A Hip-Hop Hopeful

The M&G Diner in Harlem is a modest spot, but in the world of hip-hop, it is a landmark. Puff Daddy shot a CD cover here, and rappers come in for the soul food and oldies jukebox. On a drizzly February evening, DeShawn Barzey, an aspiring rapper who calls himself Sunkiss, rhymes softly at the front table, quiet enough so the women at the counter can't hear. When he raps, Barzey's deep-set eyes dance emphatically, set off by a tattoo on his neck, a blockish Chinese character signifying "I love God." At 24, he has led a turbulent life, and most of his songs follow suit, quick-witted bursts of outlandish mayhem and sexual exploit that he calls "comedic terror." But this one is different. "Mama, Mama, I want to be a rap star," he chants. "Riding in a limousine/Read about me in a magazine." Barzey's mother, too, has led a chaotic existence, and he does not know where she is now. When he wins his first Grammy, he imagines her looking beautiful in a nice dress, her problems, like his, behind her. "Mama, Mama," he raps, "come and kiss your rap star."

One night last year, Barzey set a goal for himself. He was in the Lackawanna County jail in Pennsylvania, serving time on a 1996 drug charge. With help from above, he vowed to land a recording contract within his first year on the outside. "I gotta get this money," he says, somberly, "or else I'm going to be on the street again, and I don't play with the streets like that." There is an edge in his voice, but not of desperation. This month or next, a little more than a year since his release, DeShawn Barzey expects to sign a contract worth upwards of half a million dollars.

Hip-hop, originally scraped together on stolen spray paint and borrowed electricity, has become urban America's Silicon Valley, generating instant fortunes for young performers and entrepreneurs just out of school--sometimes the school of hard knocks. In 1998, rap acts sold more than 81 million albums, the best year in the history of the music. Every week, it seems, a new rapper vaults from obscurity to the top of the charts.

Barzey and his handlers, two twentysomething friends from Howard University, are trying to create the next overnight success. Like professional sports, rap is an alluring long shot, a dream that can sometimes blind. "Every kid is a dope rapper, according to him and his friends," says Chris Schwartz, CEO of RuffHouse Records, home to Lauryn Hill and the Fugees. But Barzey is betting on success. "I think I got the drugs to have fiends checking."

In his manager's sport utility vehicle, Barzey offers a staccato sketch of his life so far. "I have an older brother who got killed in '92, shot to death. Father dead, brother dead, uncles dead, close family members on drugs, no one to turn to. I was on the run for two years. I did several prison bids. I got stabbed, almost fatally. I lost many friends. I left guys that captured my heart, that's in jail forever, never going to come home. Now I got a chance to represent, show the world that I can change, they can change, too."