Decked out in white-and-green shorts with a matching jersey is Eddie Cheba, a middle-aged man who many would find likable. His easygoing personality mixed with his affable charm makes him the kind of guy you’d want to share a drink with and swap stories. But it’s the stories that this man with droopy eyes and a raspy voice would tell that could make you look at him cross-eyed while sipping your Long Island Iced Tea. That is unless you’re up on your hip-hop history.

Way before the bling era and rappers rubbing shoulders with the likes of Donald Trump and Paris Hilton in the Hamptons, and definitely before multimillion-dollar deals, ring tones, clothing lines, and sneaker endorsements, rap was the music of ghetto Black New York. That means you didn’t hear it too far beyond the infamous five boroughs.

Almost jumping out of his seat, Eddie Cheba says to me, “Most guys, back then, only got $175 or $150 with a sound system to play a gig. You know what I’m sayin’? We got $500 for an hour—without a sound system.” All the while, he’s tapping me on the shoulder in between sips of a Heineken. “And you’d be happy that you got that hour!” he says to me with the cockiness of a used-car salesman. “We’d do one hour over here, jump in our cars and head out to Queens or Hempstead, Long Island, and do an hour out there.”

FULL STORY AT WAX POETICS