PRE HAPPY DILLA DAY - FREE MIX: WHATUPDOE 09 BY RHETTMATIC

..

with Dilla Dawg


Rhettmatic, Karriem Riggins, & J Dilla @ Nightlife (5/12/05)

Interview with J Dilla's Mother (LA Weekly)

AN INTERVIEW WITH J DILLA'S MOTHER MAUREEN YANCEY
About Dilla's legacy and her current estrangement with the executors of his estate.
BY JEFF WEISS
LA Weekly June 24, 2008

Author: A few weeks ago, I wrote a piece discussing the difficulties J Dilla's estate has had in enforcing copyright law and paying off the six-figure IRS debt left behind. In the aftermath of the story's publication, I had the chance to speak with his mother, Ms. Maureen Yancey about Dilla's legacy and her current estrangement with the executors of his estate.

LA Weekly: In the original article, some comments from Dilla's estate's executors made you take pause. What were they and what sort of problems have you had with the estate?
Maureen Yancey: I understand the side [estate executor] Arty Erk's coming from and what he's trying to do. However, there has been no communication between them and the family in a year. The only time I hear a peep is if there are some propositions between attorney's going to court. That's the only time I'm made aware of things.

It's ridiculous. I still have contacts with all of Dilla's friends and people in the hip-hop community. We still talk, we still keep in touch, we've became friends. They check in on me and I've had the opportunity to direct them to the estate thinking they'd be able to help do projects. But most of the time, none of their inquiries have been addressed. There's no one that has made it accessible to them to contribute and get work done. I've stopped sending people there. They haven't been forthright, I was told they didn't appreciate the help, that we weren't supposed to use Dilla's name or license. By the time, I understood what was happening and learned about the legal ramifications, I took down the website for the Foundation that we'd created as to be in compliance with state laws. I figured in the coming year, they'd reevaluate their decision, but it never happened.

One of the things Dilla wanted me to do with his legacy was to use it to help others, people with illness, kids who were musically gifted but had little hope due to poverty. I wanted to use my contacts to help people and out and it was squashed because we weren't in compliance with the state and there was nothing we could do about it. I'm Dilla's mother and I can't use Dilla's name or likeness, but I know that I still can honor him by doing his work.

What were your intended goals for the Foundation?
I wanted to set it up to help others but also to be a nucleus for the fans who wanted to do tributes and honor Dilla. It would be a place for artists to be able to show their support. When the estate chose not to communicate with us, they sold themselves short. The A-list artists stay in contact with me directly and they're basically cutting off the quality talents that made themselves closest to Dilla. Anyone with a knowledge about his work would know this, but those in charge haven't a clue to Dilla's worth, They haven't a clue as to who he was as a man or what his relationship was with his fans and his peers. It's a community, those artists coming out of the underground. You can see this when you travel around the world and see how large his fan base really was. People are still discovering the extent of Dilla's influence.

He has a young audience just coming into the community who he's had a major influence on. Then there's the issue of the jazz community. Dilla grew up with jazz. That was his lullaby and the connection is far greater than the estate realizes. It's more than just notes. There's so much that can be done and the estate hasn't got a clue. It's such a waste of time. But I'm not closing the door on them yet. Dilla worked alongside with me and I was a big part of my son's past. I moved to LA to take care of him, I worked for him from day one, that's why the communication with his peers and me has been so great.

What do you hope happens with the estate?
At the end of the day, we want our voices to be heard. We want the community to work with me and the estate. We want everyone to work together. It's been the estate's choice to not communicate with us and it jeopardizes the future quality of his projects. They make the decisions for him without the proper musical knowledge. Their depth of musical knowledge just isn't enough.

How did this entire mess come about? Why did Dilla pick these people if they didn't know anything about music?
He definitely wouldn't have chosen any of them if he knew better. The thing is, Dilla got along with mostly everyone, but if he knew about certain people who have collaborated with the estate he'd been spinning in his grave. They might as well have gotten someone off the street to oversee things. They know the words but they don't know what they mean.

Arty Erk was never his business manager as he portrays himself. During Dilla's lifetime, he was strictly an accountant. Now they constantly threaten to sue at the drop of a dime, I don't want to risk my health so I try not to worry about these things too much but it's upsetting.

It all happened because of our lack of knowledge. Dilla was the first person in our family to even have a will, he was the first to even have anything to designate, the only one of us that had an estate. I'm talking about grandparents and great-grandparents back all the way down. Usually, all we've left behind is bills. I didn't know how what to do, so we ended up sitting on the paperwork for months. We put it off. As his mother and best friend, I didn't want to interfere or ask questions. I felt it wasn't my place. I was so sure that he'd pull out of it. I never had a clue that he'd pass. He'd always tell me, 'mom I'm going to go home,' so that's what I thought would happen. If I'd know he was going to pass, I'd have certainly had someone look at the paperwork. It's just we never thought he'd need it. He ended up with Arty Erk because he had handled his finances, but still, he never had knowledge that it would end up this way.

And what about Micheline Levine, his attorney?
Dilla had been with her for most of his career, since he'd been with the Ummah. Whaen Dilla started to make it, he interviewed with several attorney's and he felt the most comfortable with Scott Felcher, who employed Micheline. Dilla was big on going with the people he felt the most comfortable with.

I called her a little while back to let her know that Arty wasn't being fair with me and that he'd made a few comments that I felt were racist. We'd had a relationship in the past and whenever she'd had a disagreement with Dilla, I'd smooth it over. Dilla had a lot of respect for his elders but he brought her to tears a few times and refused to say that he was sorry, but I'd help bridge the gap. Yet she didn't seem to care when I expressed my displeasure with the situation.

What specific comments did you find racist?
When Dilla got sick, I'd been having health problems of my own, but since I had to take care of Dilla, I ended up neglecting my own health. I was feeling really ill and had very little activity in my lungs. I needed needed medication and I had bills. Not bills that would take a lifetime to settle but bills nonetheless.

At one point, Arty told me to call him back and in the meantime, he'd try to see what he could do. I waited and never got the return call. Still in the same poor shape, I called him and he said that he couldn't do anything and asked me, 'well, what did you expect to happen? Were you expecting a big windfall of money?' I said, 'no, but you did tell me to call back and otherwise I wouldn't have done that.'

At one point in the conversation, he told to me consider going to social services or getting state aid. My gut told me if I had not been a black mother, he wouldn't have said those words. But that wasn't the first time. In the past, he'd made comments about Dilla buying rims. He called me up one time to chastise me for Dilla having a lack of funds and told me that he wouldn't be in this predicament had he not spent money on rims for his truck. But Dilla made the money, he worked for it and he wanted to spend it on what he wanted to spend it on. Erk doesn't know much about the community and how important it is what they see you in and how you dress, how you look in public.

I never told Dilla about that conversation but I wish I had. He would've fired him right there. At the end of my last conversation with Erk, I told him that he didn't have to ever worry about me calling him again in this lifetime. That was over a year ago and I called Micheline about five minutes later to let her know what he'd said and how I felt about it. I only talked to her once after that, about the guy we chose from Stones Throw to work on Dilla's remaining catalog.

Ultimately, they don't want anyone who knows the business to deal with Dilla's stuff. They'd rather do it themselves and close themselves off from the community.

So what's the status of Dilla's kids at the moment?
They're doing fine. Both of the mother's are drawing social security and his daughters are living with them. Dilla wanted them to be taken care of and they are.

You've mentioned how close of a relationship you have with Dilla's artist friends? Who do you still keep in touch with?
Everyone calls me. Busta calls regularly. Erykah, Common, The Roots. All the top name artists used to come over during Christmas and New Year's and at various points during the year, so we came to be a family. It's a beautiful relationship that's never faltered, even the artists out in LA. Madlib is a perfect example. Before they'd met face to face, Dilla and him already had a great relationship. The thing is, Dilla didn't want to work with just anyone. There were times he'd gotten offers that would involve big money and he would be like 'I'm not feeling them,' and tell me that he knew better. I'd be sick about it, because it would be at times when he really needed the financial resources, but it wasn't about that, it was about quality. I mean he's still receiving awards and dedications worldwide to this day.

So what do the artist's themselves think of the tumultuous relationship you've had with the estate?
I can't name one of them who's happy about it. None of them want to see me having to grovel for money for medication. I've always been a businesswoman but I had to give it up to take care of Dilla.

What was your profession?
I ran a day care, I had always done that in a building at Conant Gardens. I'd always taken care of myself and never depended on Dilla.

What about the relationship with Stones Throw? You see a lot of mean-spirited comments and rumors in chat rooms that they've been less than upright in business matters regarding Dilla.
Stones Throw has always been wonderful. When I came to LA to take care of Dilla, his medical bills were sky-high but the people from the label were there every day. The only time they didn't come was when I would call them and tell them to come a day later, because Dilla was too sick for visitors. They took care of the finances, they gave him advances for music that had barely been discussed. They've been great.

Dilla didn't have health insurance for his last two years, so every time he went in and out of the hospital, he would rack up massive bills, sometimes up to a quarter of a million dollars. But they would always try to give us help, even if they didn't have it. I know people say mean things about them but they just aren't true. They're totally honest and they loved Dilla, they stuck by him to the very end.

Why do you think the estate has been so brusque in dealing with you and the artist community?
I think it's simply a control issue. They don't want to worry about ma dukes saying anything. They don't have the time to be bothered, Time will tell. They've definitely done things that are unnerving, that's for sure.

What would you have liked to have seen happen?
I would've liked to be in harmony with them and for there to have been less bigotry, I would've liked to have seen activity. If you do work, people find out about it. Dilla wasn't about controversy, he would've liked things to have been peaceful. Dilla was about love in many formats and for his estate to have done the exact opposite is not having any respect for him or who he was.

Has it been difficult for you to be one of the main people in charge of protecting your son's legacy?
It's been a joy. Even in bad times when people want to slander me, people know the truth, everyone in the community knows. I was there at the beginning and people know that I loved and gave everything to my son. There was nothing I wouldn't have done for Dilla. If it takes 10 years for them to get over this merry-go-ground, it's going to be okay because Dilla wanted to help people who suffered.

Being in Detroit, it's overwhelming the talent that these kids have here. But there's no art appreciation, there's no type of outlet at all. We have very few recreations here. When you come to my home it looks like Beirut. We need these talented and responsible children to see a spark to see the possibility.

What do you think about the current renaissance of Detroit hip-hop, with Black Milk, Elzhi, Phat Kat and others starting to break nationally and who pay such an obvious tribute to your son's music?
I think it was a wake up call for them. They were all so close. Phat Kat would come here every day and would just be hanging around outside. The inspiration has gotten stronger for them. They know they're not promised anything,

Dilla knew when he was going to leave. He talked about different things for me to do when he was gone, but I didn't want to hear that. But he knew that he only had a certain amount of time left that he was blessed with. My greatest bit of advice is to tell artists to get a living will and to name for your executor someone who loves you through thick and thin. Don't take things for granted. I know Dilla's not the first one to get bad advice. It happens a lot in this industry but I hadn't a clue about it. This stuff just wasn't on my mind. All I want to do now is get the foundation up and running because that's what Dilla really wanted.

Is there any bit of your son's music that you hold most dear to you?
I know all of his music but Donuts means the most, because I was there. We had our schedules in the hospital and we'd rotate it around dialysis. It was hard because we'd have to do stuff in the wee hours of the night, with stacks of crates littering the room. We worked double-time and the doctor's were worried but they ultimately knew that it was necessary to keep his spirits up. It was wonderful to be a part of and it's special to me. I didn't even understand the way he arranged things at first. I hadn't given thought to the arrangement, with the "last song of the night.' He knew his time was winding down and that album was his way of letting you know. It's like being taken along for a ride. Dilla would always say, 'are you ready for a ride,' and that was what he felt with that album.

Any other favorites?
I liked "Fuck the Police," a lot because Dilla had so much trouble with the police and it tormented him. He was all about being clean and crisp when he left home, his car was always immaculate and the police always assumed that he was dealing drugs or something. I remember the night the inspiration for the occurred. They were in the basement making music and they went to the gas station four doors from my home to get food. On their way there, the cops tried to tear them up, We ran down to the gas station and the cops were already stripping the car apart, trying to disassemble it. Dilla was furious. He hadn't done anything wrong. He hasn't driving a Caddy truck or a Lexus, he was just in a Ford Ranger that my husband had bought it for him because he worked at Ford. It was Dilla's first real car, before he'd made any money on his own and now the cops were belittling him. It hurt him so bad. I told him not to get so upset and that he should put his anger to good use and write a song about it. They didn't get much work done that night but it was business as usual the next day.

When did you first sense how musically gifted Dilla was?
At two months old, he could do perfect harmony, it was incredible. My husband would play jazz to put him to sleep every night and I was going to school for night classes and we thought it would sooth him. Meanwhile, he'd been harmonizing along with the basslines in perfect pitch. It was amazing, we'd tape it and play it for other musicians. We were a very musical family, my husband was always training people to sing.

At two and three years old, he'd start to go to the record shop every Friday and they would play all the new records for him. He'd buy a few and then go to the park and spin records. He was only 2 and a half. Now ironically, it's an area where they have an artist haven.

What would you like people to remember about your son?
I'd like them to remember what his music was about. It was very simple: it's about love. Sometimes it was negative, sometimes it was positive. I didn't appreciate that until he had passed. Dilla loved people, he loved doing what he did, and he loved those he worked with.

Jay Dee's last days
The untold story of the noted Detroit hip-hop producer's drive to make music in the face of life-threatening illness

February 23, 2006

BY KELLEY L. CARTER

FREE PRESS MUSIC WRITER

It was near the end of summer 2005, and James Yancey was sitting in a hospital bed at Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles.

He couldn't walk. He could barely talk. And after spending most of the winter and spring in the hospital, receiving treatment for a rare, life-threatening blood disease and other complications, he had been re-admitted.

His body was killing him, and little could be done about it.

It was a grim prognosis, but it wasn't deterring him from tinkering with his electronic drum machine.

In the sterile white hospital room, the tools of his trade surrounded him: turntables, headphones, crates of records, a sampler, his drum machine and a computer, stuff his mother and friends from L.A.-based record label Stones Throw had lugged to his hospital room. Sometimes his doctor would listen to the beats through Yancey's headphones, getting a hip-hop education from one of the best in the business.

Yancey tampered with his equipment until his hands swelled so much he could barely move them. When the pain was too intense, he'd take a break. His mother massaged his fingertips until the bones stopped aching.

Then he'd go back to work. Sometimes he'd wake her up in the middle of the night, asking to be moved from his bed to a nearby reclining chair so he could layer more hard-hitting beats atop spacey synths or other sampled sounds, his creations stored on computer. Yancey told his doctor he was proud of the work, and that all he wanted to do was finish the album.

Before September ended, he'd completed all but two songs for "Donuts," a disc that hit stores on Feb. 7, his 32nd birthday.

Three days after its release, he died.

Yancey, better known as Jay Dee or J Dilla, is acknowledged as the father of the Detroit hip-hop sound. Some people call him a creative genius, and his streetwise but soulful and musically tight production style influenced some of the world's biggest rap and R&B stars, from Kanye West to Janet Jackson to Erykah Badu, many of whom he worked with.

He was a champion of Detroit's urban music scene, and in the mid-'90s, when hip-hop was dominated by the East and West coasts, he put a distinct Motor City sound on the national map -- and provided inspiration to then-unknowns like Eminem, D12 and his own group, Slum Village.

As his reputation rose, he persisted with his distinct connection to the musical underground, serving as a sort-of people's champion of the non-commercial hip-hop scene.

Just as he was poised for even greater fame, he got sick -- a medical odyssey that would put him in and out of hospitals for the better part of four years, racking up staggering medical bills.

The instigator was a rare and incurable blood disease, but the complications were many, including recurring kidney failure, severe blood-sugar swings, immune system issues, heart trouble and what might have been lupus.

While rumors swirled in hip-hop circles that he was sick, the extent -- and specifics -- of his health concerns were largely kept secret. Yancey was not the type who wanted others to know about his problems. Even some of his closest friends didn't know what he did: Death was soon coming.

Since his death, fans have gathered to mourn his passing and celebrate his legacy, a mood that will continue today at a public Detroit memorial service. And for the first time, those who saw Yancey's struggles first-hand, including his mother and doctor, are talking about his final days.

January 2002: Something's wrong

Yancey first realized something was wrong in January 2002 after coming back from a gig in Europe, two years after Slum Village's first national release, "Fantastic Vol. 2." Instead of going to his home in Clinton Township, he went to his parents' house on Detroit's east side, complaining that he had a cold or the flu.

It was unusual behavior. Even as a kid he'd liked his privacy, but that night he needed to be with his mother, Maureen Yancey, hoping that she could somehow make it all better.

He was sick to his stomach. He had chills. And after he lay down, he said he felt worse.

His mother took him to the emergency room at Bon Secours Hospital in Grosse Pointe. His blood platelet count was below 10. It should have been between 140 and 180. Doctors told his mother they were surprised that he was still walking around.

Soon, a specialist from Harper Hospital would diagnose a thrombotic thrombocytopenic pura or TTP, a rare blood disease that causes a low platelet count. Abnormal cells were eating away the good cells. Doctors told him there was no cure or direct treatment.

Yancey stayed in the hospital for about a month and a half. Within weeks he had to go back for the same thing -- a trend that would continue for more than four years.

Despite the looming health problems, Yancey moved to L.A. about two years after he was diagnosed, determined to make music. Some things went well, including a musical collaboration and friendship with the rapper Common, who became his roommate. But he began to feel worse, and he met with a blood specialist who told him that in order to live, he'd have to endure medications and hospital treatments.

In November 2004, Yancey called his mother and asked if she'd come out to L.A. to help take care of him.

Disease leads to kidney failure

Yancey went into the hospital shortly after his mom arrived, and he stayed until March 2005. His mother, who slept at the hospital, never left his side. She began to take the reins of her son's health issues, which included mounting bills.

He had to take anti-immune and anti-inflammation steroids. A medication designed to suppress his immune system gave him high blood sugar, and he was taken off it.

The TTP also led to kidney failure. His kidneys would shut down, spring back, shut down again. The three-times-a-week, four-hour dialysis treatments were sometimes so painful he had to be unhooked from the machine.

Because he was lying in bed for long periods, his legs swelled, making it difficult to walk. He needed a wheelchair or a walker or cane -- the latter he used when he could get out to the music store to look for records, or to a nearby fruit market to get juice or a 7-Eleven Slurpee, a treat. Sometimes he would forget how to swallow and would have to relearn. He lost 50% of his weight.

"A lot of times, just when we would get ready to get going, he would get sick again," Maureen Yancey said. "He was so tired of going back. It was very sedentary. Just watching him, it was sad at times. He couldn't do what he wanted to."

In 2005, weeks before his 31st birthday, doctors diagnosed something that looked like lupus, a chronic inflammatory disease that can affect the skin, joints, blood and kidneys. His doctor said it was probably what contributed to the low platelet count and the frequent swelling and pain in his hands.

Sure, those long hospital stays had plenty of undesirable consequences. But it was the inability to touch the music, to pick it out of records bins, twist it and create it, that made those long stays feel never-ending.

The hospital bills mount

Even though he had insurance through the American Federation of Television and Radio Artists, the cost to keep Yancey alive was steep, and he had to pay much of it himself.

Bills for the lengthy hospital stays topped $200,000 each time. Dialysis three times a week cost $1,800. Each once-a-week shot to raise his hemoglobin cost $1,800. He had dozens of prescriptions -- $700, $900 or even $2,000 out of pocket per bottle. He had large co-pays -- one was $6,700 a week -- because he had to see specialists.

His mother, who today gets medical invoices almost daily, has yet to total up the costs. His plan was to make more music -- he had a project lined up with Will Smith -- to pay the bills and leave money to take care of his Detroit-based daughters, Ja-mya Yancey, 4, and Ty-monet Whitlow, 5.

To pay the bills, Maureen says, she'll work the rest of her life if she has to.

A Detroit friend steps in

Mike Buchanan, better known as DJ House Shoes, first met Yancey in the mid-'90s at Street Corner Music in Beverly Hills. House Shoes worked there and Yancey was a wanna-be music producer on the hunt for albums.

After Yancey moved to L.A., their friendship waned. In early 2005, House Shoes heard the rumor that Yancey was in a coma and might not pull through. He booked a flight to L.A. and packed a bunch of CDs -- random beats CDs, a mix-tape CD that House Shoes had recently released and anything else he thought Yancey would want to hear.

He stayed a week, spending every day in the hospital with him.

His friend looked different -- he was smaller and quieter. House Shoes struggled, not wanting to pry too much about the details of his friend's illness.

"I poker-faced it," House Shoes would say a year later. "It was hard as hell."

At his hospitalized birthday celebration, Yancey got cake -- chocolate, his favorite -- from one of his record labels, Stones Throw. He also got a baseball jersey decorated with Detroit street signs.

Then there was a private gift.

House Shoes called about 35 people in Detroit -- some who knew Yancey and others who'd never met him but appreciated his contributions to hip-hop. He had them leave birthday and get-well greetings on his voice mail.

"Man, listen to this crazy message this girl left me," House Shoes said, bringing his cell phone closer to Yancey's ear.

Then he let them play. All 35 messages. There in his hospital bed, Yancey broke down and cried.

Yancey hides his condition

Yancey kept quiet about how bad things really were.

After that early 2005 stint at the hospital -- the one that prompted hip-hop message boards to report he was in a coma -- he granted an interview to hip-hop magazine XXL for its June edition.

In the interview, he denied that he was comatose, and said that he had gotten sick overseas. "As soon as I got back," he told the magazine, "I had the flu or something, and I had to check myself into the hospital. Then they find out I had a ruptured kidney and was malnourished from not eatin' the right kinda food. It was something real simple, but it ended with me being in the hospital."

Only his doctor and his mother knew how bad it really was.

Detroit rapper Proof, like many of Yancey's friends, never wanted to push it.

"We never really got into the sickness thing. I would be like 'How you doing?' He would be like 'Better,' " Proof said.

The Bible provides comfort

Yancey became more spiritual in the last year of his life.

He and his mother studied the story of Job, which tackles the question of why innocent people suffer, and which biblical scholars interpret to be about faith and patience.

"For God maketh my heart soft, and the Almighty troubleth me: because I was not cut off before the darkness, neither hath he covered the darkness from my face."

His doctor said he had come to terms with illness.

"He didn't want to be a professional patient," said Dr. Aron Bick, Yancey's L.A.-based hematologist, who also is an oncologist. "The treatment was difficult because he would not want to go to the hospital. He was very intelligent. He said, 'I hear you, doc. But here are my decisions about my own life.'

"I admired that on a human level. He got the medical care he needed. He really did not let his medical situation handicap his life. To him, life came first. He made peace with himself before we even knew it. And then he made peace with his mom."

On his 32nd birthday, Yancey spent the day at his L.A. home.

Roommate Common bought him a birthday cake, chocolate, of course. DJ Peanut Butter Wolf and Madlib, friends from hip-hop's underground, came over with a cake in the shape of a chocolate doughnut, to honor the "Donuts" album, which was released that day.

Their visit was brief, because Yancey felt uncomfortable with people seeing him that way.

They left the cake at the door. Yancey had a small piece. It was all his aching stomach could take.

It hadn't quite been a month since he'd left the hospital, and he'd just learned how to swallow again. Because his voice wasn't strong, he sometimes refused to open his mouth. He was shuffling around his home with a walker -- he'd gotten rid of the wheelchair weeks before.

"At that point I really felt like something was wrong, more so than ever," said Peanut Butter Wolf. "Even a few weeks before that he was in a wheelchair, but he was energetic and showing me music and showing me his equipment and talked about moving all of his equipment that's still in Detroit to L.A."

Still, in spite of the pain, he was happy. His one prayer had been answered. This was the first birthday in four years that he hadn't spent in a hospital.

'It's going to be all right'

In the last days of his life, as he shuffled up and down the hallway, he had heart-to-heart chats with his mother. They were quick. But they were thoughtful.

"You know I love you, right?" he said. "And I appreciate everything you've ever done for me."

"You don't have to say that," she said.

He and his mother had developed a ritual that preceded medical procedures: They'd slap high-fives, an indication that everything was going to be OK.

At home, the day after his birthday, he held his hand up for his mom to meet it in midair.

She was puzzled. There was no procedure that day. Why was he doing this?

He continued to motion for her to high-five him, refusing to stop until her hand met his.

Finally, she relented and gave it to him.

"That's what I'm talking about," he said. "We're in this together. It's all good. You're going to be all right. I promise you it's going to be all right."