The Letter:
Hello,
After more than 20 years, I’ve finally
decided to tell the world what I witnessed in 1991, which I believe was
one of the biggest turning point in popular music, and ultimately
American society. I have struggled for a long time weighing the pros and
cons of making this story public as I was reluctant to implicate the
individuals who were present that day. So I’ve simply decided to leave
out names and all the details that may risk my personal well being and
that of those who were, like me, dragged into something they weren’t
ready for.
Between the late 80’s and early 90’s, I
was what you may call a “decision maker” with one of the more
established company in the music industry. I came from Europe in the
early 80’s and quickly established myself in the business. The industry
was different back then. Since technology and media weren’t accessible
to people like they are today, the industry had more control over the
public and had the means to influence them anyway it wanted. This may
explain why in early 1991, I was invited to attend a closed door meeting
with a small group of music business insiders to discuss rap music’s
new direction. Little did I know that we would be asked to participate
in one of the most unethical and destructive business practice I’ve ever
seen.
The meeting was held at a private
residence on the outskirts of Los Angeles. I remember about 25 to 30
people being there, most of them familiar faces. Speaking to those I
knew, we joked about the theme of the meeting as many of us did not care
for rap music and failed to see the purpose of being invited to a
private gathering to discuss its future. Among the attendees was a small
group of unfamiliar faces who stayed to themselves and made no attempt
to socialize beyond their circle. Based on their behavior and formal
appearances, they didn’t seem to be in our industry. Our casual chatter
was interrupted when we were asked to sign a confidentiality agreement
preventing us from publicly discussing the information presented during
the meeting. Needless to say, this intrigued and in some cases disturbed
many of us. The agreement was only a page long but very clear on the
matter and consequences which stated that violating the terms would
result in job termination. We asked several people what this meeting was
about and the reason for such secrecy but couldn’t find anyone who had
answers for us. A few people refused to sign and walked out. No one
stopped them. I was tempted to follow but curiosity got the best of me. A
man who was part of the “unfamiliar” group collected the agreements
from us.
Quickly after the meeting began, one of
my industry colleagues (who shall remain nameless like everyone else)
thanked us for attending. He then gave the floor to a man who only
introduced himself by first name and gave no further details about his
personal background. I think he was the owner of the residence but it
was never confirmed. He briefly praised all of us for the success we had
achieved in our industry and congratulated us for being selected as
part of this small group of “decision makers”. At this point I begin to
feel slightly uncomfortable at the strangeness of this gathering. The
subject quickly changed as the speaker went on to tell us that the
respective companies we represented had invested in a very profitable
industry which could become even more rewarding with our active
involvement. He explained that the companies we work for had invested
millions into the building of privately owned prisons and that our
positions of influence in the music industry would actually impact the
profitability of these investments. I remember many of us in the group
immediately looking at each other in confusion. At the time, I didn’t
know what a private prison was but I wasn’t the only one. Sure enough,
someone asked what these prisons were and what any of this had to do
with us. We were told that these prisons were built by privately owned
companies who received funding from the government based on the number
of inmates. The more inmates, the more money the government would pay
these prisons. It was also made clear to us that since these prisons are
privately owned, as they become publicly traded, we’d be able to buy
shares. Most of us were taken back by this. Again, a couple of people
asked what this had to do with us. At this point, my industry colleague
who had first opened the meeting took the floor again and answered our
questions. He told us that since our employers had become silent
investors in this prison business, it was now in their interest to make
sure that these prisons remained filled. Our job would be to help make
this happen by marketing music which promotes criminal behavior, rap
being the music of choice. He assured us that this would be a great
situation for us because rap music was becoming an increasingly
profitable market for our companies, and as employee, we’d also be able
to buy personal stocks in these prisons. Immediately, silence came over
the room. You could have heard a pin drop. I remember looking around to
make sure I wasn’t dreaming and saw half of the people with dropped
jaws. My daze was interrupted when someone shouted, “Is this a f******
joke?” At this point things became chaotic. Two of the men who were part
of the “unfamiliar” group grabbed the man who shouted out and attempted
to remove him from the house. A few of us, myself included, tried to
intervene. One of them pulled out a gun and we all backed off. They
separated us from the crowd and all four of us were escorted outside. My
industry colleague who had opened the meeting earlier hurried out to
meet us and reminded us that we had signed agreement and would suffer
the consequences of speaking about this publicly or even with those who
attended the meeting. I asked him why he was involved with something
this corrupt and he replied that it was bigger than the music business
and nothing we’d want to challenge without risking consequences. We all
protested and as he walked back into the house I remember word for word
the last thing he said, “It’s out of my hands now. Remember you signed
an agreement.” He then closed the door behind him. The men rushed us to
our cars and actually watched until we drove off.
A million things were going through my
mind as I drove away and I eventually decided to pull over and park on a
side street in order to collect my thoughts. I replayed everything in
my mind repeatedly and it all seemed very surreal to me. I was angry
with myself for not having taken a more active role in questioning what
had been presented to us. I’d like to believe the shock of it all is
what suspended my better nature. After what seemed like an eternity, I
was able to calm myself enough to make it home. I didn’t talk or call
anyone that night. The next day back at the office, I was visibly out of
it but blamed it on being under the weather. No one else in my
department had been invited to the meeting and I felt a sense of guilt
for not being able to share what I had witnessed. I thought about
contacting the 3 others who wear kicked out of the house but I didn’t
remember their names and thought that tracking them down would probably
bring unwanted attention. I considered speaking out publicly at the risk
of losing my job but I realized I’d probably be jeopardizing more than
my job and I wasn’t willing to risk anything happening to my family. I
thought about those men with guns and wondered who they were? I had been
told that this was bigger than the music business and all I could do
was let my imagination run free. There were no answers and no one to
talk to. I tried to do a little bit of research on private prisons but
didn’t uncover anything about the music business’ involvement. However,
the information I did find confirmed how dangerous this prison business
really was. Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. Eventually, it
was as if the meeting had never taken place. It all seemed surreal. I
became more reclusive and stopped going to any industry events unless
professionally obligated to do so. On two occasions, I found myself
attending the same function as my former colleague. Both times, our eyes
met but nothing more was exchanged.
As the months passed, rap music had
definitely changed direction. I was never a fan of it but even I could
tell the difference. Rap acts that talked about politics or harmless fun
were quickly fading away as gangster rap started dominating the
airwaves. Only a few months had passed since the meeting but I suspect
that the ideas presented that day had been successfully implemented. It
was as if the order has been given to all major label executives. The
music was climbing the charts and most companies when more than happy to
capitalize on it. Each one was churning out their very own gangster rap
acts on an assembly line. Everyone bought into it, consumers included.
Violence and drug use became a central theme in most rap music. I spoke
to a few of my peers in the industry to get their opinions on the new
trend but was told repeatedly that it was all about supply and demand.
Sadly many of them even expressed that the music reinforced their
prejudice of minorities.
I officially quit the music business in
1993 but my heart had already left months before. I broke ties with the
majority of my peers and removed myself from this thing I had once
loved. I took some time off, returned to Europe for a few years, settled
out of state, and lived a “quiet” life away from the world of
entertainment. As the years passed, I managed to keep my secret, fearful
of sharing it with the wrong person but also a little ashamed of not
having had the balls to blow the whistle. But as rap got worse, my guilt
grew. Fortunately, in the late 90’s, having the internet as a resource
which wasn’t at my disposal in the early days made it easier for me to
investigate what is now labeled the prison industrial complex. Now that I
have a greater understanding of how private prisons operate, things
make much more sense than they ever have. I see how the criminalization
of rap music played a big part in promoting racial stereotypes and
misguided so many impressionable young minds into adopting these
glorified criminal behaviors which often lead to incarceration. Twenty
years of guilt is a heavy load to carry but the least I can do now is to
share my story, hoping that fans of rap music realize how they’ve been
used for the past 2 decades. Although I plan on remaining anonymous for
obvious reasons, my goal now is to get this information out to as many
people as possible. Please help me spread the word. Hopefully, others
who attended the meeting back in 1991 will be inspired by this and tell
their own stories. Most importantly, if only one life has been touched
by my story, I pray it makes the weight of my guilt a little more
tolerable.
Thank you.
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