As the meal came to a close, Scott got a call on his antique-school, $2-a-minute cell phone. It was D-Nice, explaining his predicament. A father figure to D, Scott didn’t hesitate in offering to handle the situation.
“You can’t have someone doing that to the youngest member of Boogie Down Productions,” says Chris Lighty flatly. “That just don’t make no sense.”
Scott called Lighty and the Violators for muscle. The crews met at a rendezvous point in the South Bronx. Scott, Darrel and Scotty Morris drove to Highbridge in a red, drop-top jeep. D-Nice and the Violators rolled in a second car just behind them.
It was mid-evening by the time the two cars reached University Avenue, between 165th and 166th Street. Though D-Nice’s assailant was not to be found, his crew was hanging out on the block. Darrel jumped out of the jeep and grabbed up the first two kids he could reach, smacking them in the mouth. Playing good cop, Scott came over and calmed things down.
“It seemed like it was mellow,” says Lighty. “Well, as mellow as some kids that just got smacked up can be. Then [Scott and Darrel] were walking back to the car, and gunfire starts—from the ground level, and it seemed like from a couple of levels up too.”
The Violators leapt out of their car to return fire, giving Scott and Darrel the cover to reach the Jeep. Moments later, two .22 caliber bullets ripped through the Jeep’s ragtop. Sitting in the back seat, Scott was hit once in the neck and once behind the ear.
Scotty Morris and Darrel started the car immediately, but Highbridge’s narrow streets and the chaos of the incident made getting off the block nearly impossible. (“It kinda jams up the block when people are shooting at you,” says Lighty.) Finally, after winding their way through several back streets, they made it to Lincoln Memorial Hospital and carried Scott into the emergency room. He was admitted at 11:15 p.m., bleeding profusely and speaking incoherently.
Lighty and the Violators arrived 15 or 20 minutes later, unaware of who had been hit. “When we got there and saw him,” says Lighty, “it was like watching your own father pass away.”
Reached at Ms. Melodie’s house in Brooklyn, KRS jumped in a cab for the Bronx. When he got there, he was in shock. “Kris kept saying the same shyt over and over,” says Serch, who arrived at the hospital around midnight. “‘We gotta keep going. We just gotta move on… I didn’t know what he meant, but that was all he would say as we walked out of the emergency room onto the street. ‘We gotta keep moving…’ And Ms. Melodie was just shaking her head.”
At 2 a.m., Scott lost consciousness completely. An hour later, doctors declared him brain dead. Scott’s mother decided to take him off of life support, but not until five o’clock the following afternoon—giving loved ones the opportunity to pay their final respects.
As word spread the following afternoon, hordes of Scott’s friends and associates showed up at the hospital—everyone from the Jungle Brothers and Monie Love to little-known Latin Quarter regulars. KRS-One remained in the waiting room the entire day, not wanting to see Scott in his weakened state.
“He was laying there with his shirt off,” says MC Serch, sighing with the memory of visiting his friend for the last time, “with this white towel draped over him and his arms were out. His wife was on one side and his mother on the other. They were both holding his hands. He was laid out like Jesus on the cross.”
“Both eyes were part open,” Serch continues. “And he had tears streaming down his face, just tears rolling out of both his eyes. I grabbed his hand, told him how much he meant to me, and he had a nervous reaction like he was grabbing my hand. I lost it. I started balling. It was like he was trying to tell me so many different things all at once. To me, his body was still holding on.”
On Friday morning, August 27, 1987, with no respirator to keep him alive, Scott “La Rock” Sterling died.
The very next day, KRS, D-Nice, Red Alert and the rest of the BDP family took the stage at MSG. They stood silently for a moment. The crowd seemed unsure how to react. Then a huge photograph of Scott was lowered from the ceiling. The stadium exploded and the crew launched into a stirring version of “Poetry”—a shared moment of hip-hop healing.
In May 1988, after two Bronx teens busted stealing subway tokens talked to police, Cory Bayne and Kendall Newland were arrested for and charged with the murder of Scott Sterling. (Newland lived at 1610 University Ave., the apartment building in front of which the shooting took place.) Police were frustrated by the lack of witnesses coming forward to testify, and Bayne and Newland were acquitted at trial on November 15, 1989. They’ve since disappeared, their whereabouts a mystery.
Clearly, had Scott La Rock lived things would be very different in hip-hop today. As the story played out, though, Scott has had almost as much impact on hip-hop in death as he did in life. Warner Bros. withdrew their contract offer, but BDP found a legitimate home with Jive Records. While “Stop the Violence” was started before his passing (an interesting curveball from the architects of gangsta rap), it was Scott’s murder which would turn the song into a full-fledged movement. Growing increasingly political and activism-minded, KRS used his partner’s death as a platform to promote peace and unity in rap. In 1989, KRS called together an unprecedented posse of rap stars—Daddy O, MC Lyte, D-Nice, Marley Marl, and Chuck D, among others—to record a benefit song called “Self Destruction.” In many ways the Stop the Violence Movement ushered in a new era for rap music, creating a “conscious” environment in which groups like Brand Nubian, A Tribe Called Quest, and Poor Righteous Teachers could prosper.
Often with tragedy, for those closely touched, there comes a need to find a method behind the unfortunate madness of life. “Scott’s death was meant to happen for KRS to go out there and make people think,” says Chris Lighty. “That’s what I have to think, otherwise it just doesn’t make any sense.” —Noah Callahan-Bever
“You can’t have someone doing that to the youngest member of Boogie Down Productions,” says Chris Lighty flatly. “That just don’t make no sense.”
Scott called Lighty and the Violators for muscle. The crews met at a rendezvous point in the South Bronx. Scott, Darrel and Scotty Morris drove to Highbridge in a red, drop-top jeep. D-Nice and the Violators rolled in a second car just behind them.
It was mid-evening by the time the two cars reached University Avenue, between 165th and 166th Street. Though D-Nice’s assailant was not to be found, his crew was hanging out on the block. Darrel jumped out of the jeep and grabbed up the first two kids he could reach, smacking them in the mouth. Playing good cop, Scott came over and calmed things down.
“It seemed like it was mellow,” says Lighty. “Well, as mellow as some kids that just got smacked up can be. Then [Scott and Darrel] were walking back to the car, and gunfire starts—from the ground level, and it seemed like from a couple of levels up too.”
The Violators leapt out of their car to return fire, giving Scott and Darrel the cover to reach the Jeep. Moments later, two .22 caliber bullets ripped through the Jeep’s ragtop. Sitting in the back seat, Scott was hit once in the neck and once behind the ear.
Scotty Morris and Darrel started the car immediately, but Highbridge’s narrow streets and the chaos of the incident made getting off the block nearly impossible. (“It kinda jams up the block when people are shooting at you,” says Lighty.) Finally, after winding their way through several back streets, they made it to Lincoln Memorial Hospital and carried Scott into the emergency room. He was admitted at 11:15 p.m., bleeding profusely and speaking incoherently.
Lighty and the Violators arrived 15 or 20 minutes later, unaware of who had been hit. “When we got there and saw him,” says Lighty, “it was like watching your own father pass away.”
Reached at Ms. Melodie’s house in Brooklyn, KRS jumped in a cab for the Bronx. When he got there, he was in shock. “Kris kept saying the same shyt over and over,” says Serch, who arrived at the hospital around midnight. “‘We gotta keep going. We just gotta move on… I didn’t know what he meant, but that was all he would say as we walked out of the emergency room onto the street. ‘We gotta keep moving…’ And Ms. Melodie was just shaking her head.”
At 2 a.m., Scott lost consciousness completely. An hour later, doctors declared him brain dead. Scott’s mother decided to take him off of life support, but not until five o’clock the following afternoon—giving loved ones the opportunity to pay their final respects.
As word spread the following afternoon, hordes of Scott’s friends and associates showed up at the hospital—everyone from the Jungle Brothers and Monie Love to little-known Latin Quarter regulars. KRS-One remained in the waiting room the entire day, not wanting to see Scott in his weakened state.
“He was laying there with his shirt off,” says MC Serch, sighing with the memory of visiting his friend for the last time, “with this white towel draped over him and his arms were out. His wife was on one side and his mother on the other. They were both holding his hands. He was laid out like Jesus on the cross.”
“Both eyes were part open,” Serch continues. “And he had tears streaming down his face, just tears rolling out of both his eyes. I grabbed his hand, told him how much he meant to me, and he had a nervous reaction like he was grabbing my hand. I lost it. I started balling. It was like he was trying to tell me so many different things all at once. To me, his body was still holding on.”
On Friday morning, August 27, 1987, with no respirator to keep him alive, Scott “La Rock” Sterling died.
The very next day, KRS, D-Nice, Red Alert and the rest of the BDP family took the stage at MSG. They stood silently for a moment. The crowd seemed unsure how to react. Then a huge photograph of Scott was lowered from the ceiling. The stadium exploded and the crew launched into a stirring version of “Poetry”—a shared moment of hip-hop healing.
In May 1988, after two Bronx teens busted stealing subway tokens talked to police, Cory Bayne and Kendall Newland were arrested for and charged with the murder of Scott Sterling. (Newland lived at 1610 University Ave., the apartment building in front of which the shooting took place.) Police were frustrated by the lack of witnesses coming forward to testify, and Bayne and Newland were acquitted at trial on November 15, 1989. They’ve since disappeared, their whereabouts a mystery.
Clearly, had Scott La Rock lived things would be very different in hip-hop today. As the story played out, though, Scott has had almost as much impact on hip-hop in death as he did in life. Warner Bros. withdrew their contract offer, but BDP found a legitimate home with Jive Records. While “Stop the Violence” was started before his passing (an interesting curveball from the architects of gangsta rap), it was Scott’s murder which would turn the song into a full-fledged movement. Growing increasingly political and activism-minded, KRS used his partner’s death as a platform to promote peace and unity in rap. In 1989, KRS called together an unprecedented posse of rap stars—Daddy O, MC Lyte, D-Nice, Marley Marl, and Chuck D, among others—to record a benefit song called “Self Destruction.” In many ways the Stop the Violence Movement ushered in a new era for rap music, creating a “conscious” environment in which groups like Brand Nubian, A Tribe Called Quest, and Poor Righteous Teachers could prosper.
Often with tragedy, for those closely touched, there comes a need to find a method behind the unfortunate madness of life. “Scott’s death was meant to happen for KRS to go out there and make people think,” says Chris Lighty. “That’s what I have to think, otherwise it just doesn’t make any sense.” —Noah Callahan-Bever
