By Melissa Fossum
By Lauren Wise
By New Times
By Amanda Savage
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Troy Farah
By New Times
Following the travails of Russell Jones since the rapper who'll forever be remembered as Wu-Tang Clan loudmouth Ol' Dirty Bastard was freed from prison this past May 1 has been surreal -- an id run amok in the hope it'll recapture the glory day, smugly reinforced with stereotypes of the worst nature. Even armed with hyper-aware media cynicism for protection, it's been hard watching.
As with most modern melodramas, identifying the heroes, victims and villains has been nearly impossible. All are guilty, including you for reading this article and me for writing it. Yet few, with the exception of Jones himself, have done anything illegal.
No one can blame VH1's reality TV-making cameras for shooting a hoped-for carnival of a show called ODB on Parole. Or for being scared off after one episode. Footage of the heavyset, unstable Jones berating women looking for money (he's fathered 13 children by numerous partners) and admitting to the camera that staying off drugs is impossibly hard seemed like more reality than even the cable television arm of a multinational corporation could bear.
Nor can you speak ill of hip-hop powerhouse Roc-A-Fella Records, which signed Jones (under his new Dirt McGirt moniker) to cash in on and extend his hip-hop legend. At the May 1 news conference announcing Jones' release, Roc mogul Damon Dash and glowing diva Mariah Carey made a media splash to welcome Dirt into the fold. But after one single -- a mediocrity called "Welcome Home," which saw Dirt riding a Diwali rhythm replica of Lumidee's "Never Leave You (Uh-Ohhh)," voicing little besides just-out-of-jail-and-wanting-to-fuck bravado, with none of his trademark humor or flow -- there are doubts about the experiment. And while McGirt's guest vocal on "Pop Sh*t," off the Neptunes' Clones album, did rekindle his off-kilter croon, appearances with younger Roc artists (State Property's "When You Hear That"), and an old Wu-Tang family member (RZA's "We Pop"), have been duds. (An album, with productions by Swizz Beats and the Neptunes and guest appearances by Ludacris and Busta Rhymes, is said to be close to completion.)
As for Jones' adoption by savvy mainstreamers and pop-fringe party people, for the sake of the opportunity to develop or further a nasty reputation in the shadows of his excess infamy: Well, isn't that just good business? In August, Playboy hired Jones as a guest photographer, an exercise that found the rapper fumbling with a camera and nervously sweating in front of a nude blonde, re-creating a Jim Crow sexual cliché as a photo-op. *N SYNC's other boy wonder J.C. Chasez justified the inclusion of a collaboration with Dirt McGirt on his upcoming solo album by saying that the record company wanted an event and that Dirty came to mind ("Dirty is fresh," he said in the press release. "Fresh out of jail."). Meanwhile, the publishers of Brooklyn's Vice magazine, acknowledged worldwide as the pop intelligentsia's bible of cool, put Dirty on the cover a month after his release, and sponsored his comeback show in mid-June at New York's über-chic club Plaid. That 25-minute show marks one of Dirty's artistic high points since being released.
But if Dirty's primary commodity is as a personality that's a natural outgrowth of his musical popularity, it is quickly losing its value. Or should I say, the personality has outstripped the music.
There's no denying that the original ODB myth was built partially on escapades: An aura of public violence surrounded the Wu-Tang Clan. In various appearances, Jones' personality, honest to the point of uncontrollable, rose to the fore (from the 1995 MTV interview in which Jones discussed STDs and then cashed a welfare check while his solo album was in the Top 10, to kidnapping the mike at the 1998 Grammy Awards and chastising the academy for giving the Best Rap statuette to Puffy. Of course, he was right). Jones has been arrested a dozen times, charged with drug possession, assault and "making terrorist threats" (pre-Ashcroft definition). There was also that two-month escape from custody in the fall of 2000, during which ODB actually showed up and performed a sold-out Wu-Tang show in New York, and then split again. But the law won in 2001, sentencing him to two to four years at upstate New York's Clinton Correctional Facility, a place with the cheerful nickname Little Siberia. That's a helluva rap sheet.
Yet before all this, ODB blew up because he was an undeniable hip-hop original. Lyrically, his violent outbursts and sexual desires were levied with heavy doses of self-effacement and an endearing spoken-sung flow with cadences that bespoke the rapper's every fleeting emotion. At the same time, ODB was the hip-hop world's big-tent ambassador, especially at the height of the East Coast-West Coast war. Master and practitioner of a hip-hop brut, ODB was a warped visionary unable to control his guidance mechanisms, and reliant, as Perry Farrell once famously spoke of being, on artificial highs to fuel his creativity. Jones was along for the ride.