MCs (masters of ceremonies) and other artists in the hip hop world have a lot of names for making it, but very few to describe what comes after -- when producers don't return phone calls, contracts aren't renewed, you're suddenly performing without an audience. PNS commentator Stephen Gaines talks about his own experiences after the "One Time". In a companion story Ri'Chard Magee interviews two rappers about their encounters with the industry. Gaines and Magee write for YO! (Youth Outlook), a newspaper by and about young people published by Pacific News Service.

OAKLAND, CA. -- I am an MC--a master of ceremonies. I motivate, elevate and rock and shock parties, clubs and dances, to help people remember the enjoyable parts of themselves.

My story is a snapshot of an MC's dreams and failures in this cut-throat world of exploitation. My story is about the "One Time" -- that ever-elusive vision of success. Also known as "comin' up" or "bubblin'," the "One Time" simply means becoming successful in terms of one's peer group. Being an "MC" is a popular way to "come up" in the many hoods or projects -- a dope MC is recognized in the ghetto the way a young CEO is recognized in corporate America. We may not matter to anyone else, but we matter to our folks and their respect is more than enough payment, especially in a society which seeks to strip us of this precious mineral at every turn.

I became a hip-hop fiend in college. My parents couldn't understand my preoccupation with something that wouldn't pay the bills or impress their friends. Their questions made me ask myself: Why am I so into this music thing, and how am I gonna get paid?!!

My artistic passion was transformed into something else. I found myself tripping off being able to make a living off my art, off my soul. I began to imagine hella money, videos, beautiful women -- things that had nothing to do with my music. I felt I needed to prove to the world that I was worthy of its attention, so I focused on convincing people that my beats and rhymes were phat.

Soon after, I hooked up with four other brothers who felt the same way about their art that I did. We were hungry -- no, scratch that, starving -- for people to accept our music, to tell us we were fresh. As fate would have it, our prayers were answered. After about two years of struggling, we attracted the attention of a major record label. All our fantasies and dreams rushed into our minds, offering themselves as realities for a small price: our signatures on the contract.

It was like an adolescent fantasy. We were whisked away to a land of studios and crowded performances. People began to recognize us. Everyone wanted to hear our music once they found out we had been signed. Our nervous energy transformed itself into a strange, false confidence. All of a sudden, we had become fly MCs.

We began to compare ourselves to established artists like KRS-One and the Pharcyde. Now that we had been recognized as fresh, we wanted to be the freshest. We would soon be on top of the world.

Unfortunately, our new attitude added nothing to our music. Instead, our energetic appeal began to decay into a whiny pretentiousness. In our desire to be innovative and original, we forgot that what people appreciated was our natural selves. The more we tried to appeal to people, the less they enjoyed our music.

As in all fairy tales, the heroes must ultimately confront themselves. On a fateful journey to New York, the record company told us how bad our music had become. I can still see the fear and shock in everyone's eyes as the flower of our pride and optimism was crushed under the firm boot of music industry expectation.

The ensuing months were filled with frantic attempts to appease the label. People who had been excited about our music were now trying to give us advice on what type of sound we should cultivate -- our rhymes were not tight enough, our beats always needed more bass. The questions came from every direction, within and without. Were we still coming up? Were we worthy?

Eventually, we were dropped from the label. I was embarrassed and upset. I had based so much of my self on the studio, the attention and the hype that I felt like a failure. It was a turbulent time for all members of my group, and we stopped hanging out for three months while we each tried to heal our scars.

I came to see that I had let someone else's priorities interfere with my happiness, and forgotten that what is important is the joy which music brings to my soul. I began to re-establish my connection with the elements which had started the whole process: my love for music, my art.

After losing the record deal, I seriously had to struggle to keep myself afloat for a good four months before I found a job. During that time, I was close to the edge in terms of both mental and financial stability. Without the support of my family, it would have been all too easy for me to take a dive.

I often trip off the fact that I haven't been set back too much by the ordeal. But I am forced to consider those brothers and sisters who are lured into the game but lack the many resources with which I have been blessed -- and then I begin to see the malevolence of the music industry's nonchalant attitude towards the young artists it gobbles up year after year.

The freshest thing about this story is that I am still an MC. I was blessed enough to discover what truly makes me happy. It's not the lights or the money; it's the feeling I get when I am making music that sets my spirits flying. I have learned that I don't need the acceptance of anyone but myself to "come up."

Sidebar:

SAN FRANCISCO -- Television, radio and magazines have glamorized rappers to the point of myth. Fast cars, beautiful women, pounds of marijuana, designer clothes, million-dollar homes all come to mind when thinking about the rapper's lifestyle.

Many people -- especially young people who aspire to become rappers -- are unaware that the reality rarely matches this vision. The average working rapper earns between seven and twelve dollars an hour for his labor. Most of those would-be rappers never make it even this far, and many of those who "make it" still never get widespread recognition.

PNS spoke with two young rappers about their encounters with the dream:

Phantom, 26

YO!: How long have you been rapping?

Phantom: Since '82 -- 15 years.

YO!: What inspired you to start?

Phantom: Me and my boys were like nine, ten, when rap first came out. At first I didn't like it. I remember wishing they would shut up and let me listen to the beat. Then the Sugarhill Gang came out with "Rapper's Delight," and I was hooked for life. From the first day I heard that joint I knew it was on.

YO!: When did you start recording?

Phantom: Me and some of my boys from high school used to go over to this one dude's house after school. His big brother had a studio in his garage, and when he wasn't using it he'd let us rip on the mic over a beat. Then one day he was like, "Y'all gettin' pretty tight. If you buy some blank reels and tapes y'all can record here." He passed our tape on to somebody, who passed it on to somebody, and so on and so on. Two or three years later, out of the blue, some dude calls saying he'd like to talk with me about cutting a record and signing me. I thought it was one of my boys messing with me so I hung up. Three minutes later he called back, saying the same thing.  Our tape came out in the beginning of '92.

YO!: How many units did you move?

Phantom: Four thousand or something like that. The dude was hella shady -- he never told us anything other than when and where to record. After the tape was finished, I heard from him maybe five times. I never saw a penny, never did a show, and never heard my music played on the radio. I was so dumb, I never even looked at my contract or kept a copy of it. It coulda read "ga ga goo goo" all the way down.

YO!: Did you ever see that guy again, or try to call him?

Phantom: He changed his phone number. I did see him once rollin' a new BMW. I tried to flag him down to say whassup and see what was happening with my music but that punk ran the light to get away from me!

YO!: Did you learn anything?

Phantom: First, always read your contract. If you don't understand it, take it to your parents. If they don't understand it, take it to a lawyer, but make sure you understand it before you sign it. Second, don't expect anyone else to handle your business for you. No one wants you to blow up like you want you to blow up.

Da King, 24

YO!: Has rap changed?

Da King: Back in '90, '91, rap was real. That's when heads kept it real instead of always talkin' about keepin' it real. Nowadays you got rap using people as pawns only to make money. Just look at that Biggie (Smalls) and (2)Pac thing. It's like rap is some conglomerate of pimps and the rappers is they hoes. Making them millions while they slap us around, sell our images and souls, and pimp us.

YO!: If you feel this way, why are you a rapper?

Da King: That's like asking me why I'm an American. I was born into it. For all the messed up things about America, it's still like the best place on earth to live. It's exactly the same with rap. For all its problems, it's still the purest form of expression.

YO!: When did your tape drop?

Da King: In '94. They broke me off a royalty of about $20,000 and I never saw any more money. My boy called me one day and said my video was being played on TV. I was like, "Huh?!! I ain't even shot no video!" Turned on the tube and shonuff, there was these dudes lip synching my song over my beat, perpetrating to be me. I instantly called my record company and was like, "Whatisgoingonhere?!!" They started reading me my contract over the phone. It just happens that the one part of the contract I didn't trip on had a clause saying I gave up the rights to perform my songs in concert, on the radio, on TV, etc. etc. There was nothing I could do.

YO!: What would you tell people entering the rap business?

Da King: READ YOUR CONTRACT. Make sure you write that part in all caps. One more time: READ YOUR CONTRACT. And always get to know a person before you sign with them. It's literally your life you're signing over.