My Voice: A Memoir (12 page)

For a brief stint I thought that was the end of my ride as an artist and didn’t think twice about it. But out of the blue one day I got a call from Lance “Un” Rivera. He was Biggie’s former business partner and Lil’ Kim was signed to his label, Undeas, at the time.

“I’m putting a bunch of girls on this song ‘Ladies Night.’ You sounded really good on that ‘Heartbeat’ joint,” Un said, explaining that Kim was doing a “Not Tonight” remix with Left Eye, Da Brat, and Missy Elliott. And they wanted me on the song!

My new Ladies’ Night show on Friday nights with DJ Jazzy Joyce and DJ Coco Chanel was taking off. So he thought it was a good fit.

“You should jump on this, do the intro.”

It’s so funny how once you rap on something people just assume now you’re a rapper. And I’m expected to write a rhyme. I’d never written a rap. That last rhyme, KRS-One wrote for me. Now I’m expected to write a rap that would have to stand next to the biggest female rappers in the game. So I called Salaam, DJ Doo Wop, and a few people for advice. And
Doo Wop, God bless him, gave me some pointers. “Maybe change the words to this . . . and try this . . .”

I must have spent two days in my house with a pad and a pen, writing pages’ worth of shit that was probably all terrible. I wrote about one hundred bars ’cause I didn’t know what was good, what was wack. Finally, at the appointed hour, I went into the studio session at the Hit Factory and Un was waiting.

“Do you have something? You got a verse?”

“I don’t know if I got a verse, but I got about two pages of rhymes,” I told him. I actually didn’t even know how to count bars or what the standard structure of a verse was.

Un gave me a look like “it’s not that serious” and said, “Get your ass in the booth.”

So I went in the booth and I just started doing all of it, everything that I’d written. We did it a bunch of times and Un picked the best eight bars.

It’s ladies night what, it must be Angie on the mic

The Butter P honey got the sugar got the spice

Roll the L’s tight, keep the rhymes right

Yo, I just made this motherfucker up last night

And uhh . . . I’m the rookie on this all-star team

Me and Kim is gettin’ cream, like Thelma and Louise . . .

“This is the part,” he confirmed, and then added, “I may have you come back in once I get all the other girls in place and do some ad-libs.”

“Okay, cool, whatever you need,” I said. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to use it. It’s okay. I understand.”

“No, no, it’s good. It’s really good.”

This was all so outside my realm of experience that I couldn’t tell if it was really good or he was just saying so. In any event, not too much later I was called back to the studio to do some ad-libs. Left Eye was there when I arrived. TLC was one of my favorite girl groups of all time, and Left Eye was iconic. She had recently been all over the news for burning her man’s house down. It was the biggest story at the time, being circulated all over the world, and there I was in the studio while she wrote:
I be the one to blame as the flames keep rising to the top and it don’t stop
.

With all her success and everything she had been going through, Left Eye could have been standoffish. But she wasn’t. She was sweet and giving. One of the first things she said was, “I really like your verse.”

“You do? I was so worried.”

“Yeah, it sounds really good.”

When I went in the booth, Left Eye did everything she could to make me feel comfortable and confident, like I belonged there. Five years later, when she died too young, I remembered how helpful and encouraging she had been to me that day.

Thinking back, all of the women on the song were like a team, and everyone—Left Eye, Lil’ Kim, Da Brat, Missy Elliott, and me—had good vibes toward each other. The next thing I knew we were flying off to West Palm Beach to shoot the video. This was back in the day when the big-budget music videos were everything. They had us scuba diving and riding Jet Skis. And so many other top female artists like Mary J., Queen Latifah, and SWV came out to do cameos and support the video. It was like living out a fantasy that I would have been embarrassed to even admit I’d ever had.

But still, I wasn’t getting ready to quit my day job. At the same time, I was just riding the wave as the song’s success built. People were coming up and quoting, “It must be Angie on the mic . . .” and telling me how
they just loved the video. It wasn’t just a New York thing. In fact, after the single was released in July of 1997, “Not Tonight (Ladies Night Remix)” took off and stayed in the Hot 100 for twenty-one weeks, peaking at number six! When Grammy nominations were announced, it would be nominated for Best Rap Song by a Duo or Group. Though it would later lose to Puffy and Faith’s “I’ll Be Missing You”—a tribute to Biggie—getting the Grammy nomination was a huge deal.

Even before that, just as nuts, we were asked to perform at the MTV Video Awards in September of ’97.

Perform? As in perform LIVE and in person on TV? I don’t know how to fucking perform.

At Radio City Music Hall on the night of the awards, June Ambrose styled us. But June had her hands full. Along with Kim and Missy and everybody else, she was also styling Puffy, who was performing “I’ll Be Missing You.” Clearly, I was at the bottom of June’s priority list. So she gave no fucks about me. Like literally we’re about to go onstage and I still had no shoes.

Not trying to be a diva or anything, I nicely said, “I don’t have any shoes. Do you have anything?” And one of June’s assistants came up with this terrible pair of clunky black shoes. I didn’t have management. I didn’t have a stylist. I just showed up with a ponytail like—
Okay, we’re gonna perform at the MTV Awards.
It was a nightmare. More than anything, it was embarrassing to be unprepared.

Not that I saw being an artist as part of my destiny. At the time, I chalked all of it up as a blip—a really cool one but just a moment.

While that’s how I was looking at it, record labels saw it differently. Not too long after the MTV Awards, I started to get calls. And not just calls but interest from multiple labels for me to do my own album!

This ride just kept getting crazier. A whole album? Salaam was the one who convinced me to at least take the meetings. “If you still want to
say no, at least you’ll know what you’re turning down.” He was right. Why the hell not hear what they had to say?

My attitude was—here I go again, into uncharted territory. I tried to do what had worked for me in the past by staying open and looking to learn all that I could.

That attitude freed me. And it helped me up my game in other areas, too.

READY OR NOT

A
t twenty-six years old, in that fall of 1997, I’d started to understand the importance of keeping my inner circle tight. For the most part, I’d always been a good judge of character, and my friends not only protected me as my popularity grew, but they kept me grounded. That became meaningful to me the more I found myself surrounded by people in the business—record promoters, club promoters, deejays, and aspiring artists. Not that they were bad people. It’s just that when you let too many others into your life, especially people with agendas, it leaves room for error. And messiness.

See, the thing about success is that people want to stand next to it. They want a piece of it; they want access to it. People begin to see you as an opportunity, and if you are not careful you could wake up one day and realize that all of your friends are not really your friends. I’ve seen it happen to too many people and always refused to let it happen to me. My defining line became
I don’t want to be around people who don’t want
the best for me. And I don’t want to be with somebody who resents my drive.

For all those reasons, I actively cherished friends closest to me like Nikki, and my girlfriends Tracey and Liane. Of course, I’d known Nikki for most of my life and at this point we were more like sisters than friends. Nikki, still tall and model thin, always more conservative than me, was moving up professionally in her career in the Financial District. We still didn’t have the same interests, but she had my back and I always trusted her judgment. There were times when I’d bring a new friend around and Nikki would say simply, “Ehhhhh, I don’t know about her,” and that was enough for me because she was
always
right! When Nikki and I met Tracey and Liane, we all clicked right away. Tracey, also Puerto Rican and from Washington Heights, loved hip-hop as much as I did. She knew all the lyrics and would come to the clubs in sneakers because they were easier to dance in. She was my type of girl! As Tracey started to make her way up the business ladder in sales and marketing, she could be more conservative in attire—but her heart was always hip-hop. Now, Liane—who was to Tracey what Nikki was to me, best friends for many years—was much more conservative. Liane’s family was from Spain, and she was way more girlie, almost prissy, always put together perfectly. She and Nikki always had great manners, while Tracey and I never really gave a fuck. Liane, who would go into PR and eventually become an executive, was very into fashion, style, and pop culture. Between the four of us, there was never a lack of fun or fun stuff to talk about. And most importantly, we trusted each other.

On the romantic side of things, in this period I had started seeing Q-Tip again, and this time it was more of a real relationship. He was still that guy who, the first time we met, made me feel like we’d known each
other forever. Tip was someone I trusted as a friend, who made me comfortable, who gave me encouragement and acted as a sounding board for me. As the competitive atmosphere at the station began to intensify, especially in the wake of the MTV Awards and possibilities of getting an album deal, Tip was the first person to come to my defense if somebody said something bad about me.

Tip would invariably say, “They’re fucking crazy.” He had my back no matter what. Even sometimes when I might not have been in the right, he would defend me and take my side. You have to love that. Between Tip and the advice I’d gotten from Pac not to worry so much about what is said by people who are gonna talk shit anyway, I tried to keep a thick-skinned attitude.

And that’s what I did at first as far as some comments I started to hear about Wendy Williams having a problem with me. But why? If I thought back to when she first arrived at the station, I couldn’t remember any reason for it. During this time, when I was doing nights, Wendy Williams was on afternoons. So, obviously, I came on after her and the two of us would see each other in passing at the station. Wendy was a really big personality in her own right. Tall and intense, everything about her was a lot—a lot of hair, a lot of makeup, a lot of presence. She’d walk down the hall like she owned it. She’d done radio for way longer than me, and I always liked her on the air; she was offensive and outrageous but extremely entertaining. As much as I enjoyed her, I was smart enough to keep my distance.

Wendy would go about her business and I would go about mine. She would talk shit about the artists all day and then they would come to my show at night to tell their side of whatever the story was. It was like an unintentional game of good cop, bad cop, and for the station it was a win-win. But as much as she was killing the ratings and people were
tuned in, I’m sure getting booed at events wasn’t fun for her, and I’m sure the fact that I was booking all the guests was irritating, too.

Flex pulled me aside one day to say that Doug E. Fresh’s promo calling me the “hottest chick on the radio” was Doug E.’s way of shitting on Wendy.

Huh?? It was????

I never looked at it that way because for a few years now I had been the
only
chick there. That type of personalized drop was the norm. But I did take notice and I tried to be a little more sensitive. Not that it would matter to Wendy.

People would repeat an unflattering comment Wendy had made in general and they’d add, “She’s probably talking about you.”

My reply was consistent: “Whatever. That’s just Wendy. She talks shit about everybody.”

But then it started to come more directly, with others telling me, “Yo, she don’t like you. Clearly.”

The sensible thing to do, I figured, was to talk to her, keep things cool, and clear the air. I hate weirdness with people. I planned to approach her at work after her show ended, before mine got started.

So when I arrived, as Wendy was going off the air, the first person I saw was my producer, Paddy Duke, who was getting my show ready. He was a small guy with a big Italian personality who was a fiercely loyal member of the Hot 97 team. Then I saw Wendy about to leave.

“Paddy, would you mind stepping outside for a minute?” I asked, and waited a beat as he left. Then I turned to Wendy.

She could see I had something to say, so she stood there, like—
well?

“Wendy, people keep telling me you’re taking jabs at me,” I began. She stared back as if to say,
What are you talking about?

“I’m not saying you are. I’m just saying that that’s what the perception
is,” I went on. “I’ve been ignoring it, but I just wanted to make sure that we’re good . . .”

“Well, you know, I’m just doing my job. I didn’t really say anything, but okay, whatever, no problem.” She was defensive and barely looked me in the eye and was clearly uncomfortable, so I let it go.

Then she did it again. I kept bringing it up to her but being nice about it. In essence, I’d say, “Look, I don’t want us to have any problems. I know you’re not saying my name, but you’re saying shit that feels funny.” I gave her examples, like her comment that, “You know these ‘other’ radio personalities are out here hanging out with the artists.”

Wendy came from the school of “you can’t be friends with the artists because then you can’t talk shit about them.” And I understood—that was her thing and she was great at it—but I never felt that way. To me, I respected the artists, I respected the culture, and I always wanted them to feel comfortable in my house. That’s just who
I
was. I wasn’t necessarily out here looking for friends, but I always wanted to treat people with respect. We had different radio philosophies. She was a radio person who wound up at a hip-hop station. I was a hip-hop kid who wound up doing radio. Two very different types of human beings. But ultimately she was great at being Wendy, and all I ever wanted to do was be great at being me.

Again I ask her if she has an issue with me.

Again she blows me off. “No, no, it’s fine. I didn’t even say anything . . . Whatever.”

“No seriously, Wendy . . . we work together. We have to see each other every day. I’m looking you in your face and asking you to please stop making this uncomfortable.”

She finally hears me. Or that’s what she says: “I hear you. I’m sorry . . . I’ll stop.”

And she did. For a few weeks. Then the bitch did it again!

I was driving to work and had the radio on and I heard her say something about my relationship. No mistaking that when Wendy said, “I’m not the one dating a rapper up here. Ugh . . . if I was, maybe I would like that song.”

Just catty dumb shit like that. It was so unnecessary and weird.

And now I gotta walk into work and be cordial again?!

Nope, I had to try a different approach. The time had come to go to management.

“Listen,” I began, not mincing words. “I gotta see this woman every day and I’m uncomfortable. You gotta talk to her or we are going to have a problem.”

For many other reasons, management had their own issues with Wendy. Steve Smith assured me, “I’ll talk to her.” And it worked!

For a few weeks. And then again . . . She said something catty about my relationship with Tip.
What the fuck?!

So I go into the station that day and I’m like, “Wendy, do me a favor. Don’t talk about me at all. Because now it’s a problem.” I start getting stern about it. “Seriously, don’t do it. I gotta see you every day. I don’t want a problem with you. I hear you. I see you. Stop!”

She actually looked me in the eye this time and said, “Okay, fine. I get it. No problem.” She added, “Angie, I’m sorry. I will stop.” Finally, she didn’t deny it.

All right, cool. Finally we got it out. It’s gonna fucking stop
.

I couldn’t wait to get it all behind me.

A couple of days later I’m at Margarita’s house—my friend from Miami who was now living in Queens after landing a job at a record label—and we’re hanging out and talking shit when I get a strange call.

One of the record reps is calling to ask, “Yo, have you seen Wendy’s website?”

“I haven’t.”

“You should go check it out.”

Wendy had launched a website. At this point websites weren’t that big of a deal because not everybody was online yet and personal websites had just started—it was almost unheard of. So I go to her website and it says: “One of my coworkers is dating Q-Tip from A Tribe Called Quest. Oh well. I guess some women like men who like men.”

Everybody was gay to Wendy. Every rapper you could think of in that era, I had heard Wendy Williams call them gay. Not one or two. Like
every
one of them. She was all about the gay rapper. That was her thing. And she was running with it.

Are you fucking kidding me? We
just
had a conversation about this.

I am on fire. And immediately I call to tell Tip.

“Whatever,” he says. “She’s crazy.”

I wasn’t even trying to hear him.

“Fuck that!” I insist. “I worked too hard and for too long to let this lady keep disrespecting me. I am going to deal with her tomorrow. This is going to stop.”

I woke up the next morning as infuriated as the night before, and headed into work early to confront her. As I approached the station, I could feel my anger building. I couldn’t focus on anything else and I couldn’t shake it. The crazy thing is that normally I never confront anyone when I’m too emotional or angry. I try to be smarter than that. It’s impossible to operate from a sensible place when you’re that worked up. I knew it could lead to a bad situation, but at this point, she had pushed me into a corner.

As I got into the elevator, I began to regain some of my senses and talk myself off the ledge.

You know what? You’re being crazy. You’re not in high school. It’s just Wendy. This is her shtick and this is what she does. Don’t bring yourself
down to her level. You’re not gonna do anything to her. That would be dumb. There has to be another way to work this out . . .

I was almost calm when I stepped off the elevator and started making my way to the studio area. Then I saw Wendy. She was prancing to the bathroom with her big weave bouncing all over the place like she didn’t have a care in the world. “Hey, Annngggie!”

And, man, there was something about the way she said my name that made my fucking blood boil! It was so phony and condescending. The whole time she was in the bathroom, I was right outside of the ladies’ room waiting, pacing.

Then Wendy comes out of the bathroom and I’m standing right there. She stops. Quick.

“Didn’t I tell you to leave me the fuck alone?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Wendy, I told you to leave me the FUCK ALONE.”

She rolls her eyes. “Ugggggghhh.”

And I lost my fucking mind. Before I knew it I was swinging at her. It was a quick scuffle. It took only a few seconds for me to realize that she wasn’t really hitting me back—she was just trying to get me off of her. I think she was just stunned. Nobody got hurt or anything like that.

And then Skeletor, her board op at the time, came running out of the studio, shouting, “Girls, girls, what’s going on? Angie, stttooooppp!”

By that point Wendy began yelling, “What is
wrong
with you?!” She grabbed the mop that had been leaning against the wall outside of the bathroom and just stood there with it like she wanted to have some sort of sword fight or something. It was actually kind of funny, even in the moment.

I asked, “What are you going to do with that Wendy??”

She said nothing.

Calmly, I asked, “No, seriously, what are you going to do with that?”

She put it down and stormed back into the studio. I calmly walked back to the programming area, into my music director Tracy Cloherty’s office. “I just want you to know before anyone else tells you that I just put my hands on Wendy.”

Tracy bounced right up out of her chair. “What?!!” she said. “Sit down. Are you—are you crazy? Stay right here.” And she went storming out to go to the studio. I must have lasted four seconds sitting there, thinking. I’d tried to handle it the nice, positive, right way multiple times. As I sat there recapping in my head, I start to get all fired up again.