Boenz Malone follows the King of New Jack Swing from Harlem to his new Virginia Beach headquarters, where T.R. sets the record straight on money, greed, hustlin', success, failure, and his new group, Blackstreet. Photographs by Dana Lixenberg
A ghetto celebrity isn't always the drug lord. He isn't always locked up or all about money and gold. Sometimes he's just an average person with above-average potential. He's got to be gifted with skills that can't be measured by degrees of education. It's determination that makes him successful, but it's Harlem that has made him a hustler like Teddy Riley, the King of New Jack Swing. The little boy who grew up in the St. Nicholas projects has earned enough money and connections to buy entire blocks in his old neighborhood. In an area where dreams die before they're born, Teddy Riley was that one in a million who could outlive the street- corner hustlin', the poverty, and the violence only to start producing platinum records. The man of whom I speak could have wound up as the last Nicky Barnes or the new Richie Rich.
As of this year, the 27-year-old genius has been running things for a solid decade. His first million-seller dropped in 1984,Billy Ocean, wasn't it?,and in the 10 years since, Riley's achieved more than a lot of top execs have in 30. A true production czar, he originated the unmistakable (and widely imitated) sound that journalist turned screenwriter Barry Michael Cooper dubbed new jack swing. He is responsible for 31 platinum and multiplatinum records and another nine gold ones, but sales figures don't even do justice to the stature of anthems like Bobby Brown's "My Prerogative," Johnny Kemp's "Just Got Paid," Today's "Him or Me," Wreckx-N- Effect's "Rump Shaker," or to the influence of the now defunked three-man supergroup Guy, of which Riles himself was a member.
It's been four years since Mr. Riley moved down to Virginia, taking a small crew with him to help establish a new place of business (Life of Riley Entertainment) as well as a new group (Blackstreet). Hidden away in his Fortress of Solitude,a $3 million home and studio set on a lake not far from Virginia Beach,Riley has more time to devote to his music and less chance of slipping back into the lifestyle of a wild child. "I've seen a lot of failure," he says. "I could have been a failure. I failed a couple of times. It took three years for me to get a record deal. If you're not dedicated, you will fail. Never look back and never look down."
After a hustler loses a hand at poker or $50 on C-Lo, the next bet should be $100. You gotta up the ante with the attitude, "I'm gonna make it no matter what!" That's what Teddy Riley always did; I can only describe what he has to show for it. His baby empire house costs more than a full-size mansion. His studio, which he calls the Future, is equipped with Surround Sound and projection TV. There's a pool table and a clock on the wall with billiard balls for numbers. (When it's a late-night mixing, he puts a mattress right on the pool table to catch some z's.) There's a little kitchen area between studios A and B (72 tracks in A alone). Oh, and don't forget the weight room and the other game room/lounge with a 35-inch TV, VCR, arcade-size NBA JAM and Mortal Kombat II machines, a soda machine, chips, and even a money changer. (You thought the soda was free?)
Not only can Teddy Riley play; he's a player,always has been. Of course he understands that this is an especially competitive game. How could he not, with dope producers like L.A. Reid and Babyface or Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis dropping bombs left and right? But he ain't sweatin' it. This hustler does his shit overnight and then lays back on the pool table, sucking on a peppermint stick. While watching videos on the big-screen TV, one of his boys questions the integrity of a certain artist. "He won't make it," says the apprentice, eyeballing Ted. "That nigga's a punk." Without putting down his peppermint stick or his colleague, Teddy replies: "I give all entertainers respect. We have to support each other. The one thing that they can't say about me,I don't down anybody."
Have to admit, I was a little bit nervous up in the hotel, waiting for the telephone to ring. I thought of how he would act and talk, what kind of style he'd portray, the clothes he'd wear, and of course, how the ride is looking these days. You can take the kid off the streets, I thought to myself, but you can't take the street away from him. Once a player, always a player.
The phone rang. "Hello? Ambassador Suite."
"Hi, Boenz, this is Donna."
" 'Sup?"
"Teddy's on his way right now. Be downstairs in two minutes."
I jumped up, threw on some shit, and jetted. As the elevator doors opened, there it was, right in front of the hotel: a ghost white Nissan Quest lowrider with extra-thick Pirelli tires and matching white Avanti rims. The headlights beamed directly into the hotel lobby and on to me as I stepped outside and jumped in. He said, "I thought you were white." I said, "I knew you were black," and everything was cool.
There's an old saying: You can't play a player. I guess that's what he was thinking as he peeped me out in the rearview. That was okay, though, 'cause I was doing the same thing. I wanted to see if he was on some new shit, like a lot of spoiled rich kids are. So there we were, making short eye contact and trying to figure out what to say. I had thought moving to Virginia would change him, but in fact it was like he never left Harlem. On a Saturday you wash your clothes and cars, and get a haircut. We did that. Next you swing over to the mall, do a little shopping, get some food, and check out some sisters. I did that; it was phat.
Just 25 feet inside the Military Circle Center mall, all we heard was: "Look, Teddy Riley!" "Oh shit, it's him and his crew." Immediately following us were about nine hotties from as young as 12 to as old as 27, all whispering and blowing kisses at this man. Never once did he turn his head. He and I both stood out as "New York niggas." I had the all-cotton knit with the baggy slacks and EMS boots. He had the phat North Face, black Walker Wear suit, sock hat, and lug boots. Uptown that's the normality, but down here you're a star.
I played the wall, observing the reactions we were getting from a mob of Virginia's most beautiful black women. One sister had a black leather coat with red-hot spandex and matching boots that stopped at her knees. She sat right across from me, sipping a Slurpee, staring at me while I recorded the scene on my Dictaphone. All I would have had to say was, "I'm Terry Riley, Teddy's brother," and we'd be up in the hotel getting it on,just one of the many benefits of being a headliner.
Leaving the mall, we jumped back into the ghost wagon and cruised out of the parking lot doing five, blasting Tevin Campbell at 12. Heads in Beemers and M3s turned their shit off out of respect and embarrassment. The Quest blew out all imitations, and we were gone, like a scene out of a movie.
From his earliest childhood, Teddy Riley put 100 percent of his heart into music. Before he could walk he was sitting on top of an operating phonograph like Stymie of the Little Rascals. (He was "trying to figure out where the sound was coming from," his mom says.) By the time he was 10, he was already playing several instruments and performing in church. On weekends he'd bring his keyboard downstairs to play the playground. Even then, heads came around, saying, "Oh shit, it's Teddy Riley and his beat box!" After five minutes of funk, he'd pack up and split, leaving the kids screaming for an encore.
He was already a legend in his teens, treated like royalty on the rough streets of Harlem. "I wanna be the hardest working man in the music industry," he says now, "like James Brown." If anybody else had said that, I would have upped my lunch, but Riley has earned the right to dream big. He's done it all, from amateur night at the Apollo Theatre to working with Patti LaBelle, Big Daddy Kane, Quincy Jones, Aretha, Whitney, the Jacksons, and the King of Pop himself, Michael Jackson. T.R. produced six songs for the Dangerous album, serving up some of M.J.'s dopest beats ever.
"It's a shame how the media's coming down on him," Riley says at the mention of his friend's name. "It's straight-up money, that's all they want. I brought my daughter over to his house for one week, and nothing occurred. I developed a relationship with him that nobody else has. People just got to accept the fact that he's the greatest entertainer there is. They still trying to bring back Elvis, and, sure, Tony Bennett is probably No. 1, but nobody's greater than Michael in his age group." T.R.'s relationship with Jackson made possible a gorgeous remix of SWV's "Right Here," featuring a sample from "Human Nature," the first ever granted from the Thriller album. That single topped the charts last year,as did his mix for MC Lyte,but Riley isn't slowing down. "I know people say I'm in the door," he says. "But I'm not, because I didn't reach that zillionth person, like Michael J. That's where I want to be."
Teddy was the perfect host, showing me everything in Virginia except his house. I may have been a guest, but I was still a stranger. It was cool for me to see the place where he works, but not where he sleeps. (Just as the photographer was forbidden to take pictures of his daughters' faces.) It's a way of protecting his own,a move straight out of the Hustler's Handbook.
Back at the lab, we sat in a comfortable office filled with Grammys, ASCAP awards, and every other trophy the biz can bestow on a master. A large picture of Michael Jackson's eyes looked down on us. Riley held all his calls and closed the door, and we finally began to talk about five subjects: money, greed, hustlin', success, and failure.
Are you rich?
When it comes to money, I don't think about it. I think about people who I'm trying to attract and get to. Money could ruin people.
What kind of pressure came with the cash?
It put a little damper in my career, but I got back on my feet. It was because I left my manager. We parted and I left with no money. I just prayed If I make it, I make it. If I don't, I got to go on and try to make it. You got to really know the business, 'cause if you don't, you end up with a lot of fame but no money. A lot of rappers from back in the day, they're known, but no money.
So are you broke?
I've been rich, broke, rich, broke, rich, broke,and I don't want to stop, 'cause I ain't gonna let you know if I'm rich or broke. Everybody has ups and downs and what makes the world go round is money. Everybody wants more money, even if they got some in their pockets.
I remember seeing you Uptown in your joint, cruisin' down the avenue and all those heads rollin' with you,the whole St. Nick crew known as Posse Deep. I knew then you were a hustler with plans to become large. Explain.
Posse Deep is a unity. We were, and we are, the real roughnecks. We're not a gang. When we say Posse Deep, that's our crew. Yeah, I lived in it. Some talk about "doin' dirt"; I call it real! My story is true, it ain't false, and I ain't afraid to mention it, because I was hustling for my people, for family. Until I realized that it was hurting my own people,that's when I stopped.
Was it all just "show time"? Did you really want to be a hustler?
My life story is that of a hustler. From an early age into my teens, I'd consider myself a roughneck, but a smooth roughneck. We got a lot of roughnecks that come from New York. There's smooth ones, rough ones, crazy ones, sick ones, and I went to school with all of them.
You say you did your hustlin' because of family. How so? And to what extent?
My mom wasn't working. She got laid off, so I had to come up with something. A newspaper job couldn't help me at 16. At that time even McDonald's wanted someone with experience. I didn't mind, at that age, cooking french fries or even cleaning up, but I saw a faster way of making money and I made a lot of it a lot!
Did you feel like you were hurting yourself in any way?
Naw, I had to do something to help my family, but then I got busted by my Moms and she started losing faith in me, telling me I ain't gonna be nothin'. I said, "Ma, I'm gonna make it in the music industry." Then we sat and we hugged and I cried and she cried. That's when I cashed in my money and bought me about three or four keyboards. Uncle Willie,who I always give special thanks on every album,hired me to play in his club with a band I put together. Sometimes I'd miss school Friday because I had been out playing the night before.
How else did the music change your life? And that of your family?
After I started getting deep into the music industry, I put my brother, Markell, on, 'cause he was following in my shoes of being a hustler. Him and Brandon Mitchell,God bless the dead,from Wreckx-N-Effect. I gave all my equipment to Markell because I saw potential in him. That's when I said, "Y'all need a group together. I don't care what you do! Do something, 'cause I don't want you out on the street."
The three brothers formed Wreckx-N-Effect and dropped the hit single "New Jack Swing." But Teddy's efforts to keep Brandon off the streets did not prevent his death by gunfire. Still, Riley says he felt good about being able to give his friends and family other choices in life. "I felt like a hero, like I'm doin' somethin'," he says. "And that gave me more self-esteem to say, Let's help some more bros."
It wasn't long before Riley put Guy together. "It was me, Aaron [Hall], and Timmy Gatling," he says. "We signed with Andre Harrell over at Uptown/MCA. Timmy was the original member; him and Aaron worked at A& S, selling shoes. He brought the idea to me that we should put a group together and I would produce or work on the music. Then Aaron started hearin' me playing, and he said, 'Teddy's got to be in, or I'm not gonna do it.' "
Guy were the biggest thing T.R. had ever put together. They went on sold-out tours and rocked every city they played in. The group made tons of money, but just like with EPMD, when cash is the core covenant, money and greed will overshadow success. In this business, you gotta watch everybody,even your own godfather.
Gene Griffen was Riley's manager and father figure since age six. As a former independent label head, he knew the music business as well as anyone. He also knew a few other kinds of business: Griffen did two years for a drug possession charge, but cleaned up his act soon after Teddy started to blow up. But in 1990, after Guy released their second album, the group broke up, and so did Teddy and Gene. "What I learned from him was a lesson," Riley says. "He's been in the music business for 25 years, and he's got robbed for a lot of money. It was a lesson for him. I don't want to get into what happened between us, but I'll always remember him as a father."
Contrary to the rumors, there will not be a Guy reunion. The core has been broken by internal problems (egotism, no doubt), but fear not: Teddy's new group, Blackstreet, is bringing the future of the funk with a 16-piece bucket of extra crispy hits. "This is the group forever," says Riley. "We already have in our minds that none of us is gonna make it solo. It's like a marriage. We're gonna stick this out together."
Chauncey "Black" Hannibal, one of Blackstreet's singers, started as a backup vocalist for Guy. The son of two gospel ministers, he grew up singing in the church choirs of Paterson, N.J. and often shared the stage with current members of Jodeci during their gospel- singing days. Blackstreet's Dave Hollister also started out in his father's church, this one in Chicago. In four short years, the alto tenor made the transition to working with Tim Dog, Al B. Sure!, 2Pac, and Mary J. Blige. Levi Little is the phantom of the crew. No one knows where the hell he's from. They just know he's down and he rocks.
And the Blackstreet sound? Chauncey's sweet voice drips all over Teddy's airtight drum drops. What sounds like Earth, Wind & Fire and El DeBarge floats through smooth-ass love songs with just a hint of Gang Starr's "92 Interlude" underneath. Next comes "Bootknockalization," a ridiculously phat rap track featuring Erick Sermon, which is my pick for this summer's No. 1 Beach Blaster.
Seeing Riles at work and feeling his dedication and love for his music is like watching Schroeder from Peanuts practice Beethoven. When he's on a roll, nothing can stop him. Back in the day we used to hear beats like this on the corner, livin' the 'hood life. Now T.R.'s sampling "The Good Life" and, combined with the sound of pool balls cracking together, creating a song that's bound to be a funk classic. "We have our career planned," Teddy says to me later. "We were even planning to shoot a video on the same block where I grew up: 129th between Seventh and Eighth, you know,the dead-end block."
The poet Robert Frost once wrote, "Nothing gold can stay." But with a new group, a new house, a new life, and a new independent label opening this summer, Teddy's still striving. I've seen him transform from the live-fast-die-young attitude of a black James Dean to a peaceable, humble, God-fearing man whose future has become brighter than any shooting star. I leave you with the same mental note he left me, a quote that hangs framed in the Future: "This is the beginning of a brand-new year. Look to it as a new growth potential, a new horizon. It's an adventure into the unknown. Only you have the power to bring all of your hopes and dreams to light."
Stay gold.