Reality can be ugly. Growing up on the hard streets of Brownsville in Brooklyn, N.Y., can be even uglier -- hell ugly. According to Billy Danze and Lil' Fame of the hard-core-rap outfit M.O.P. (Mash Out Posse), reality that harsh does more than just bite; it gnaws, spits, kicks, jabs, stabs, digs and devours physically, mentally and spiritually. All of which helps explain why M.O.P. do more than just rap. They hoot, howl, holler, hiss, squeal, screech, wail, rally and roar -- demanding your undivided attention with the realest, hardest sound in rap music since N.W.A. And now, with the unrelenting thump of their heavy artillery street anthem, "Ante Up," M.O.P. are making sure the hip-hop industry doesn't keep its head turned any longer.

Danze, twenty-six, and Fame, twenty-five, have been raising hell together for a long time, though not all of it has been done on wax. There are clearly many memories they'd rather not rehash at the moment. As we sit at a long table in a Harlem soul food restaurant backtracking through M.O.P.'s history, our conversation is frequently impeded by long pauses mid-speech and sporadic lulls in thought. Although some of their answers seem abbreviated out of concern to not spill incriminating information, the two life-long pals get especially quiet when they mention the close friends they've lost to street violence. When Fame gets up from the table to get another serving from the buffet, Danze continues with the M.O.P. timeline. His dark, piercing pupils, which glimmer slightly below his motionless eyelids, poignantly reflect the cold streets of Brownsville, where -- as he admits solemnly -- "the sun don't shine for nobody."

It was on those streets that Danze and Fame met each other (when they were toddlers) and, ultimately, helped build their foundation, their "family" as they also refer to it. "After a couple of our close friends either died or got sent to the hospital over some bullshit," remembers Danze, "that's when we figured it was time to start doin' shit our way, to protect our family -- the niggas who we considered down with us from day one. Our family had to come first. So we said 'fuck it' and named ourselves Mash Out Posse. A 'mash out' is what we call a beat-down and that's exactly what we wanted to do to anyone who fucked with us. So, basically, we've been M.O.P. forever."

At this point in the conversation, Danze's explanations get more revealing, albeit terse. "I did a lot of bad shit in my past," he says before adding defensively, "but a lot of it I did just to get by. I mean, I was on the streets when I was thirteen. My pops died around that time, and my moms wasn't workin'. What's a nigga to do? I had to hold my own somehow." When I ask Danze if he regrets the things he's done in the past, he sinks his head slowly, fixes his eyes on the table and mumbles, "yeah -- definitely."

It's the same feeling of regret that seems to have prompted Danze and Fame to begin rapping in the early Nineties, finally having another outlet for their day-to-day frustrations. But, as all four M.O.P. albums have proven since 1993, they never forget where they came from. "We couldn't forget our roots if we tried," assures Danze. "We represent the part of society that muthafuckas is tryin' hard to forget about -- you feel me, nigga? We've been that part of society all our lives. A feeling like that's too hard to just get rid of. It don't just go away. As far as we're concerned, it never will."

Scattered at the table and engaged in separate conversations are a few other members of the M.O.P. foundation. Laze E Laze, the producer of the group, discusses with Rock, the engineer, the intricacies of the sound system they'll be using later on tonight at the show in Poughkeepsie, N.Y. Back-up rapper and fellow Brownsville slugger Tephlon, who tours with the group and is featured on a couple of their tracks, is bugging out with the DJ and the two street-promotion guys a few seats down. And Foxx, the woman who handles much of the group's business affairs and manages them on the road, is on her cell phone, bitching someone out over a conflict in the group's schedule. "She don't fuck around," says Fame about Foxx, as he sits back down with a fresh plate of soul food. "Hell no," agrees Danze. "I wouldn't wanna be on the other end of that line, either. She's seven months pregnant, and she'll still put a nigga where the sun don't shine."

M.O.P.'s latest and greatest album, Warriorz (Loud Records), lets you know point blank: nothing shines in Brownsville -- and anything that does shine gets taken before it can even bling once. Each track -- especially cuts, like "Background Niggaz," "Warriorz," "Calm Down," "G-Building" and "Roll Call" -- pounds fear into the membranes with M.O.P.'s belligerent wordplay, while simultaneously supplying the vigor needed to bounce to their boisterous, sinister sounds and head-rattling beats. With a powerfully harsh, if-it-ain't-raw-it-ain't-well-done attitude, M.O.P.'s lyrics can make you feel like you're too close to Brownsville, even if you listen to the album in a foreign country. Frankly, if the conscious rap talents like Mos Def, Talib Kweli or the Roots aren't bright enough to outshine the floss-and-gloss rappers that pop Cristal and ride around in brand new Benz's, M.O.P. is, without a doubt, lionhearted enough to rob them blind -- and loud enough to drown them out, as well. When interviewed for this article, DJ Funkmaster Flex, who seems to play the hit single "Ante Up" almost every chance he gets -- whether on the radio or on MTV's Direct Effect -- said, "M.O.P. is just what hip-hop can use right about now. Y'nah mean? A good kick in the ass -- especially now, before things get completely outta hand, as far as materialism."

But, to get hip-hop back in order is not the reason M.O.P. has been going overboard with their music. As a matter of fact, they claim that they don't go overboard at all. "M.O.P.'s music is basically our translation of the reality we know, plain and simple," Foxx explains on the drive to Poughkeepsie. "Nobody's ever given these niggas shit. So they had to learn how to take it. We've had to scrap and fight for everything we have to this day. To get studio time, to get a record deal, to get played on the radio, everything. And we gon' keep fightin' 'til everyone in our family can eat."

The intensity she speaks with is the same intensity that can be felt in every verse on Warriorz. And it's the same intensity that M.O.P. spit their venom with, whenever they take the stage. It's evident later on in the jam-packed nightclub. The moshpits are almost as fierce as the music itself, and the rhymes that M.O.P. recite are so real, you'd swear that Danze and Fame are foaming at the mouth. It's ugly, yet no one's turning away. It's the kind of respect given to those whose bite is worse than its bark. Way worse.

PAT CHARLES
(December 15, 2000)