The Artifacts: Deep Underground


    I thought I would never get to Sensai's house. The directions were clear, but something about the expansive lawns and the over-sized luxury homes with sculptured white pillars told me that the driver and I were lost. Somewhere we had gotten sidetracked. En route to the obviously affluent neighborhood we were now in, we had passed through some pretty rough looking, graffiti ridden neighborhoods, area that better matched my idea of where we should be. The stubborn driver had insisted that he knew exactly where he was going, but as the houses surrounding us became increasingly more expensive looking, even the driver had to admit that we were lost.
    "He lives here?"

    Newark, a city of about 400, 000 people in north eastern New Jersey, is not exactly known for its mansion-like homes and greenery. As evident in movies such as Lean On Me, Newark has more than its share of crime and problems. "Newark is rough as hell, yo. It's like carjackings, shooting up every night on the block, niggas on the corner 'til the break of day... It ain't easy out here," says El the Sensai of the Artifacts, one of several Newark groups to come out of the works.
    To Tame One, the Artifacts' other half, who is actually from nearby, neighboring East Orange, it's more simple than that. "It's all ghetto shit, that's all. Newark is just another ghetto, East Orange is just another ghetto. There's hard spots everywhere."
    Indeed ghettos are native to all fifty-two states, but Newark is rougher than most. Driving through on Highway 280 one is bombarded with images of drab, decaying one family homes, long-abandoned, burnt-out tenement buildings, towering brick projects, and graffiti-plastered walls. But to get a true feeling of Newark, one must get off the beaten path and go where the real action is: the streets.

    Sensai lives in the upper flat of a two-story house on a quiet street near the Newark-East Orange border. It's a large house with slightly peeling forest green paint and a good sized porch. After driving around haplessly for over a hour, it's a welcome sight, and I am even more relieved when Sensai comes quickly down to greet me.
    "What up, yo?" he chuckles. "You finally got here?"
    Friendly and confident, Sensai is the type of person one immediately takes a liking to. There is a peculiar air of strength about him, which I later find comes from his street hardened intellect. Although not especially well spoken, he is definitely very smart. Perhaps it is this strong mental, as much as his and Tame's skills, that earned the Artifacts a deal.
    As I slowly follow Sensai upstairs, wondering what the night has in store for us, I examine my surroundings. While the house seems deceptively large from the outside, indoors it's surprisingly small, although I have the feeling there is more space I can't see towards the back of the house. Sensai brings me to the living room, where a mixed age group of people sit talking and laughing, and introduces me as "J.D. the writer."
    "Have you seen the video?" someone asks me. I reply no and sit down to watch the Artifacts' debut single and video "Wrong Side of the Tracks," hoping to be treated to a healthy dose of graffiti footage. At the end of the video I am not disappointed. Sens promises me there would have been even more graf, but it rained the day of the video shoot so they had to rush.
    As the video is rewound for another viewing, Sensai stands up and gestures for me to follow down a hallway to his room. Sens' is the room of a long time hip hop fanatic. Everywhere I look are representations of hip hop. Photos and pin-ups of rappers, all completely covered with graffiti, wallpaper the room. Lined up neatly on the floor along all four walls are no less than fifteen pairs of shoes of all makes and colors. Nearby, a loosely organized collection of tapes and vinyl lays jumbled on a table near a bed.
    As Sensai gets dressed, I slowly take in all of this. It's hard to picture Sens as a graffiti writer, but then again, what should one look like? Pondering this, I prepare to leave. Sensai puts on one of his many pairs of shoes and we walk downstairs outside accompanied by Sens' friend Ice, who is coming with us.

    A low clap of thunder echoes in the distance, and I shiver — but not with anticipation. It has begun drizzling, and I am starting to get cold in my Chris Webber Warriors jersey. Ill prepared for the sudden change in weather, I find myself wishing I had brought a jacket. The rain and temperature drop don't seem to bother Sens nor Ice. Neither, apparently, does the weather seem to bother anyone else; the street corners are filled with people hanging out, drinking forties, and laughing. Several people throw Sens the peace sign, some just stare. It's obvious the Artifacts have the respect of their neighborhood.
    Several blocks down we turn a corner and cut up a driveway to our destination. Some people are chilling out front and they greet Sensai and Ice warmly. I get curious looks as I'm introduced this time as "J.D. from Cali." We walk down some steps to a basement which serves as an in-law apartment for one of the Artifacts' crew.
    Instantly I am assailed by a cloud of spray paint fumes so heavy and thick that my eyes and throat burn, taking me back to my younger graffiti days. As if the walls weren't bombed heavily enough, a group of people mill around tagging and piecing every possible available space left. More people relax in a little side room set up as a bedroom, drinking forties and watching Carlito's Way on a big screen TV. Across the basement another smaller room contains two turntables and a simple Gemini sampling mixer, where stands Tame One stands, mic in hand, fiercely freestyling over a one bar loop of Nas' "N.Y. State of Mind." This is the Artifacts' hangout — the true underground, manifesting the Artifacts' philosophy.
    "All that shit falls together: MC'ing, graffiti, breaking, DJ'ing," Sens tells me. "It's all one big clump.
    "Being original — I think that was the biggest part," continues Sensai, "'cause there's a whole mess of fucking writers, and you're trying to be different than everybody else. It's the same with MC'ing. You're trying to have your own style of flow, the way you kick your shit. It's like with B-boying, you were trying to have your own special moves. When you're in a battle, muthafuckas be going at it. 'I got some shit you can't do' — bam-bam-bang, you just hit it. Muthafuckas give you mad respect like that. So I think that's what the whole hip hop culture brings to individuals."
    "It's all documented to me," adds Tame. "Graffiti is just ghetto cartoons. That shit is just documenting what the fuck is going on. It makes my dick hard when muthafuckas be like, 'Tame, I was in west bubblefuck and I saw your name. What the fuck was you doing there?' Hey, I got your attention. You saw it. That shit takes creativity man. How many muthafuckas could think of a letter and then manifest it into a piece? It's self-expression, that's all it is. That's how muthafuckas is choosing to express they self."
    Sensai agrees. "Man, you can't dis that 'cause that's coming outta somebody's head, from scratch. You going somewhere else, and you're standing there mad hours doing your shit? For somebody to recognize you for something like that... I would rather see someone doing graf than muthafuckas plotting to go kill somebody, or stand on a corner, or whatever. When you doing that shit, it's positive, whereas it's keeping a muthafucka busy off the street doing some ol' wild shit. And when people ride down the street and see your shit and be like, 'Yo B, I saw that shit,' that compliment elevates that person to do more shit. You don't know what it can get into after doing graf. It can get a job — architecture, all that shit. Can't nobody dis you for that. That's like making an invention. It's deeper than what you think it is. Most muthafuckas think it's vandalism — 'You're just fucking up my property' — but that's where he gets off his stress or his creativity.
    After nearly a hour of freestyle and graffiti, Sensai, Ice, and I are hungry. It's time to leave. Tame, wanting to watch Carlito's Way, decides to stay behind. Outside the skies have darkened slightly more. With no sign of relief from the rain, Sens, Ice, and I pile into a crew member's car and take off in search of food. We never achieve our goal.

    As soon as I hear the noise, I know it means trouble. The sound's indescribable; sort of an awful grinding, whining screech coming from the engine. We roll for perhaps another twenty feet and the car comes to an abrupt halt, dead. With no options, Sensai, Ice, and I get out to push the car into a nearby empty lot while Sens' friend steers. Cold, wet, hungry, and stuck with no car a ways from home, we stand around mulling over what to do.
    Even though we're on Central Ave., one of the main thoroughfares in Newark, the area seems abandoned as if the residents are hiding from something. It's almost ghost town-like. It's a sad looking neighborhood of old, sagging wood frame houses and stained, brown brick homes. The streets are in poor repair, cracked with slabs of sidewalk in upheaval, and in several spots half dead yellow grass sprouts from the street. A garage to our right looks old and forgotten. The lot we're in, which used to see more action in the garage's better days, is barren and overgrown with weeds. It's the type of neighborhood that weighs from years of neglect and stress, the type of neighborhood that smells like trouble.
    As if on cue, my thoughts are manifested as a I catch the form of a flying fist sized dark object out the corner of my eye. I have just enough time to quickly jump back, narrowly avoiding a rather large rock. Another rock follows the first, and then another, and another until a virtual rain of rocks and old roofing tiles pours down on the four of us. I see several dim silhouettes of people on the roof of the garage and instantly know we're being used as live targets.
    Sensai and Ice pick up their own arsenal of rocks and bricks and begin returning fire while the driver and I take cover. Sens and Ice seems to be enjoying themselves, but I am unsure. This is not my city nor neighborhood, and this is the type of situation that could escalate, but suddenly the aerial assault stops as abruptly as it began. Sensai and Ice put down their ammo and we take advantage of the lull in action to leave the wide open lot.
    Still on guard the four of us walk around the corner and down the street to a fast food restaurant where a ride home awaits in the form of a payphone. Across the street a large crew of heads stands around in front of a liquor store drinking, talking loudly, and staring in our direction. No sooner do we come into full view than the trouble starts.
    "Yo, these is the niggas that was throwing shit at you!" yells a teenage girl, hoping to instigate a fight. Looking across the street I see we're badly outnumbered.
    "These is them niggas right here, what's up!" screams someone else. However, Sens is undaunted by the drama.
    "Man, these little niggas ain't got nothing for us," he chuckles. Acting as if the entire incident never occurred, Sensai steps up to the payphone and calls a cab to take us back to the basement. Distracted by the beef and car breaking down, we all forget about dinner for the minute.

    Back at the house everyone is still busy with cans of paint. The fumes are even stronger now, and without any ventilation, I wonder how many of my braincells are making their last stand. The only mention of our trip is limited to the deceased car, making me wonder if this is just another day for the Artifacts crew in Newark.
    Tame is finished watching his movie and, this time joined by Sens, is once again freestyling in the little side music room. Although it's only been three hours since I met with Sensai, it seems like an entire night has passed. Sitting down exhausted, hungry, and wet, I'm extremely grateful when someone hands me a forty and a blunt. Lulled by the sounds of beats and freestyles and the acrid odor of spray paint, I slowly drift into a fog that lasts the rest of the night. I don't even notice when Tame and Sensai disappear.

    Several hours pass before I see a familiar face again. It's Ice telling me to get up. The Artifacts are appearing on "Uptown Comedy Club" at twelve o'clock, and we have to go. Quickly mumbling my good-byes through nearly closed eyes, I get up and follow Ice outside where there's a car waiting to take us to Sens' house. Inside the car more introductions go around and we race off to the sounds of Jeru in search of a liquor store.
    When we finally arrive at Sensai's house, there is a large group of people already there waiting on the porch. Sens is upstairs changing for his television appearance. Everything seems chaotic and unorganized, and I seriously consider the possibility that I may not be able to complete the interview. But when Sensai comes down the stairs, he alleviates my worries and grabs me, telling me I'll be rolling with him and Tame. Everyone rushes madly to their rides, and the entire Artifact entourage pulls out, ready to represent Jersey.
    L's are sparked as I begin peppering Tame and Sens with questions about their graffiti past. Tame has been pretty quiet all night, but as is the case with most, one only needs to strike the right chord to release a flood.
    "Down in the 145th Street lay-ups with West, Lose, and the rest of the F.C. muthafuckas... It was a wall, the bare track, and the train that niggas was working on. And it got raided. And a train started coming. I have never seen no shit like that — some cartoon shit. All I seen was one light coming; muthafuckas dropped they cans and was scurrying between the cars like rats. Yo, niggas came running down the platform early on Sunday morning. Muthafuckas was standing on 145th waiting to go to church, and all they see is a bunch of muthafuckas running out the tunnel, jumping on the platform. Niggas ran and hid up in McDonald's. It was wild, we ran from 145th all the way down to 72nd and fell asleep in a McDonald's."
    "I can remember the first time I got caught — I mean caught," remembers Sensai. "I mean locked, chains on my feet and hands, all that shit. We was on the PATH train going to 125th. Niggas locked me up for like two hours and let me go. "
    Sens pauses and we all stare silently out the window, lost in our private memories. Breaking the silence, Tame stresses to me that the Artifacts, however, are not solely about graffiti.
    "We're not trying to be graffiti rappers. We made a graffiti song, we paid homage to graffiti writers and the life that we live with that one song. If the world gives us a chance, they'll see on our album. There's tunes for weed smokers on the album. If we had dropped that first, they would have probably tried to categorize us as some Cypress Hill shit. They gonna label us anyway, but we just trying to represent for hip hop. Don't get it fucked up. We just tried to represent that one aspect on that one tune.
    "I'm not trying to go Hammer platinum," continues Tame. "To me, the album is dope. Me and Sens accomplished what we set out to do when we first got down — to make fat album and show the rest of the muthafucking world. All of our boys was saying we fat, all our peoples was saying we was dope, but we never had no deal to show nobody. So now it's on wax, now we wanna see what's up. What's up now muthafuckas?"



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