Details About The Golden Age Of Rap That Didn't Happen Like You Think

Ask any rap-head — as they preferred to be called — what the first rap record was, and you'll get the same answer ninety-nine times out of a hundred: "Rapper's Delight" by the Sugarhill Gang. A bunch of interlopers from New Jersey who were assembled specifically for the purpose by Sugarhill Records founder Sylvia Robinson, the Gang — Michael "Wonder Mike" Wright, Guy "Master Gee" O'Brien, and Henry "Big Bank Hank" Jackson — blew Hip-Hoppers' minds with the release, but caught plenty of flak from their fellow rappers. Specifically, they were... well, outsiders from New Jersey that nobody had ever heard of, and Hank cribbed all of his rhymes from his friend Grandmaster Caz of the Cold Crush Brothers, a well-respected crew who were actually from New York.

The Cold Crush, along with such stars as Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five (via the Guardian), were among many who had been kicking around the idea of making an actual record for a while — too long, as it turned out, for Sugarhill beat them all to the punch. Well, almost. Practically lost to history is the fact that popular funk outfit The Fatback Band, accompanied by radio DJ Tim Washington on vocals, had actually beaten "Rapper's Delight" to record store shelves by a full six months with their tune "King Tim III (Personality Jock)," as reported by the Fayetteville Observer. The track was released as the B-Side to the band's single "You're My Candy Sweet," because their label just didn't think this rapping stuff was going to catch on with listeners, which allowed the Sugarhill Gang to grab credit where it wasn't exactly due. Flash and others would quickly follow, and it wasn't long before major labels began to take notice.

When most people think of rap battles, they think of Eminem ridiculing rivals in exceedingly clever fashion until they just go home. But in rap's early days, "battles" were more like contests to see who could pump up the crowd the most. However, that went out the window one infamous night in 1981 at the Harlem World nightclub, when MC Kool Moe Dee of the Treacherous Three, a razor-tongued rapper with a voice and vocabulary to match, decided that the reigning champ had gotten too big for his britches.

Moe Dee's victim that night was his friend, MC "Chief Rocker" Busy Bee, whose call-and-response routines and funky scatting never failed to hype up the crowd. As related by the MCs themselves in the rap documentary "Beef," Moe Dee was actually hosting that evening's MC contest, but he became a little peeved when Busy Bee entered the venue already running his mouth about how whoever was running this joint ought to just give him the trophy. Indeed, by all accounts, he rocked the crowd and would have won — if Moe Dee had not put himself on the list to follow the "champ." On the bootleg tapes that would eventually be heard bumping out of cars and boom boxes across the five boroughs, jaws could be heard hitting the floor from the moment Moe Dee uttered his first rhymes: "Now come on Busy Bee, I don't mean to be bold / But put that bomp-bitty-bomp bulls*** on hold / We gonna get right down to the nitty-grit / I'mma tell you a little something why you ain't s***." Moe's verbal assault was overwhelming — and when those tapes hit the street, every rapper in New York realized that their craft had changed drastically in that one night.

That small, crappy label: Def Jam Recordings, which would go on to become a rap powerhouse in a ridiculously short amount of time. After first releasing a little-heard EP from Rubin's punk band Hose, the label began to focus on rap singles. According to an interview with Sirius XM, it was Ad Rock who, while sifting through a pile of demos Rubin had received that same year, happened upon a submission from a 16-year old kid by the name of James Todd Smith. Rubin promptly signed the dynamic youngster, .and a reworked version of the demo tune became Def Jam's first rap twelve-inch: "I Need a Beat," by the newly-christened LL Cool J.

More singles followed, including the classic "It's Yours" by New York rap duo T La Rock and Jazzy Jay, and "Rock Hard," the Beasties' first recording with the label, in 1984. While Run-D.M.C. had amicably departed for Profile Records, the massive success of LL's 1985 debut album "Radio" ensured that they weren't missed too much — and their short time at Def Jam resulted in a close association with the Beastie Boys that would last through both bands' most fruitful periods. Run and D contributed two songs ("Slow and Low" and "Paul Revere") to "Licensed to Ill," and in 1987, the bands embarked on a worldwide tour together while at the height of their respective powers.

By the early-to-mid '80s, Disco had pretty much ceased to be a factor in pop music. While some of the crews were clinging to uptempo, funky party tracks in their recordings, a contingent of youngsters were doing things a bit differently — and leading this pack was Run-D.M.C. Their 1983 single "It's Like That/Sucker M.C.s" featured the group's two rappers trading near-shouted rhymes over huge, sparse drum beats, and by the time their self-titled debut album dropped the following year, another interesting element had been added: electric guitars.

Of course,the group would later drop-kick rap into the mainstream with their landmark Aerosmith collaboration "Walk This Way," and one could be forgiven for thinking that the tune's co-producer Rick Rubin was also responsible for their early rock-rap missives such as "Rock Box" and "King of Rock." That credit actually belongs entirely to Larry Smith, an old-school session musician who got his foot in the Hip-Hop door playing bass on Kurtis Blow's "Christmas Rappin'." According to an in-depth piece by music journalist Robbie Ettelson for Medium, Blow helped steer Smith toward production, a role in which Smith pioneered the application of big, booming, rock-style drum sounds to rap. Smith produced two albums apiece for Run-D.M.C. and legendary group Whodini, applying an R&B sheen to the latter and a hard rock edge to the former, with sterling results in the form of two gold and two platinum platters. Smith, unfortunately, passed away in 2014, and while he's not exactly a household name today, he's an icon in the world of rap.

It may seem like during the '90s, rap flows just got trickier and more complex year after year, from groups like the Pharcyde early in the decade, on through to tongue-twisting maestros like OutKast and Eminem in its later years. While this isn't wholly inaccurate, all of those artists followed a blueprint that came into existence quite suddenly thanks to ... well, basically, a couple of dudes who thought they were better than all the rest of the MCs. As it turned out, they were right.

Before 1986, rap flow was very simple rhythmically and poetically, with monosyllabic rhymes dropped on or about the final downbeat of every measure. That came to a crashing halt with the release of two records that year: "Criminal Minded," the debut album from Bronx crew Boogie Down Productions and its prodigiously gifted MC KRS-One, and the single "My Melody/Eric B. is President" by Eric B. and Rakim. Rappers and listeners alike had never heard anything quite like the rapid-fire, machine-gun flow of BDP's album opener "Poetry," nor the complex, internal and multisyllabic rhyme schemes of Rakim, which he delivered with a disarmingly relaxed flow that many critics have noted resembles a jazz saxophonist (via Complex). In the years immediately following, rappers like Juice Crew members Kool G Rap and Big Daddy Kane would follow their lead, in turn influencing all of those wordsmiths of the mid-to-late '90s. But, as Kane himself made clear in an interview with radio station Power 105.1, the "top three rappers" of his era were KRS, Rakim — and himself, of course. 

While producers like Larry Brown and Rick Rubin were using their musical influences to open up rap's sonic template, and Queens producer Marley Marl was innovating with his use of sampled drums, a true wunderkind of rap production was laboring away in his bedroom at his mother's house, mastering a piece of equipment that would soon become a vital tool of the trade. Paul McKasty, who was drawn to rap after a short stint in pop/rock group Mandolindley Road Show, had a notion that one might beef up the sound of the rap tracks he was hearing by incorporating more organic sounds. To this end, he began studying the E-mu SP-12 sampler, one of the cheapest, most accessible devices of its kind. 

According to a retrospective by Gino Sorcinelli for Medium, Paul's deep musical knowledge combined with his understanding of the E-mu device and its strengths and limitations made even his early efforts at rap production sound like nothing that had come before them — gritty, jittery, and textured. Those early bedroom studio tracks caught the attention of local rappers the Clientele Brothers, who in turn introduced Paul to rapper Mikey D, who extended an invitation for Paul to join his group the L.A. Posse. After taking up residence at Queens recording studio 1212, Paul would share his knowledge of the sampler with such future luminaries as Main Source MC and producer Large Professor and Ced Gee of Ultramagnetic MCs, who would benefit from Paul's production on their landmark album "Critical Beatdown." Unfortunately, he would never get the credit he deserved. After an all-night studio session with rap group Almighty RSO one summer night in 1989, Paul was shot to death in his mother's home at the age of 24. The murder has never been solved.

While hardcore rap artists were selling truckloads of records throughout the late '80s and early '90s, radio stubbornly refused to play pretty much anything but the soft stuff until 1993. Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg made a dent in the pop charts with "Nuthin' But a G Thang" from Dre's classic album "The Chronic" early that year, but its smooth, laid-back sound wasn't exactly hard on the ears of your average radio listener. In order for hardcore rap to start getting radio play, someone had to kick down the door — and it wasn't Dre or Snoop who did the kicking. That honor belonged to Onyx, an ultra-rugged four-man outfit from New York which assaulted the ears of listeners.

According to NPR, Rick Cummings, program director at L.A.'s Power 106, precipitated the shift when his station experienced a serious dip in ratings in the early '90s. Realizing that the hardcore rap crowd represented a vast untapped market, Cummings began experimenting with adding rap to the rotation. So well-received was the switch that Cummings soon completely retooled the station's format, and by 1993, other stations were taking notice. At precisely the right moment came "Slam," the lead single from Onyx's debut album "Bacdaf*cup" — a raucous, abrasive piece of hardcore rap helped along by a performance video bursting with so much energy that it could have been shot at a Slayer concert. "Slam" improbably peaked at #4 on the Billboard pop chart, instantly redefining what could be considered radio-friendly — and in a nice bit of serendipity, the song was co-produced by the legendary DJ Jam Master Jay of Run-D.M.C., the group that helped to prove rap's commercial viability in the first place.