Once Upon a Time in Shaolin

The Untold Story of Wu-Tang Clan's Million Dollar Secret Album, the Devaluation of Music, and America's New Public Enemy No. 1

Flatiron Books

Contents

QUEST

I needed to know who and what I was dealing with. Grabbing the Internet by the scruff of the neck, I pored over Wu-Tang history, interviews, music, and lyrics until I had a relatively solid picture of Clan dynamics and a feel for RZA, the de facto leader and producer. I was fascinated by the Clan's interplay as a whole, from explosive positivity to edgy discord, but knowing that I would be working primarily with Cilvaringz and RZA, I needed to get a handle on what kind of people they might be and how their histories would inform where we went from here.

The story of the Wu-Tang Clan has been extensively documented elsewhere, and I won't retell it in these pages. But the question of how Cilvaringz ended up producing this record and indeed how the fuck he had managed to make it from provincial Holland to Shaolin is one that needs resolving.

It was quite the tale. Somewhere between a mythological quest and a remix of the American dream.

It all began in archetypal style ... on a basketball court. It was 1993 and the concrete was running hot with hip-hop fire. Jostling for the freshest cuts to throw down while playing, Tarik "Cilvaringz" Azzougarh and his friends were sending up the jumps on a freestyle spin as they brought the latest beats courtside. On a sunny morning in Tilburg, Netherlands, one of his pals swaggered onto the court juggling a cassette tape in his hands, and by the toothy grin on his face, he either had some seriously dope beats on the chrome or some cutting-edge audio porn. Turned out it was neither. He was brandishing his demo.

Cilvaringz and the others rocked back in respect. This motherfucker had just flicked the switch from passive to active. He had dared to take that first step, and in doing so, cracked open all of their imaginations. The hunt was on for some instrumentals to lay down on, a microphone and a tape deck to record with as the inspiration started to flow. It was a real team effort, too, no battles or bullshit ego competition, just a group of friends bouncing vibes and ideas, swapping beats and pushing each other further, every last man whooping up his brother's rhymes.

Dre had dropped The Chronic, Snoop was rolling out the G Funk flavors, but for Cilvaringz, the pantheon was dominated by a phalanx of ruckus-inciting, neck-protecting, sword-swinging, chess-playing, temple-dwelling, badass motherfuckers called the Wu-Tang Clan. There wasn't all that much you could do to rep the movement in the heartland of Holland except become the most dedicated fan you could be, and Cilvaringz set about the mission with steely aplomb, all the while tightening up the tides on the mic.

In 1997, just as Cilvaringz and his friends were preparing a trip to New York, a thought slid into his consciousness and began to take root. Before long, that initial thought had hoisted a flag, got some supplies in, and pretty much annexed his entire focus. Would the Clan take him on? Maybe not at parity, but on a label, as an affiliate — part of the Wu family. The prospect was almost too tantalizing to bear.

He instantly banished the idea as ridiculous, a pipe dream with some angel dust stuffed into the bowl — there was no fucking way. But ridiculous was a far cry from impossible, and his stubborn determination, quick-fire intellect, and unbridled passion all hunkered down into a team huddle for a motivational talk from the id. The superego was benched, the id got a line on some steroids, and the die was cast. If Shaolin disciples could make pilgrimages to the eternal heights of Song Mountain in China to fall prostrate in the Hall of Heavenly Kings, then he could damn well track down the Hall of Heavenly Beats somewhere in the tristate area.

With optimism and self-belief flooding through his veins, Cilvaringz stepped off at JFK and rode the arteries into the city's beating heart. Possibility ricocheted through his synapses as he rounded Forty-second Street and stepped into the Times Square arena ... where suddenly, the music died. The needle came flying off the string-heavy soundtrack and the epic build tumbled into the abyss. He was surrounded by the neon shadows of his dream.

The Wu were huge. In '97, they were Grammy nominated; they'd smashed the living fuck out of every album they'd done; they'd redefined fashions, record deals, slang, and music in a searing flash of uncontrollable energy. Four years after their first album, Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers), had set the charges, they were one of the biggest groups in the world. But it was one thing to know that intellectually, entirely another to see it mounted in glorious Technicolor.

Times Square was awash with the Wu. The new album, Wu-Tang Forever, was getting ready to strike, and everywhere Cilvaringz looked, there were twenty-foot banners and digital screens seeming almost to mock his enthusiasm. Everywhere he went that trip, the W followed him, but not in a "signs to your destiny" kind of way — no, it was more of a "get your dreams in check" whiplash to the heart. Billboards, newsstands, Virgin Megastore displays, you name it, the Wu were ruling it, and with every new W, the dream faded further into the never.

Show me a decent myth or a solid American dream and I'll show you the second-act moment of despair. That plunge into the cauldron of overwhelming odds when our hero is beaten into submission and he is a blade's width from surrender. Just don't ever forget the third act.

Limping back to Holland carrying a suitcase stuffed with clothes and vinyl, Cilvaringz was dusting his self-belief off within minutes of being back on the court. Basketball kept things on a meditative track, and the dream began to rise slowly back from the ashes. The Clan had announced an Amsterdam show in May, and as he snapped up his ticket, he wondered if he might find fresh inspiration amid the strobes.

Dedication didn't come comfy, and as the day of the Amsterdam gig dawned, Cilvaringz and his crew were in line braving the cruel joke of the Dutch summer as the wind howled and the rains slammed down from the sky. Piling into the venue when the doors opened, they steamed down the middle of the hall, pushing as close to the front as they possibly could. It was an epic show — three hours of high-octane mayhem, and even then, the Clan weren't done. The legacy they'd leave wouldn't be through performance alone ... Inspiration. Generation. Foundation.

With the crowd going nuts and a deafening roar for the encore, the Clan announced a freestyle session for local talent. Surely this was Cilvaringz's moment. He froze. This was some serious deep-end shit — a million miles from a studio audition. This was a sweat-soaked roller coaster through a packed hall of thousands yelling their throats dry. His body seized up — trapped in slow motion, before fate and family both took a hand.

His cousin stuck a knee square into his back and gave Cilvaringz an almighty shove toward the stage. Elbows flew in disgust as this kid came bulldozing through. Every last guy there fancied himself a rapper, so the second the freestyle was announced, the crush was on. But his cousin kept the pedal to the metal and forced Cilvaringz through the cracks until the lip of the stage was within touching distance. Glancing down, Method Man and Ol' Dirty Bastard clocked this kid seemingly smacking all comers out of the way, as the stumble from his cousin's push was mistaken for kick-ass confidence. Well, THAT motherfucker looked like he meant business. And he looked kinda comical, too. They hauled him up onstage without a second's hesitation, and there he was ... onstage with the Wu-Tang Clan and a microphone thrust into his hand. No time to think, no time to question, no time to process. Silence ... a spinback ... and GO.

It was a flow best described as panicked, but it had potential. The crowd went with it, which was the first battle won, and as he shot glances to either side, Method Man and Ol' Dirty continued to flank him, feeling the vibes and backing his play. As if by alchemy, the terror had dissolved into a euphoric skydive. Confident enough to move from the spot he'd been rooted to since being elevated, he got his kinetic on and looked around to see how the Clan were reacting. RZA was surveying things from a strategic position by the decks, and Cilvaringz noticed a wink and an interested look shoot back between RZA and Ol' Dirty. Dirty was loving it — this was some real community outreach shit.

Cilvaringz didn't find out until years later, but the knowing smiles between the Clan had less to do with his magnetic rap talent than the sheer comedic spectacle of what they were witnessing. Here was this total nerd in glasses, a retro haircut that even the seventies didn't want back, clad head to toe in baggy hip-hop threads and rapping his heart out. It was hilarious. Not in a mocking way — in a really warm way. RZA immediately drew a parallel to Clark Kent: all spectacles and buttoned-down exterior, but give the boy a mic and see the lion roar.

He finished to a cheering crowd, and as he drank in a round of hearty backslaps from all the members, RZA pulled him aside. "Listen, kid ..."

It was short but oh, so sweet. RZA had liked what he'd seen. He was in the process of starting an international Wu roster of new artists, and off the back of that performance, he wanted Cilvaringz involved.

A golden glow of triumph, redemption, and destiny washed across Cilvaringz. This was it. He'd done it. Victory was his. This was his break, his life-changing moment. And then, before he could seal the deal with some contact information, the stage erupted in a gigantic clusterfuck.

Ol' Dirty Bastard was the architect of both Cilvaringz's lightning ascendancy and his equally dazzling fall from grace. He was a red-blooded international megastar, and having switched his gaze from the kid onstage to a luxuriously inviting pair of breasts, he began wrapping his hands round the magnificent orbs bouncing before him. The young lady took the compliment in the spirit it was intended, but her boyfriend didn't see matters in quite the same freewheeling way. Wu or no Wu — get your fucking paws off my girl, motherfucker. A punch was thrown, a crew materialized behind the spurned lover, and before Cilvaringz could say "Yes Please," a massive fight careered across the stage and security guards started dropping from the rafters. The Clan were bundled offstage while all nonmembers, including the newly minted Wu affiliate, were tossed ignominiously back into the melee below.

So close ... so fucking close. The words "Fuck yeah" frozen on his lips. Frozen forever, it seemed.

Well, at least he had some bragging rights to show for it, and like any other sane individual, he milked the story to fuck. He could dine out on that for years, but while it would always remain a great story, it was consigned to the "also-rans" of the nearly department. Weeks passed, and as a comedown set in, his restless mind was dominated by what might have been. There was only one thing for it. He'd go find RZA.

So where do you start looking for the Abbot of the Wu-Tang Clan? Well, he narrowed things down to New York, trimming the size of the haystack to a mere ten million people, and as soon as he could, he booked a flight to Gotham. And then another. And another five after that.

Penniless and operating out of the Vanderbilt YMCA, Cilvaringz began pinpointing strategic sites on the battlefield. And the first fortress he turned his sights on was Wu Wear in Staten Island, the apparel store for the discerning badass. It was a long shot at best; the chances of anyone integral to the group hanging out by the fitting rooms were slim, but it was a start. A rather disappointing start, as it turned out. Met by an avalanche of blank stares and eventually a security guard, Cilvaringz beat a tactical retreat back out to the sidewalk. And as he raised his eyes and glanced across the road, another W appeared like a vision of the angels. And what was this Shangri-la of salvation? It was Wu Nails. Yep, you heard. The Wu-Tang nail salon.

The mere fact that there was a nail salon out there rocking the W did rather emphasize just how big the Clan had become. This was the same period where the name was so all-encompassing that RZA had been approached by developers to open a Wu-Tang theme park in Florida. It might be a nail salon, but it was a Wu nail salon and that was a fucking start, so Cilvaringz crossed the road to do some professional loitering. It was always going to be slightly awkward, what with him not really looking like he was in the market for a manicure, so he just kind of embedded himself outside on hope's paving stone. The ladies inside were mystified. I mean, they'd met their fair share of weirdos, but this was right up there. Did they have a pervert on their hands or what?

He screwed his courage to the sticking point, pulled himself together, and strode in. There were sharp intakes of breath and some kissing of teeth, and three of the manicurists blocked his way. "Can we help you?" they inquired skeptically.

Cilvaringz launched into his story, describing the events in Holland and laying his cards on the table. He had a package that he needed to get to RZA somehow — his demos, his lyrics, and a series of heartfelt letters, pitched to actually arrest RZA's attention and not just gush like a superfan. As he finished his tale of woe and suicidal optimism, two ladies emerged from the shadows trying desperately to stifle a giggle.

It was RZA's mother and sister. And their faces radiated sympathy. They took the package off Cilvaringz's hands and promised they'd get it to Bobby (RZA's real name). They wished him luck, honored his persistence, and sent him on his way with a spring in his step and their phone numbers in his pocket.

RZA's sister Sophia was incredibly kind, and Cilvaringz rapidly became something of a pet project. She and RZA's uncle Vince, who Cilvaringz had also managed to track down, were both surprisingly understanding — which just goes to show how the right energy can infuse even the most suspect situations. For whatever reason, he had made an impression and the goodwill was strong, so between the two of them, they flagged up certain events RZA might be at so Cilvaringz could fly over from Holland, occupy the pavement outside them, and do his thing. And yet somehow, RZA continued to elude this increasingly sophisticated manhunt.

On his fifth trip, Cilvaringz finally got his hands on the location of Razor Sharp Records, where RZA had an office. Feeling the hope rising, he installed himself back at the YMCA, put together a fresh presentation package, and set off to 99 University Place. A wonderfully fitting address for a student in search of a teacher. RZA was going to walk past at some point. He HAD to. Unless there was an underground secret entrance or some shit. Fuck it — it was the best lead he had.

On the first day he dug in outside the offices, Cilvaringz met nearly the entire Wu-Tang Clan ... except RZA. Laying a copy of his demo on each of them, he settled back in for the long haul with just one demo banked in his pocket. But as they left, who should come strolling past ... no, not RZA, but his sister Sophia.

Exchanging some doorstep pleasantries and affectionately intrigued by what fresh level of psychosis Cilvaringz had now reached, she cut straight to the chase. She hadn't found any dead squirrels outside her house with lyrics pinned to them, so maybe he wasn't actually dangerous. Breaking into a smile, she invited him upstairs.

The floor was bustling with activity, not least a delegation from Quentin Tarantino who had come to discuss the music for Kill Bill. Everyone seemed to have a place and a purpose, but Cilvaringz was entering under royal protection. His savior strode over to the tape deck, put in Cilvaringz's demo, and cranked it as loud as it would go to gauge the reactions of everyone there while Ringz scanned a wall decorated with a thousand different phone numbers. Surely one had to be RZA's current digits.

Just as he finally pinpointed the Abbot's number and was sidling over with a pen, Sophia began whipping up the assembled throng. Shit — if ever a priceless piece of PR was done, she was killing it.

"Who dis?" people began to ask. "'S'all right," they began to say. "Yo, this is dope." Whether they were just being polite to RZA's sister or for real, Cilvaringz was past caring. This was some proper movie shit already. The phone rang and Cilvaringz's first instinct was bitter disappointment as the volume was scythed down and it looked like his fifteen seconds might be over.

It was Ghostface Killah. And he was calling from jail. He probably wanted to shoot the breeze with his homies and see how things were lining up for his release, but he barely got started before Cilvaringz's fairy godmother took control and played his demo into the phone. And despite it hijacking precious prison phone minutes, Ghost was digging it.