Shyne

It was all love ‘til I got caught/ Charged with a 848 behind Marion steel gates/ Niggas started shittin’, acting bizarre/ Driving my cars, fucking my broads, breaking the laws/ Same niggas I took care of and got money wit’ was on some funny shit/ If I was different I’d snitch / What would you do if you got millions with niggas/And they had no love for ya, couldn’t pay for your lawyer?/ I figured, Shit, why sit in a cell to rot?/I’ll be out in ten, start over again/ And throw the boys in the pot/ But I couldn’t do it/ And you couldn’t understand if you ain’t been through it/ There’s rules to this shit and I couldn’t break them/ Death before dishonor . . .

It wouldn’t matter if hip-hop was simply and sole a form of entertainment; a way to pass after-school hours and remove the tension of the workday. If hip-hop was merely and purely escapist activity, the stories that it creates and the young minds behind those tales would only be creative s, as attached to their source material as Quentin Tarantino is attached to a samurai sword. But hip-hop is not just a form of music. It’s a truth telling truths. And it all matters.

It matters that Jamaal Barrow, the MC known as Shyne stands out as a beacon of authenticity in a subculture predicated on the “real.” It matters that when most hip-hop acts chose to display their circumstances through a lens of comical hyperbole and absurd fantasy, Shyne crafted pulp tales of Scorsesean drama and Puzo-like terseness, drawing on the inner conflicts of the human condition. It matters that where most hip-hop albums open with self-congratulatory orgies of sound, Shyne opened his eponymous 2000 debut with a moment of spoken word decrying the lack of social institutions in the inner cities and asking America for reparations for its slave descendants. It matters that in a world of knockoffs and costume jewelry, Shyne emerged as a rarest diamond of precise cut, brilliant clarity, pure color, and large carat.

Four years after the release of his one and only album and four years into his incarceration, Shyne still matters. He matters so much that he’s been able to secure a multimillion-dollar deal for his gangland records corporation through the Island/Def Jam Music Group. He matters so much that his name’s dropped by 50 Cent, M.O.P., Nas, D12 and countless other rappers. He matters so much that his face still graces national magazine covers, that the smallest whisper of his return to the rap game quickly becomes a storm of rumor- anticipation and reverence in the streets, on the radio, and throughout the internet.

Shyne matters because while Shyne’s rhymes are not necessarily autobiographical, they are all grounded in the soil of honesty. Shyne matters because Shyne is a character forged in the crucible of Jamaal Barrow’s existence and his story is the story of a generation. Shyne matters because when he was faced with the possibility of a 25-year jail sentence, he maintained the honor of the streets with his lips sealed shut and head held high.

Jamaal Barrow was born in 1978. At seven years old, he moved to Flatbush, Brooklyn with his mother, whose demanding work schedule led to Jamaal spending an inordinate amount of time on the street. On his own, he absorbed in the variegated culture of Brooklyn’s Caribbean melting pot and, unfortunately, the code of criminal conduct in the urban jungle. Though he was an intelligent child, school failed to hold his attention. He fell into a life of petty robbery, eventually spending a year at Riker’s Island while still in his teens. When he was 15, a neighborhood dispute resulted in a shotgun blast that nearly tore off his arm.

After the shooting, Jamaal relocated his family and decided to turn his life around. He put crime behind him and focused on his love of music. He had always been “toasting”¬¬¬– the Jamaican equivalent of rapping – and his rhythmic lyrical prowess and affinity for gold teeth had earned him the nickname Shyne (which also paid homage to Shoeshine, a notorious Jamaican drug kingpin). He placed his destiny in hip-hop, which had come to be his preferred sound, and was soon fielding offers from the nation’s major music powerhouses without cutting a record. Shyne eventually signed as an artist with Arista Records and began living the life of a star. But just as his life was transforming for the better, drama came shooting his way. In 1999, while exiting a recording session, Shyne found himself dodging a barrage of bullets. He took to carrying a handgun for protection. Months later, he found himself in a nightclub were guns were drawn. He fired his weapon and was arrested.

During the ensuing media circus surrounding his trial, Shyne became a vegetarian and gravitated towards his work, completing over three albums’ worth of material. Though he was convicted for assault, reckless endangerment and weapons possession and sentenced to 10 years in jail, he managed to release his one album, which is considered a classic work of art in the world of hip-hop.

Containing gripping instances of aural theater and mediations on morality, Shyne shed light on criminal desperation and ghetto madness beyond the cartoonish characterizations of mainstream hip-hop. His rhymes deftly detailed a world where violence was commonplace, revenge was respected and retribution was expected. Songs like “That’s Gangsta” transformed the word “gangsta” into an adjective, introducing new terminology to the hip-hop lexicon. His slang–words like “gully”–was quickly assimilated as colloquialism. His fashion–like the oversized fitted baseball caps with unbent brim that he wore during his trail – changed urban style. He was able to impact the game with one album in ways that career artist have only dreamed of.

Since his incarceration, dynasties have been built and rap heroes have come and gone, but Shyne’s influence still resonates throughout hip-hop like none other. With his new label prepared to release the music he created during the months leading up to his trial, Shyne’s legacy will finally be properly immortalized within the rap game.