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Up until the mid-'90s, very few white artists had hit rap records, but nevertheless, those were the first rap records to crack the mainstream market. The first song featuring a rap to hit Number One on the U.S. Billboard charts was Blondie's "Rapture" in 1981, a song that references pioneers Fab Five Freddy and Grandmaster Flash. The second rap song to hit Number One on the Billboard Hot 100 charts was Vanilla Ice's "Ice, Ice Baby" in 1990. The Beastie Boys' 1986 album, Licensed to Ill, was the first rap album to top Billboard's Pop Albums chart. But though these records caught the ear of America, they didn't come with instant credibility from the black community. They were pop songs; these artists weren't rapping about the struggles of growing up on the streets, getting shot, or selling dope. There was nothing in the songs that resembled the black experience lyrically.
In the late '90s, two artists emerged that changed the game for white MCs: Everlast, and Eminem. Everlast's first solo album was financed by Ice-T, and he'd worked with a number of other black hip-hop acts, like Cypress Hill and KRS-One, before hitting with the single "What It's Like" in 1998, a song that detailed urban struggles and the injustice of inequality. But it wasn't until Eminem's 1999 debut on Dr. Dre's Aftermath Records, The Slim Shady LP, that any white MC truly crossed the color divide and gained the respect of the black hip-hop audience. Unlike the white rappers who came before him, Eminem was anything but safe. He was rapping about killing his wife, doing drugs, and ejaculating on things. For all his controversies, Eminem's sold more than 70 million albums worldwide. Like it or not, he's the main reason most people will tell you race doesn't matter in rap these days — Kid Rock, Bubba Sparxxx, and Paul Wall can all have hit records, and Blunt Club's artists can dominate the buzz in Phoenix. Grassroots growth is only natural for them, considering the organic, free-flow community vibe of that scene. They've got their own peace-and-love groove thing — and it's nothing like the "I'm-the-shit-in-this-city" competitive aura that surrounds the Groove Candy folks, many of whom are frankly tired of being overlooked in their hometown.
"There have always been two scenes here," Roca Dolla says, "but there is a 'hood here, and there is an underground urban sound out here. At our last show, we had 500 people, and we had to turn away about a hundred. And that's a local show. There are cats that are getting the light that don't deserve it. You've got to find the groups that are crackin' on the underground."
The night after New Year's Day, Phoenix's hip-hop underground has come out en masse for a group photo shoot at Groove Candy. Willy Northpole is here, sitting next to Hot Rod, who's wearing a dark hoodie that covers his eyes and continually checking his lit-up cell phone. Roca Dolla is seated a little farther down, talking with his extensive entourage. All around them, 35 other local MCs, DJs, and members of crews are chatting, laughing, arguing, sipping on champagne, grabbing Life Savers Gummies off the tables, and trying to crowd in front for the photo. Everybody wants to be the star.
But there can only be so many stars tonight. Northpole, with his connections to Ludacris and his record deal with Luda's DTP imprint, is obviously one of them. So is Hot Rod, who's working on his debut album for 50 Cent's G-Unit label. Juice completes the trilogy of prodigies, having landed a contract with Black Wall Street through The Game. There are other Valley rappers making serious headway, too, like Jiggalo, who signed to Suave House Records, which also housed Eightball and MJG (now on Diddy's Bad Boy label). A couple of local artists, Atllas and Spanfly, have deals with Rawkus Records, the label that kick-started the careers of Mos Def and Talib Kweli. Everybody's walking around talking about their deals, or talking about the people who are talking smack.
"My deal set everything off," Hot Rod says. "There's a lot of people telling stories. Since I got signed, and since Willy got signed, everybody's talking about having label deals when they don't."
For the group gathered at Groove Candy tonight, hip-hop is a gladiator sport. Some of these urban artists have been struggling to make it in this city for years, and now there's a collective feeling that Phoenix is about to take off. And everybody wants in on the ride. Tiffany J, a former Phoenix resident who now works for one of hip-hop's most prominent national companies, Family Tree Entertainment in Atlanta, says that such a competitive climate can only bode well for the scene. "Once Hot Rod's deal came about, and people started meeting other people, it became a competition," she says. "But that's good, because inevitably, what everybody's doing will make Phoenix the next Atlanta or Miami."
In the meantime, the situation is tense. Some of the people here at The Door tonight don't get along. Within minutes of arriving at the venue, Cinque, a member of a local hip-hop crew called the Man Up Squad, is confronted by Roca Dolla in the VIP area. "Cinque, what's the deal? I read some shit somewhere that you were going off about me trying to be your boss. What the hell is that?"

