I don’t want no scrub/a scrub is a sista can’t get no love from me/hangin’ out the passenger side of the 1-0-5/tryin’ to holler at me ...

Syrupy ooze and synchronized symbiotes might make you think it’s the Men in Black cartoon, but the truth is much scarier. The secure facility was all cookies and cream on the outside, posing as a legitimate business. After some pistol-whipped confessions, the truth came out like Ellen. Corpses of dreams deferred and contracts reminiscent to indentitures said that southern gem LaFace Records was shystier than a seven dollar bill.

The operative notices several looks of disbelief.

Damage Control first got wind of this back in 1996 -- a gorgeous butterscotch jawn sipped juice with the operative at that years’ Rap Sheet convention, amenting the demise of her pub gig there. Her clients, it seemed, didn’t care what kinda job this young sister was doing. It was a surprise move, she claimed, based on personal friendships and not business. Forlorn, she got word of her downsizing on the way to LA, and spent time between depression and jobhunting.

Publicity continued its dark dealings, reminiscent of Wakanda’s Hatut Zeraze, when the operative big upped label stepchildren OutKast on MTV Online. A full feature, comparing the wonders of Aquemini and Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik to the likes of a perfect slam dunk or a great meal, was met with complete indifference by said department. Goodie MoB (that’s how they spelled it at first, that’s what we stick with) made their mark with little help from this mysterious cabal, working off buzz far more than publicity work (for the uninformed, the job of a publicity department is to send out tons of music and data, and then follow up with phone calls and personal communication to encourage media outlets to write and radio stations to play the songs).

Soon the news reports started to resurface. How many records did Toni’s nekkid-on-the-cover-of-Vibe ass sell, and she bankrupt? How many records did that Baskin Robbins trio TLC sell, and they sweatin’ rent? The jankiness continued.

When the mercenary blandness of Babyface’s production, designed for easy listening radio and white praise, became apparent (when was the last time this brother made an interesting song without tons of help?), the word of chaos betwixt LA and FACE, and half singing wifey Pebbles running off with tons of cheddar, the stink started to stank. Remember much of Tony Rich’s album? Nobody does, his Babyface meets Maxwell feel was as fresh as Weekend at Bernie’s VIII. Come to think of it, when was the last time a LaFace artist cut out or zhiggy promo caught your eye at the Wherehouse?

There’s trouble, trouble here in River City! With a capital T and that rhymes with G and that stands for GANK! Where’s the creativity? Where’s the artist development? For the love of Little Richard, where’s the skrilla????

Damage Control resurrected several accountants ... and other personnel of the staff of the late “Bumpy” Johnson and sent them to LaFace to see what’s what. Twelve beatings and a small fire later, the verdict was returned -- Face fell off and got complacent, so listeners should support well meaning film ventures but walk on by his records like Sybil, Isaac Hayes and Dionne Warwick. LA, once a prominent beatmaker, is now a suit, a corporate shill with the heart of a slaver. Pebbles, with her pixie-cute ass, is out for cream in ways Foxy Brown dreams about.

LaFace has some good people -- the occasional secretary, Tammy in pub tryin’ to do her thing, of course your Organized Noize artists and homies (and the operative secretly suspects he would be a lot better for pyromaniac Left Eye than her Ike Turner imatating, team switching, asbestos investing Mr. Rison) ... but even if some of the cells are healthy, cancer lurks deep in the heart of the matter. As they might say on E.R, “scalpel ... stat!”

I don’t want no scrub/a scrub is a label can’t get no love from me/sendin’ out the single -- why -- for some bland ass vibe/tryin’ to game on me ...