than that, with other problems as well." Rap duo Kid 'N Play got 1 percent of their first album; R Kelly was 18 years old and living in a Chicago housing project when he signed an eight-year deal that he thought was for two. “It was hell to get out of," says Kelly.

Black performers have lived this hell before. Motown's Jackie Wilson and Mary Wells both came to fame in the '60s from impoverished Detroit neighborhoods and both died broke, exploited by the label they helped make famous. Is racism to blame? In part, but it's more complicated than that. After all, Motown founder Berry Gordy was black. And many of the bad deals signed today are the result of abuses not only by white-owned record conglomerates but the black-owned production companies and managers who recruit new artists from the street and then serve as the middlemen. "Gang-banged by your manager fella/ Getting money out of your ass like a mother fucking Ready Teller," rhymes Ice Cube (O'shea Jackson) on his album "Death Certificate." (Ice Cube has said that he had to hang his platinum records at his mother's house because he couldn't afford his own.) Dr Dre's video "Dre Day" includes a scathing depiction of a white record company owner and his black partner. "If I knew how to handle business, I'd have gone into it"' says Dre. "I feel, as an artist, I shouldn't have to worry constantly about the business side."

The record and production companies don't see it that way. They argue that signing an unknown is a financial risk and that adult performers are legally responsible for deals they put their signature to. Ruthless Records attorney Mike Bourbeau says the company paid Dr Dre more than $1 million for his work with N.W.A. Salt 'N' Pepa's manager, Hurby Azor, says that he deserves 50 percent of their money, twice the normal cut, for discovering them, but he also adds, "They should have paid more attention to what was going on with their business."

It's an emotional issue, filled with had blood and nasty ironies. “These kids aren't thinking beyond today and the new car and the house, because those are things they haven't had," says Gladys Knight, who, as an early Motown star, watched these same riches-to-rags stories unravel 30 years ago. “They don't realize that if they don't get what they deserve in the beginning, it's going to be hard to pay the bills in 10 years when the hits stop coming," As this rueful history repeats itself, it seems apt that one of the songs named in Dre's deposition is titled "Poor, Broke and Lonely."