Hip Hop has been dormant for years now. The once known cultural movement hasn’t moved in a minute, on some Statue of Liberty shit. It’s difficult to identify a person, place or time but many in the know point their fingers at one Mr. Sam Shellstein.

To discuss Shellstein is to delve into something deeper and rather ugly. His fam has been on the block for a minute. Shellstein’s money was Jane Pittman old if not older. There’s no proof how far back they go, in large part due to the fact that all family records are untraceable. Straight prestige. Shellstein was a graduate of the Ronald Reagan Academy and from then on cashed in a first class ticket to Cambridge. Harvard was in the blood. There he perfected his business plan and his ability to chump people of color, which eventually led to starting and running a hip hop label. When signing quality artists and getting airplay become an issue. Shellstein knew exactly what to do next.

Cats were getting bought into submission. Radio Stations dropped to their knees one by one. DJ’s at Cool 89.1 in LA were banking 1 million per for their assistance. Programmers at NY’s Power 93.5 and Hot 108 were caking from the Shellstein Payola. Everybody who was anybody knew what the deal was and they collected whatever they could get to assure fat pockets.

It was sad to see reputable labels bought out or crumble by the wayside. They simply couldn’t compete with Shell Master. Companies who were them from the beginning were getting chewed up. Historical Hip Hop heads faded into the abyss. There were a few small labels left but they were merely a dent in Shell Master’s plans.

The biggest machete to the face came when Sam Shellstein received government support. It started as a rumor. Then it became a whisper. And just like that states were loudly voting left and right on additions to their disorderly conduct laws. Applied to all ages, kids to grown folk could now get bagged for the following:

A) Unnecessary unsanctioned dancing
B) Rhythmic chanting or spitting of any kind for a sustained period of time
C) Outdoor unsanctioned artwork or performance
D) Playing of unsanctioned music that includes heavy bass lines.

Laws were laws, and best believe that police departments across the nation gladly obliged. They enforced disorderly conduct with the force of Papa Doc’s Ton Ton Macoutes. Dance circles in Dallas were deaded in dastardly ways. Syphers in San Francisco were shot down by rubber bullets and artists in Arkansas were assaulted with much aggravation. Vibrant communities of young people had their creative juices sucked dry by a vacuum of monotony. Slowly they would succumb to the Shell Master.

Being applied were some of the best get down or lay down tactics ever seen.

Signing with Shell Master wasn’t exactly Eden. There were two divisions Killer Masters and Dance Masters. In other words if you didn’t rap about murkin or murder or make that booty clap, you didn’t rap. Shellstein sucessfully saturated the market with two types of artists. Fans could barely differentiate who was nice or whack anymore. Gun slingin and ass shaking dominated on some 96 Chicago Bulls shit. Signing to Shell Master was equivalent to what one could call slavery. He owned you. Contracts were signed with intentions of the longest terms sans a signing bonus. Rappers broke a little bank but their cash flow failed in comparison to the master of the operation. The artists were given Black American Express cards that strangely had limits and strangely served as honing devices. Shellstein put chips in each one. Gotcha! Odd behavior or any unnecessary advancement was dealt with forcefully and swiftly. Cats still haven’t caught on. The uber hypeness created by the card, never failed at blinding rational thoughts.

Sam Shellstein was always in control and there were no signs of falling off.

As he continued to bask, his phone suddenly rang…