RUN-D.M.C.: RAISING HELL AGAIN IN THE MOVIES

NEW YORK —  Rick Rubin is sitting in a restaurant on Bleecker Street in the Village. He’s got the soft, round look of someone who l-o-v-e-s food. But Rubin hasn’t even touched the mound of chicken wings and French fries in front of him. He’s too busy talking about his favorite scene from “Sudden Impact,” one of Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry adventures.

” . . . You know the one where Eastwood walks into a coffee shop and there are five guys with rifles and pistols,” he says. “They’re robbing the place and Eastwood he is standing there with a cup of coffee and he says, ‘You boys better get out of here.’ ”

Rubin, 23, relishes his own reenactment of the scene. He picks up a catsup bottle to show how Eastwood was just holding a cup of coffee against this roomful of thugs.

“The scene’s so cool because you’re thinking, ‘Aw, shoot (well, that’s not the precise word he used) . . . how is he going to get out of this?’

“That’s what we’ve got in our movie, too. . . . We’re big on Aw-shoot scenes.”

Rubin, who is directing the controversial rap group Run-D.M.C.’s movie, an action-adventure called “Tougher Than Leather,” puts down the bottle and leans across the table.

He relates with enthusiasm, “There’s one scene in our film where D.M.C. punches a cop out . . . in a police station . . . .

“Can’t you just hear the audience now: ‘AW, SHOOOOOOOT. . . ! ‘ “

Twenty years ago, Bleecker Street was the home of the folk music movement in America. Bob Dylan, Phil Ochs, Judy Collins and Tom Paxton played the clubs here. They were the voices of a generation.

Today there’s another sound that speaks for millions of young people, especially young blacks: Rap . The music is filled with swagger, and you can hear its chant-like vocal and sharp, percolating rhythms all through this city from car radios and boogie boxes.

And when most people now think of rap, they think of Run-D.M.C.: the trio consisting of Joseph Simmons, Darryl McDaniels and Jason Mizell.

Kurtis Blow, the Sugar Hill Gang, Grandmaster Flash and Afrika Bambaataa were among the early stars of the scene, but Run-D.M.C. was the first rap group to break through to the white rock audience. The trio’s third album, “Raising Hell,” has sold 3 million copies this year and its recent U.S. concert tour was a box-office smash.

But Run-D.M.C. has been on public trial since 41 people were injured during gang violence at the group’s Aug. 17 concert at the Long Beach Arena. Even more than punk, rap has exhibited a tough, aggressive, street-level urgency that makes for a lot of anxiety among lots of parents--especially white parents.

Simmons insisted repeatedly that the violence was more a reflection of the gang problem in L.A. than a response to the actual music and themes of Run-D.M.C. He maintained the group itself is a positive role model: anti-drugs, anti-gangs, anti-violence.

Things have quieted down around the trio since Long Beach--but “Tougher Than Leather” could well instigate a new controversy.

The plot has plenty of room for a-c-t-i-o-n: When a friend gets murdered, Run-D.M.C. (playing themselves) go to the police, but the police show little interest. The murder is dismissed as simply another casualty of the worlds of crack and rap. So, Run-D.M.C. set out to clear their friend’s name by finding the people responsible for their friend’s death.

The film is a low-budget, non-union effort (the budget is “confidential”) that is being financed by Def Pictures, which is co-owned by Rubin and Joseph Simmons’ older brother, Russell. Def is exploring a distribution deal.

Joseph Simmons loves blockbuster action movies . . . the Rambos and Dirty Harrys. So, he doesn’t see why there should be any controversy over the shootings and punch-outs in “Tougher Than Leather.”

“Our movie is action packed,” he says proudly. “People get shot, but we never start the trouble. Our friend gets killed and we go to the police, but they won’t help. So, we have to find the bad guys ourselves. It’s gonna be def (super).

“Kids will understand (the violence). Parents will, too. After all, they loved ‘Rambo,’ didn’t they? They loved ’48 HRS,’ didn’t they?”

But will everyone understand?

Tipper Gore, of the Parents Music Resource Center, expresses adult alarm when she suggests Run-D.M.C.’s music says that it is “OK to beat people.” When the group volunteered in September to perform at the Los Angeles City Street Scene celebration, a mayor’s aide turned them down with a curt, “I’ll be dammed if they’ll be there.”

New York magazine declared “part of the audience is more volatile than that of the Rolling Stones--whose early concerts caused riots and whose 1969 Altamont show ended in a murder.”

People around Run-D.M.C. scoff at such talk. They say the problems of some of rap’s audience--inner-city toughs--are unfairly blamed on rap groups. They argue that the controversy around the band is the latest example of a continuing mainstream uneasiness with black music dating from Little Richard and Jimi Hendrix.

Yet even some people working on “Tougher Than Leather” worry about the public reaction when the film is released this summer. They fear any incident in theaters will only fuel Run-D.M.C.’s “notorious” image. While this image may not hurt record sales, it may make arena owners and local government officials nervous about booking the band’s next tour.

“I think there will be a reaction out of proportion to the actual violence in the film . . . at least (reaction) from critics and the white community,” explains someone involved in the film, who asked not to be identified. “And I think a lot of that reaction will be based purely on race.

“This country is more racially polarized now than it was 20 years ago. I think you saw it in Jesse Jackson’s candidacy. . . . A lot of people felt very uneasy about an articulate black man running for office and that so many people responded to him. They will be uneasy this time because Run-D.M.C. are a lot like a young Jesse Jackson to their fans.”

Dirty Harry.

Rambo.

Jesse Jackson.

What picture does Run-D.M.C. really present to young Americans?

The answer is pertinent because of the increasing public concern that much of the anti-social behavior of young people is being shaped by movies and television--and now even records.

Simmons, McDaniels and Mizell may be viewed--and feared--as the voice of the ghetto, but they grew up several miles, and a whole culture, away in Hollis, a middle-class section of Queens. McDaniels still lives at home with his parents, and the others live nearby. Simmons is married and has a 3-year-old daughter. Mizell, too, has a child.

In fact, the trio seem like innocents in the world of pop. Simmons may love being on stage, but he also relishes time at home. The hardest thing to figure out, for him, is why he is a controversial figure at all.

“The truth is, I lead an old guy’s life . . . really relaxed,” he confides. “I don’t go out to discos. I come home, read the paper, watch TV, go into the basement and work on some music. Next day, I get up early, wash my car, see some of my friends, go into the studio. It’s like a real--how do you call it?-- organized thing. My wife does the dishes, I take out the garbage . . . a real organized life.”

Simmons has a lot of the sweet gentleness of Jackie Gleason’s old Poor Soul. He’s got sad eyes and he bounces along like a playful bear when he walks. He and his pals in Run-D.M.C. are good-natured and spirited. It’s easy to picture them being the basis of a Saturday morning cartoon show.

Simmons--he is called Run because he’s always talking--would be the hyperactive one, always leading the others into funny jams or perilous situations. Run talks so much, an aide jokes, that he wears out a car phone a week. McDaniels-- D.M.C. is simply his initials--is the quiet, studious one who would figure a way out of the tight spots. Mizell--known as Jam Master Jay because of his mastery of turntables--is the strong guy who could apply some muscle when needed.

Yet the three are also clearly card-carrying members of a generation raised on TV/movie violence and action. In “Tougher Than Leather,” they are acting out their own fantasies--taking part in scenes like the ones they saw their heroes do over the years. They don’t see the violent action as sending out a bad message because they always knew how to separate what happened on the screen from their own lives. “We’re not doing anything that Eddie Murphy or Sylvester Stallone haven’t done,” says McDaniels. “I wish I could have been in ‘Rambo.’ I liked that movie. ‘Star Wars,’ too.”

Their enthusiasm for action films is shared by Joseph’s brother Russell and by director Rubin. Declares the latter, “What we set out to make (here) was our own favorite movie.”

Bill Adler, a former reporter with the New York Daily News who now handles public relations for Def Jam Records, helped write the story that was turned into the “Tougher Than Leather” script.

“It’s the realization of Russell’s original goal, which was to make a movie starring his artists in the spirit of the blaxploitation movies he loved when he was growing up. The curious thing is, ‘blaxploitation’ is a term applied by the white critical Establishment. Those movies . . . ‘Superfly,’ ‘The Mack’ . . . meant a lot to the black community, especially the young black men. They showed black people in their own milieu, getting over on their own wit and intelligence.

“The movies and our records share a similar aesthetic. Russell has always made records for a core audience that he knows better than anybody in the world . . . black youth, really. It’s been a real grass-roots phenomenon. Some critics have been supportive, but Russell used to say, ‘I could throw our records into garbage cans and my kids will find them.’ And, he’s right.”

Tipper Gore couldn’t find a better spokesperson for concerned parents than Daniel Simmons. The elder Simmons, a supervisor of attendance for the New York City Board of Education, is a quiet, proud man who once went to jail for his civil rights beliefs. His two-story house--with its candy kisses on the living room table and family photos on a desk--has warmth stamped all over it.

“It bothers me when these parent groups attack Joey and the boys, and say they cause violence because I see the good they do,” he says, sitting on a sofa in his living room. “I have more children staying in the school on the basis of Joey than on the basis of what I can do.

“Run-D.M.C. gives a $100 savings bond to the child in every graduating class (in Queens) who has the best attendance and Russell gives two more bonds to the children who have shown the most improvement in reading and math.”

Simmons, who has taught black history at the college level, smiles when asked if he sees some of himself in his son.

“I don’t want to be an egotist, but that’s the way I’ve lived my life. If some of this didn’t rub off on my children, I’d feel a little disappointed. The thing I’ve told them most about was the quest for social justice . . . always try to live out the American Dream because if we can live that out, then everybody will be OK.”

Simmons was still talking when Russell stopped by. He speaks almost as fast as Joseph, but he does most of it on the phone; taking care of business. Russell nibbles on a chicken wing as he calls Quincy Jones. He needs to assure Jones that Run-D.M.C. is going into the studio that night to finish a backing track for an anti-crack song that Michael Jackson is doing for his next album.

Though he tends to avoid publicity, Russell Simmons has become a powerhouse in the New York rap scene. Besides running the record company and the film company with Rubin, he is sole owner of Rush Productions, which handles more than a dozen rap acts including L. L. Cool J, Whodini, the Beastie Boys, Oran (Juice) Jones and Run-D.M.C.

He got into rap by producing shows in the late ‘70s and eventually began managing and recording some of the better acts.

“There was a lot of resistance to rap in the record business, but independent labels pushed for it because it was something they could build on,” he said. “That’s how most independents get stated . . . with things that major labels don’t own or care about.”

The early major label indifference proved costly. By the time the majors caught on, Simmons and Rubin had built an empire. At the head of it was Def Jam Records. The contract they signed with distributor CBS was well into the millions.

Despite their Queens affiliation, Run-D.M.C. weren’t viewed as carpetbaggers by the Bronx rappers.

Joseph, 21, has been on the rap scene since his early teens. He was such a natural at rap’s catchy, forceful rhymes that he often got to open the rap shows promoted by Russell.

As he got older, Joseph put on his own shows at the park near his house. Sometimes hundreds of kids showed up. Mizell often set up the equipment and played his own records. McDaniels was too shy to rap in person, but he played records, deejay-style, in his basement.

Despite his mini-celebrity status in the neighborhood, Simmons followed his father’s advice and entered college, where he studied mortuary science. The story is that he was looking at a cadaver one day when he wrote the rhyme that was highlighted in his first record:

One thing I know is that life is short . . . /The next time someone’s teaching, why don’t you get taught?

That record, “It’s Like That” sold almost 500,000 copies and Simmons left to form Run-D.M.C. They were immediate hits on the rap scene. They had a catchy image: black hats, black clothing and white Adidas (always unlaced). They looked like gangsters, though their music was wholesome.

Daniel Simmons recalls the first time he saw his son on stage. “It blew my mind,” Simmons says, smiling at the memory. “It was up here at the Beacon Theatre. Joey had never wanted me to see him . . . must have made him nervous or something. But I finally did see him and everybody was hollering, ‘Run, Run, Run.’ I never realized he had such charisma.”

The recording of “It’s Like That” was hailed by many critics as one of the 10 best singles of 1984 in both the Los Angeles Times and the New York Times. The group added more rock influences to its second album and a remake of Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way” on the third album earned airplay on white rock stations that previously ignored black artists.

But there were problems with live shows.

There were reports of trouble in the crowd at rap shows that Russell produced around New York in the late ‘70s and there were occasional reports of trouble at Run-D.M.C. shows. There were even incidents at a few showings of “Krush Grove,” a tame musical-comedy film featuring Run-D.M.C.

But the Long Beach Arena violence made headlines around the world.

Joseph Simmons was sitting with McDaniels and Mizell in the living room of McDaniel’s parent’s two-story, white stucco house in Hollis. The wall behind the sofa showcased gold albums the group earned for its first two albums. The neighborhood is quiet, residential. But the trio isn’t sheltered from the problems of urban life. You walk a few blocks in any direction and you see signs of urban decay.

The guys in Run-D.M.C. say they know of friends who got caught up in drugs and recall the fights at some of their rap rallies in the park. Even now, there are problems. One of their pals was standing in front of his house earlier in the week when some guys stopped their car. They pointed a gun at the heads of little kids who were standing nearby and said they’d shoot if the friend didn’t hand over the gold chain around his neck.

Some groups would try to use the notoriety to their advantage . . . to foster a tough image. But Simmons seems to want to put the controversy behind him.

“It’s all over now,” he insists. “I was mad because the kids got hurt. I wasn’t surprised that there was so much a fuss. After all, it was black kids and they were fighting. It’s only natural they did something sensational about it. But that’s history. There won’t be any fighting on the next tour at all.”

The topic shifted to “Krush Groove” as Mrs. McDaniel’s brought coffee and tea, then retired to another room. “Krush Groove” was a Hollywood-financed movie based loosely on the career of Russell Simmons. Run-D.M.C. also appeared in it.

“It was weak,” says Simmons, in his fast, exclamatory way of talking. “It made me mad . . . .”

McDaniels and Mizell agree it was a bum movie.

Mizell injects, “Yeah, when (this film) starts to feel weak, we say, ‘Don’t try to ‘Krush Groove’ it on us now.”

Back on the set in the Village, Simmons, McDaniels and Mizell step out of the door of an apartment building just across the street from the office of Rush Productions, their management company.

The scene is being shot there so that the cast and crew can take advantage of the office to make phone calls and get out of the 30-degree chill. Besides familiar locations, the movie utilizes people from Run-D.M.C.’s world. Their murdered friend in the movie is actually a childhood buddy. Daniel Simmons plays a warden. Director Rubin and his father both play villains.

In this morning’s scene, the Run-D.M.C. guys are questioning a white man, another of the film’s villains. They walk a few feet and a shot rings out. The man--played by Richard Edson from the acclaimed cult film “Stranger Than Paradise”--clutches his chest and falls to the ground. Bad guys had shot him because they didn’t want him to give Run-D.M.C. information.

The trio looks at the rooftop across the street. They spot a gunman and frantically duck behind parked cars.

Rubin is pleased with the action and yells, “Cut.”

A few minutes later, Rubin heads back to where the cameras are setting up for the next scene. It involves two leather-jacketed villains racing down Bleecker Street, trying to catch up with Run-D.M.C.

The trouble is, Run-D.M.C. is dressed in the heavy coats and dark hats worn by Hasidic Jews in the neighborhood. Each time the villains race up to someone and spin him around, it turns out to be one of the Jews.

Finally, however, one of those spun around turns out to be the muscular Mizell. Mizell winds up like a baseball player eyeing a fat pitch and begins to deliver a powerhouse punch at the villain.

Rubin’s eyes sparkle. It’s another “Aw Shooooooot” scene.

In the Bleecker Street restaurant, Rubin begins dabbing at the French fries as he explains his concept of the film. Rubin is also from a middle-class background. He grew up on Long Island, the son of a successful furniture store owner and, later, children’s shoe wholesaler.

As a teen-ager, Rubin loved heavy-metal music (especially Aerosmith and AC/DC) and punk (Los Angeles bands the Germs, Black Flag). He even had his own punk group for a while, but he found he was better at producing records. He ran a label out of his college dorm and signed a multimillion dollar contract with CBS two weeks after graduating from NYU last year.

He has been such a turntable sensation that Aerosmith and Mick Jagger have asked him to work with them, but Rubin’s real love appears to be movies. He took film classes at NYU and is already talking about making four films next year, including one with the white rap ‘n’ metal group Beastie Boys.

“I don’t think the Rambo comparisons work because there isn’t that much killing in this movie,” he explains. “It’s just that it is going is going to seem violent because there is a lot of tension and drama and confrontations . . . a lot of yelling at each other and heavy emotional stuff going on.”

As a teen-age punk and heavy-metal fan on Long Island, Rubin is accustomed to being aligned with “outlaw” styles. “The only thing I can say to parents who complain about (music and films) is that they should probably bring kids up better,” he continues. “If it wasn’t for hard-core music, I don’t know what I would have done to get over the (bad periods). The rest of the kids were getting high and I didn’t want to so I turned to the music.”

Returning to Queens, Joseph Simmons leads a reporter and photographer on a tour of his neighborhood. He stops at an alley two blocks from the old family house. He and McDaniels and Mizell used to hang around the alley with their buddies--some of whom are now employed by the band as roadies or aides. Simmons pointed to the spots on the wall where they wrote their names as kids.

Simmons spots an old friend.

“Hey, Lace,” Simmons says. “How’s it going? Wanna ride around with us for a while?”

DeLacy Tuff, 22, beams. He likes hanging around with his now-famous buddies.

“You know I thought they would change (when they became famous), but they didn’t,” he says, heading over to Simmons’ other car--a shiny BMW. “That’s the good thing about them. They still live here. The only thing different is they have a little bit more gold around their necks. The main thing is they are still having fun.”