Forbes magazine, 01.16.12
Mac Miller: Indie Music’s Savior?
The 19 year-old rap sensation is creating a new blueprint for mainstream musical success — without the help of a major record label.

Forbes magazine, 01.16.12
30 Under 30 in Music
Mac Miller, Justin Bieber, Lady Gaga — and a handful of entrepreneurs whose names you’ll need to know — lead Forbes’ first-ever list of the music industry’s best and brightest youngsters.

Forbes.com, 01.11.12
Michael Jackson Vs. Elvis: The Rise And Fall of Two Kings
In Las Vegas, the gloves are coming off in the battle for posthumous supremacy.

Forbes.com, 12.22.11
The Best Jewish Rapper of All Time
In honor of Hanukkah, three Hebrew hip-hop heads (including yours truly) select The Tribe’s top rhymesters.

Forbes.com, 12.14.11
David Archuleta Headlines First-Ever Forbes Holiday Concert
The former American Idol contestant talks about the business of music — and brings some holiday cheer to the newsroom.

Forbes.com, 12.14.11
Why Nickelback Isn’t Getting Paid For Thanksgiving Day Gig
Hint: It’s the same reason the Black Eyed Peas didn’t get paid for their Super Bowl gig.

Forbes.com, 11.22.11
Defending the Jay-Z Class at Georgetown
Who says hip-hop doesn’t measure up to Homer?

Forbes.com, 11.08.11
Watching Jay-Z and Kanye’s Throne at MSG
A front-row seat to what might be one of the more ambitious undertakings in live hip-hop history.

Forbes.com, 11.02.11
2 Chainz And The “Forbes Effect”
The rapper speaks out on what compelled him to make “Forbes Muzik.”

Forbes.com, 10.25.11
Michael Jackson and the Economics of Touring After Death
The King of Pop may end up earning more on the road posthumously than he did alive.

Forbes.com, 10.11.11
Less Money, More Problems
Financial lessons from rapper Ace Hood.

Forbes.com, 10.06.11
Why Steve Jobs Was The Most Important Man In Music
Hint: It’s a lot more than just inventing the iPod.

Forbes.com, 09.27.11
Steve Stoute on the Tanning of America
The entertainment marketing guru talks Jay-Z, Brooklyn, and the difference between good and bad advertising.

Forbes.com, 09.22.11
Who Will Be Hip-Hop’s First Billionaire?
A look at rap’s wealthiest.

Forbes.com, 09.20.11
Get Rich, Or Feed The Poor Trying
50 Cent’s latest move.

Forbes.com, 09.19.11
Richard Branson On Being A Rockstar Billionaire
A chat with the founder of the Virgin empire.

Forbes.com, 09.14.11
Hip-Hop’s Cash Kings On Canvas
New York artist Borbet offers a visual take on rap’s top earners.

Forbes.com, 08.31.11
The Price of Fame in Ireland
On the Emerald Isle, footballers play for free.

Forbes.com, 08.26.11
The Rolling Stone Who Gathers Moss
Keyboardist and musical director Chuck Leavell might be the greenest man in rock and roll.

Forbes.com, 08.09.11
Hip-Hop Cash Kings 2011: Full Coverage
Jay-Z tops this year’s list. Who else made the cut?

Forbes.com, 08.09.11
Wiz Khalifa’s High Earnings
The pride of Pittsburgh banked $11 million this year, thanks in part to a smokin’ hot merch business.

Forbes.com, 08.09.11
Birdman’s Billion Dollar Dreams
The Cash Money chief talks business with FORBES.

Forbes.com, 08.09.11
Hip-Hop’s Favorite DJ
The incredible business of DJ Cassidy.

Forbes magazine, 07.18.11
The Tables Are Turning
Vinyl has been on the rebound for years. Will LPs outlast CDs?

Forbes.com, 06.29.11
Michael Jackson’s $400 Million Afterlife
The King of Pop continues to rake it in from beyond the grave.

Forbes.com, 06.09.11
Red Dillard: Musical Gangster
The Harlem legend once labeled as “the most dangerous man in America” did have a soft spot.

Forbes magazine, 05.18.11
Mars Attacks!
Bruno Mars isn’t on the cover of FORBES, but he’s getting closer.

Forbes magazine, 05.18.11
Still Rocking
Bon Jovi earned more than Justin Bieber, Katy Perry and Kanye West — combined. How’d that happen?

Forbes.com, 05.17.11
Without Me
Why Eminem Isn’t Getting Anything From That Universal Suit (Yet)

Forbes.com, 04.20.11
Lady Gaga’s Meaty Tax Deduction
Sometimes it pays to be weird.

Forbes.com, 04.05.11
Jay-Z, Beyonce and April Fools’ Day
In which I accidentally convince hundreds of people that music’s royal couple bought EMI.

Forbes.com, 03.31.11
The (Grateful) Dead’s Lifesaving Device
A roadie, a keyboardist and a real estate mogul walk into a bar…

Forbes.com, 03.17.11
St. Patrick’s Day: A Pot of Gold For Irish Bands
The busy business of blarney.

Forbes.com, 03.16.11
Why Diddy Will Be Hip-Hop’s First Billionaire
The main reason starts with “C” and ends with “iroc.”

Forbes.com, 03.01.11
Justin Bieber: Business or Businessman?
A surprise encounter with the teen heartthrob yields questions about his business savvy.

Forbes.com, 03.14.11
Grammy Bounce
The financial aftermath of an award.

Forbes.com, 02.08.11
Insuring the World’s Fastest Fingers
Why Oliver Lewis sleeps easy.

Forbes.com, 02.04.11
Shutout
Why the Black Eyed Peas didn’t get paid for their Super Bowl gig.

Forbes.com, 02.03.11
The Decemberists’ Business Model
Just don’t call it a ukulele.

Forbes.com, 01.28.11
A Visit To The Rolling Stones’ Morocco
Tangier has really let itself go.

Forbes.com, 12.23.10
Paul McCartney Continues to Have a Wonderful (Financial) Christmas Time
The former Beatle has given himself a gift that keeps on giving.

Forbes.com, 12.14.10
Fab 5 Freddy Goes to Las Vegas
One of hip-hop’s most influential trailblazers opens up about his latest work.

Forbes.com, 12.14.10
Jay-Z, 50 Cent and Diddy’s Billion-Dollar Remix (“I Get Money: Forbes 1-2-3″)
The original cash king anthem, inspired in part by the work of yours truly.

Forbes.com, 12.08.10
11 Musicians To Watch In 2011
Justin Bieber leads a list of stars ready to take the next big step up–both musically and financially–in the year ahead.

Forbes.com, 12.08.10
Flo Rida Vows He’ll Return to FORBES List
Fortunately for Flo, FORBES’ Cash Kings list is determined by gross income, not net profits after car payments.

Forbes.com, 11.16.10
What Jay-Z’s Book Doesn’t Decode
The rapper’s memoir leaves plenty of questions about his life unanswered.

Forbes.vom, 11.05.10
Names You Need to Know For 2011: SoundExchange
Hey, dirt-ay, SoundExchange got your money!

Forbes.com, 11.01.10
Tupac Shakur’s Ghastly Halloween
For the first time in his very lucrative life after death, Tupac Shakur’s earnings aren’t enough to place him among hip-hop’s living Cash Kings.

Forbes.com, 10.28.10
George W. Bush’s Gift to Hip-Hop
John Forté would still be sitting in jail, were it not for a last-minute pardon from a president not known for his love of rap.

Forbes.com, 10.25.10
The Rich Afterlife Of Michael Jackson
Smart deals by his estate have the King of Pop set to be one of the top earners in music for years to come.

Forbes.com, 10.22.10
Usher’s Favorite Music Rejection Service
Great news for up-and-coming musicians: Now you can pay to have your music rejected by industry executives!

Forbes.com, 10.14.10
T.I. Saved Someone’s Life Last Night, And Perhaps His Own Career
A life-saving gesture this fall may have saved T.I. a few years of jail time.

Forbes.com, 10.15.10
Mr. T Wants to Buy Your Gold — Time to Sell?
Mr. T has signed on to hawk a mail-in gold buying service. But, he assures us, it’s no sign of a bubble (Bonus: a video of me interviewing the big guy).

Forbes.com, 10.08.10
The Recording Industry’s Piracy-Proof Business Plan
With illegal file sharing contributing to a 50% drop in revenues across the recording industry over the past decade, many artists and record labels are turning to paid product placement in songs and videos to scare up funds.

Forbes.com, 10.06.10
Swizz Beatz’s Uncle Relaunching Ruff Ryders With Unusual Business Plan
Joaquin Dean is revamping the label that helped launch the careers of Swizz Beatz, The Lox and DMX.

Forbes.com, 11.04.10
Mariah Carey and Lil Jon’s Favorite Jeweler
From diamond-encrusted fish tanks to the largest diamond pendant in recorded history, Jason Arasheben is making some of the world’s most outlandish pieces for some of the world’s mos celebrated stars.

Forbes.com, 09.22.10
Jay-Z’s $50 Million Music Box
Jay-Z is already worth $450 million, by our estimates. Here are a few reasons he’s well on his way to becoming a billionaire.

Forbes.com, 08.17.10
Special Report: Hip-Hop Cash Kings
(Edited by Zack O’Malley Greenburg)
Even in a shaky economy, rap’s richest keep finding ways to thrive.

Forbes.com, 08.17.10
Hip-Hop’s Unofficial Sommelier
Branson B. has provided rap’s royalty with fine champagne. Now he’s trying to make his own brand of bubbly pop in a crowded marketplace.

Forbes.com, 08.17.10
Hip-Hop Cash Kings 2010
Rap’s richest are finding ways to thrive during the recession — especially these top 20 earners.

AOL Daily Finance, 05.14.10
The Crunk Life
Lil Jon explains how he’s creating a diversified portfolio (on video!)

AOL Daily Finance, 02.04.10
The Roots Grow Their New Hip-Hop Business Model, a Year Into NBC’s ‘Late Night’
A year after the eclectic Philly ensemble became Late Night with Jimmy Fallon’s house band, it has a new strategy. Drummer Ahmir “Questlove” Thompson discusses the network salary, late-night jams, and less touring.

AOL Daily Finance, 02.01.10
A Grammy-Winning Producer Explains How an Award Turns into Cash
Grammy-winning producer Jim Jonsin discusses the economics of winning an award: the ability to demand $75,000 per song from a music label, and the potential to demand $150,000.

Forbes.com, 07.09.09
Akon’s Recession-Proof Tune
One sweet-singing impresario is thriving amid the rap recession.

Forbes.com, 07.09.09
The Man Who Invented Hip Hop
Afrika Bambaataa is credited with creating a musical movement, but he’s no cash king. That’s fine by him.

Forbes.com, 07.09.09
Hip-Hop’s Cash Kings 2009
Rap’s richest aren’t immune to the worldwide downturn, but top stars still find ways to rake in millions.

Forbes.com, 06.27.09
Michael Jackson’s Estate Sale
Jackson’s debt may force a quick sale of his prized asset: rights to the Beatles catalog.

Forbes.com, 08.18.08
The 50 Cent Machine
Curtis ”50 Cent” Jackson is hedging against the whims of the music industry–with the help of an African billionaire.

Forbes special issue, 08.18.08
The Beatz Goes On
Records produced by Swizz Beatz have sold over 100 million copies. Now he wants to become an industry.

Forbes.com, 08.18.08
Hip-Hop’s Cash Kings 2008
Behind the thumping beats and aggressive stage personas are some very savvy businessmen. These 20 top the list.

Forbes magazine, 08.16.07
Money From Heaven
Think you have estate problems? Take a look at the fighting over slain rapper Tupac Shakur and other hip-hoppers.

Praise for Empire State of Mind

“Fascinating, well-done biography of one of the most extraordinary entrepreneurs of our era.” – Steve Forbes

“Zack O’Malley Greenburg has become one of the rare reporters to bring dignified coverage of the hip-hop business into the mainstream. Empire State of Mind is a pure product of Greenburg’s care and insight, an exploration of hip-hop’s most enigmatic mogul, Jay-Z.” – Dan Charnas, author of The Big Payback: The History of the Business of Hip-Hop

“Empire State Of Mind follows the money and key pieces of the Jay-Z puzzle in this insightful, savvy read. From Jay’s humble Bed-Stuy Brooklyn roots as Shawn Carter into street crime and the drug game, to his rocket rise to the heights of hip-hop and the music business as one of entertainments most successful players…this book is like a GPS leading us through the modern urban reality of how Jay-Z’s empire was built.” – Fred “Fab 5 Freddy” Brathwaite, hip-hop pioneer, artist, and longtime host of Yo! MTV Raps

“Lively and often surprising, Empire State Of Mind analyzes one of the greatest assets of the hip-hop generation: the business mind of Jay-Z. In capturing Jay-Z’s refuse to lose mentality, Zack O’Malley Greenburg tells an important, instructive American story of our time.” – Jeff Chang, author of Can’t Stop Won’t Stop: A History of the Hip-Hop Generation

About Empire State of Mind

You can wake up to the local radio station playing Jay-Z’s latest hit, spritz yourself with his 9IX cologne, slip on a pair of his Rocawear jeans, lace up your Reebok S. Carter sneakers, catch a Nets basketball game in the afternoon, and grab dinner at The Spotted Pig before heading to an evening performance of the Jay-Z-backed Broadway musical Fela! and a nightcap at his 40/40 Club. He’ll profit at every turn of your day.

Empire State of Mind tells the story behind Jay-Z’s rise to the top as told by the people who lived it with him–from classmates at Brooklyn’s George Westinghouse High School; to the childhood friend who got him into the drug trade; to the DJ who convinced him to stop dealing and focus on music. This book explains just how Jay-Z propelled himself from the bleak streets of Brooklyn to the heights of the business world.

Zack O’Malley Greenburg draws on his one-on-one interviews with hip-hop luminaries such as DJ Clark Kent, Questlove of The Roots, Damon Dash, Fred “Fab 5 Freddy” Brathwaite, MC Serch; NBA stars Jamal Crawford and Sebastian Telfair; and recording industry executives including Craig Kallman, CEO of Atlantic Records, to paint a tantalizing portrait of a very private mogul. Greenburg also reveals new information on Jay-Z’s various business dealings, such as:

* The feature movie about Jay-Z and his first basketball team that was filmed by Fab 5 Freddy in 2003 but never released.
* The Jay-Z branded Jeep that was scrapped just before going into production.
* The real story behind his association with Armand de Brignac champagne.
* The financial ramifications of his marriage to Beyonce.

Jay-Z’s tale is compelling not just because of his celebrity, but because it embodies the rags-to-riches American dream and is a model for any entrepreneur looking to build a commercial empire.

Reviews

“Jay-Z’s rise to fame has as many lessons for would-be moguls as for budding rappers … All these lessons are clear from Empire State of Mind: How Jay-Z Went From Street Corner to Corner Office, by Zack O’Malley Greenburg (Portfolio, $25.95), one of the year’s best rock books.” –Bloomberg News

“Well told … the heart of Empire State of Mind is its depiction, helped by some good shoe-leather reporting, of the commercial deals that have enabled Jay-Z to profit from exploiting his prestige and personality.” - The Financial Times

“In his debut book, Greenburg hits the mark. Empire State of Mind is an easy read that packs an informative, motivational punch for anyone who is trying to improve their situation, land a job, or advance their career.” - AOL/Huffington Post

“Business savvy is really what sets Jay-Z apart, and that’s the subject of Zack O’Malley Greenburg’s enlightening, engaging, and excellent new book … Greenburg zeroes in on Jay-Z’s ability to hustle in the studio and in the boardroom, creating a fascinating look at the businessman behind the man. In addition, he writes with a rapid-fire prose that makes Empire State of Mind flow like an novel or film.” - ArtistDirect

“Every person with an iota of entrepreneurial inclination should read Empire State of Mind … [Greenburg's] understanding of hip-hop and his familiarity with the world of high finance make him uniquely suited to pen such a smart, informative and entertaining work. Excellence!” – Hip-Hop Weekly

“Before Diddy and his missing Mercedes-Benz S-Class, before Eminem and his imported-from-Detroit Chrysler 200, even before Funkmaster Flex and his special-edition Ford Expedition, there was the Jay-Z Jeep Commander. You would be forgiven, however, for not remembering the commercials … the Jay-Z Jeep never rolled deep. Mr. Greenburg dissects how the collaboration went awry.” – New York Times

“Greenburg writes of Jay-Z’s rocky beginnings in the Brooklyn projects and his detour into street-corner dealing, but mainly focuses on Jay-Z the mogul, whose reach extends beyond music to the NBA, apparel, restaurants, endorsements and Broadway. Check it out.” - USA Today

“O’Malley Greenburg is easily the world’s foremost authority on the subject of the finance of hip-hop … Acting often as investigative reporter, he travels thousands of miles to hunt down insider information on Jay’s various ventures, from the Jay-Z Jeep that never came to be, to the hush-hush details of the rapper’s partnership with champagne Armand de Brignac … Greenburg does a great job of unpacking the rapper’s business mentality, and the steps he’s taken to earn his half-billion.” – Crawdaddy

“The biography by journalist Zack O’Malley Greenburg, out this month, provides a colorful reminder of the rapper’s dark roots.” – New York Post

“After reading Greenburg’s book, I have to admit I understand why [Jay-Z] makes a superb guide for your career, even if you are looking to be an investment banker or grocery store manager instead of a hip hop legend.” – Anthony Balderrama, CNN.com

“[Empire State of Mind] has some interesting sources and revelations that may shock even the biggest super-fan.” – HipHopDX

“The new biography of the rap mogul lavishes praise on Jay-Z but also depicts a businessman with Antarctica for a heart.” – Bloomberg BusinessWeek

“Empire State of Mind tells the story of rapper Jay-Z (aka Shawn Carter) and his rise from drug slinger to tape slinger and, later, to corporation runner.” – NPR

“Zack O’Malley Greenburg’s book take us comfortably through the story of Jay-Z’s background, hard start, challenges, opportunities, talents, success, and choices. This is an easy and comfortable read.” – New York Journal of Books

“If Jay-Z’s collective body of work was ‘Food For Thought’ … Greenburg does this dishes in his literary debut. Greenburg uses his extensive resources (perhaps garnered as the crafter of the famous “Forbes Hip-Hop Cash Kings” list) to unravel the business acumen Jay-Z has used to catapult himself to financial prosperity.” - Mog.com

“To learn more about how Jay-Z changed many people’s taste in Champagne and so many other things, be sure to check out Empire State of Mind … Until now, all those interested begrudgingly had to buy into the story spun by Jay-Z’s camp that Armand de Brignac was just a bubbly that HOVA discovered in a New York wine shop.” – Bottlenotes

“[Empire State of Mind] … fill(s) in many of the blanks surrounding the rapper’s business dealings, pulling from interviews with some of Hov’s colleagues and business partners willing to dish the dirt on how he rose to fame and fortune.” – The Boombox

“A fascinating, unauthorized story, which decodes the Jay-Z myth as much as it reinforces it.”– ABCDrDuson

Multimedia

Zack O’Malley Greenburg talks about Empire State of Mind — and why Jay-Z refused to cooperate — on Good Day New York (Video)

Zack chats about his book with Gregg Greenberg (no relation!) on TheStreet.com (Audio) |(Video)

Zack discusses Jay-Z’s humble origins and rise to fame with Michael Noer on Forbes.com (Video)

Zack talks about the rise of Jay-Z on Bloomberg Game Changers (Video)

Zack chats about Jay-Z’s half-billion dollar fortune with The Daily Ticker’s Dan Gross on Yahoo! Finance (Video)

Zack discusses Jay-Z’s business, man, on Canada’s Urban Rush (Video)

Zack talks Jay-Z with Fanny Kiefer live from Vancouver on Studio4 (Video)

Other Mentions & Interviews

- The New York Times

- Sports Illustrated

- New York Magazine

- Reuters

- The Sun

- CBS Bnet

- BET

- Flying With Da Fishes

- Grind & Thrive

- Guest of a Guest

- Baller Status

The Nets aren't Jay-Z's first basketball team.

Selected stories about the business of sports.

Sports Illustrated, 03.22.11
Jay-Z’s First Basketball Team (book excerpt)
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
Long before the Nets, LeBron James signed up for Jay-Z’s Rucker Park dream team.

AOL Daily Finance, 07.09.10
Feeling the Heat
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
Why LeBron’s Choice Could Cost Jay-Z Over $5 Million.

Forbes, 03.27.10
Observations from Fantasy Baseball’s Mecca
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
Inside the 2010 Tout Wars AL-only rotisserie auction.

Forbes, 03.19.10
Forbes Fantasy Baseball Investment Guide
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
Everything you ever wanted to know about roto in 2010, featuring guest analysis from experts including Scott Pianowski and Ron Shandler.
C | 1B | 2B | SS | 3B | OF | SP | RP

Forbes, 01.06.10
Fantasy Football: The Year That Was
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
The final installment of my 2009 fantasy football column.

Forbes Magazine, 10.19.09
Inside The Sport Of Segway Polo
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
Steve Wozniak and a roving band of superstar geeks are challenging the notion that polo should be played on horseback.

Forbes, 09.08.09
Baseball’s Future Stars
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
Why are prospects like Jason Heyward still languishing in the minor leagues?

Forbes, 06.18.09
Reporter’s Notebook: A Yankee Fan In Enemy Territory
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
The Fenway Faithful are getting soft. Check out my photo-essay for proof.

Forbes, 04.14.09
Spotlight: Oriole Park At Camden Yards
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
Attendance may be down, but Baltimore’s ballpark is about more than just baseball.

Forbes, 04.14.09
Who Framed Walter O’Malley?
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
New York blamed the wrong villain for killing the Brooklyn Dodgers.

Forbes Asia Magazine, 03.16.09
Global Couch Potatoes
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
Thanks to an entrepreneur who channeled boredom into a lucrative idea, fantasy sports are coming to China.

Recent stories on my travels, from Big Sur to Morocco, Dubai to Sierra Leone (above: snake charmers in Tangier).

Forbes, 01.28.11
A Visit to The Rolling Stones’ Morocco
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
What does Tangier have in common with the music business? Lots.

Luxist.com, 08.05.10
A Visit to Chigny-Les-Roses
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
Ever wonder about the origin of those gold bottles that keep popping up in Jay-Z’s videos? This is it.

Luxist.com, 05.09.10
Ma(i)sonry in Napa Valley
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
The world’s only steam-punk wine tasting room.

Luxist.com, 05.08.10
Nepenthe in Big Sur
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
The quintessential Big Sur experience.

Forbes, 09.01.09
Canada’s Hidden Travel Gems
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
Natural wonders and scenic views are close by — or spectacular enough to warrant making the tough trek.

Forbes, 06.16.09
Pan Am’s Second Life
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
The defunct international airline lives on through collectors like Kelly Cusack.

Forbes, 05.29.09
Reporter’s Notebook: The Merritt Parkway In A Porsche
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
Let me put you behind the wheel of a brand-new Porsche.

Forbes, 05.22.09
America’s Hidden Travel Gems
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
You don’t need to leave the U.S. to find exotic or quirky treasures.

Forbes, 04.24.09
The Lost Characters Of New Orleans
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
Many of the city’s strangest residents left after Hurricane Katrina. Will they ever return?

Forbes, 03.04.09
World’s Most Dangerous Countries
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
Avoid visiting these places if you value your safety.

Forbes, 03.04.09
Diamond In The Rough
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
Restaurateur Faysal Debeis is banking on an uptick in tourism to boost his beachside business in Sierra Leone.

Forbes, 03.04.09
Honeymoon In Sierra Leone
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
Can the former war zone reinvent itself as a tourist destination?

Forbes, 03.04.09
In Pictures: Roaming Sierra Leone
By Zack O’Malley Greenburg
This small African nation is the second-most dangerous spot for journalists. What better place for a Forbes reporter to spend his vacation?

Afrika Bambaataa: Part of hip-hop's holy trinity.

The Man Who Invented Hip-Hop
Forbes, 07.09.09
Afrika Bambaataa is credited with creating a musical movement, but he’s no cash king.

It’s about an hour past lunchtime, and the man who invented hip-hop is nowhere to be found. The restaurant on Lenox Avenue where we’d planned to meet is closed–and has been for two weeks, according to a passerby. A call from a publicist is even less reassuring. “You’ll know him,” she says, “when you see him.”

Five minutes later, a blue SUV pulls up, and a large bearded man hops out. He ambles over and shakes my hand, his formidable frame draped in a baggy black sweat suit and topped with a cap that says “Zulu Kemetic Muurs.” He smells faintly of peppermint. “Closed,” he muses, considering the restaurant. Without another word, he sets off in search of a new eatery.

Such is the way of Afrika Bambaataa. When you’re the man credited with founding hip-hop–and an accompanying philosophical movement–formal introductions aren’t necessary.

“Afrika Bambaataa basically is The One,” says Jeff Chang, hip-hop historian and author of the book Can’t Stop Won’t Stop. “Kool Herc, Grandmaster Flash and Bambaataa are the Holy Trinity of hip-hop. Bambaataa’s role was carrying the gospel of hip-hop first downtown to white audiences, then to the rest of the world.”

Though Bambaataa planted the seeds that blossomed into the unfathomable wealth of today’s hip-hop cash kings, he eschews bling in favor of a lifestyle suited toward an urban nomad. With a home base still in the Bronx–”the Brewnx,” as he calls it–he roves the planet as a sort of deejay-emeritus, giving concerts and speeches from New York to New Zealand. He’s not one to downplay his status.

“I was called the godfather of hip-hop culture last millennium, and I was pushed up and honored and moved into a god status,” he says. “They call me the Amen Ra of universal hip-hop culture this millennium.”

The origins of Afrika Bambaataa are unclear, and he offers few clues. He may have just funked his way into the universe, conceived by the holy spirit of rhythm and birthed by an earthly mother. He looks to be about 50 years old, which would place his birth year somewhere in the late 1950s or early 1960s. He came of age in the smoldering South Bronx during the 1970s and used his charisma to rise to the rank of warlord in a local gang called the Black Spades.

After traveling to Africa during that period, he decided to borrow a motto from an earlier decade: wage love, not war. Specifically, Bambaataa decided to use his influence to turn the Black Spades into a peaceful organization called the Zulu Nation.

“Bambaataa had this vision of hip-hop as a force for social change,” says Chang. “He had the history and street credibility to make this narrative acceptable to even the hardest of hard-heads … He was the guy who articulated that hip-hop could be a cultural movement.”

In 1977, Bambaataa started throwing block parties where he’d preach the four elements of the newly coined hip-hop movement–deejaying, painting graffiti, emceeing (rapping) and b-boying (break dancing)–and soon added a fifth: knowledge. People started to listen. Five years later, he and other hip-hop luminaries like DJ Kool Herc, Grandmaster Flash and Fab Five Freddy had taken hip-hop across the Harlem River to Manhattan, where it mingled with the post-jazz and proto-punk music floating around Greenwich Village.

By the mid-1980s, Bambaataa had become hip-hop’s Johnny Appleseed. Spinning long, decadent mixes of pop, funk and anything else he could get his hands on, he brought the genre’s first tremors to European clubs. “People were going crazy,” he recalls. “At that time, people didn’t hear long records–the only people that made long, tight records was in the ’60s like Sly and the Family Stone, Traffic and groups like that.” While deejaying a show in France, Bambaataa inspired MC Solaar, who is now France’s answer to Jay-Z. Bambaataa also set up branches of his Zulu Nation in countries from Germany to South Korea.

Today, the philosophy of Bambaataa’s Zulu Nation feels like an improbable cross between Garveyism and Buddhism, with some Islam and Rastafarianism thrown in for good measure.

“Everybody needs to show respect to each others’ ways and the cultural life that you get on this planet,” he says. “Don’t get caught up on ‘I’m brown, black, white, red, blue, whatever.’ You gotta ask, what were you called before 1492? All these names we’re using now are just an illusion made to keep us fighting each other.”

Bambaataa has made a habit of trotting the globe in defense of indigenous peoples’ rights. He’s mediated conflicts in Brazil, Australia and others. He says he’s even been invited to Antarctica, though it seems his services might not be necessary there. Murky as his precise movements may be, there’s one thing that’s very clear: Afrika Bambaataa really doesn’t care about making money.

“You want to buy cars and houses and castles, all of that’s on you and how America has systematized your mind to be into materialism,” he says. “Hip-hop ain’t got nothing to do with that. I’m glad that anybody making money has picked themselves up–I just want them to give some of it back to the community.”

He holds no resentment toward the rappers who’ve made millions off the genre of music he spawned. Bambaataa enjoys some of the music being made by today’s hip-hop cash kings. “I like Akon, I like some of Lil Wayne when he uses that funky voice,” he says. “Anything progressive.”

His only requests: Respect your elders. Keep an open mind about music. “House, rap, R&B, disco rock, they are all part of hip-hop culture,” he says. “Why you ain’t playing Kraftwerk along with Jay-Z? That’s hip-hop.”

Additional reporting by Zachary Fuhrer.

Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson

The 50 Cent Machine
Forbes, 08.18.08
Curtis ”50 Cent” Jackson is hedging against the music industry’s whims with the help of an African billionaire.

When it comes to records, 50 Cent knows what it takes to go platinum. But in a mine shaft thousands of feet below the surface of South Africa, he’s got metal, not vinyl, on his mind.

Last May, 50 paid a visit to billionaire mining baron Patrice Motsepe in South Africa. Flanked by select members of their respective entourages, the unlikely duo descended into a subterranean trove of platinum, palladium and iridium, growing like moss on the earth’s warm innards. A spectacular backdrop for a bling-drenched music video, to be sure.

But 50 was there for other business: to forge a joint venture with Motsepe that could soon bring him an equity stake in the mine–and 50 Cent-branded platinum to the world.

“Things that people wouldn’t actually expect me to be involved in,” 50 muses a few weeks later, reminiscing on his trip. “I’ve got a diverse portfolio.”

Here, in the comfort of a midtown Manhattan office, just miles from the Queens, N.Y., streets where 50 once dealt cocaine, the glowering rapper whose lyrics are often punctuated with gunshots is nowhere to be found. In his place is Curtis Jackson, businessman. Less gangster, more Gordon Gekko, he ticks through the contents of his portfolio: stocks, bonds, real estate, investment pools, all carefully monitored by brokers at Goldman Sachs and Morgan Stanley.

Over the past 12 months, 50 has added $150 million to his substantial coffers. He hawks clothing, sneakers, videogames, movies, ringtones and flavored water. His earnings were nearly twice as much as last year’s hip-hop cash king, Shawn “Jay-Z” Carter, and over four times the sum garnered by Sean “Diddy” Combs, who ranked third for the second year in a row. After topping Forbes’ inaugural Cash Kings list, the trio released a modified version of 50’s “I Get Money” called “The Forbes 1-2-3 Remix.”

Diversification is crucial for rappers. Record sales are declining, new media are playing havoc with the music industry, and it seems unlikely that hip-hop acts will ever lure stadiums of deep-pocketed baby boomers with the ease exhibited by geriatric rockers such as the Rolling Stones and the Police.

Perhaps as a hedge, Jay-Z signed a 10-year, $150 million deal with concert promoter Live Nation ( LYV – news – people ) in April. Kanye West headlined the traditionally rock-focused music festival Lollapalooza in Chicago earlier this month. 50 is looking to secure his own long-term relevance with deals like the one currently in the works with Motsepe.

“The financials of the music business have changed to the point that we have to find ways to make money in other places,” says Barry Williams, 50’s circumspect brand manager. “I didn’t think six years ago when we started trying to sell music that we’d be selling VitaminWater and shoes and clothes. Now we’re moving into other directions, and four or five years from now, it’s exciting to think about us looking at natural resources and raw materials and other businesses.”

50’s first mega-deal was completed a year ago. He snagged $100 million when Coca-Cola ( KO – news – people ) bought Glacéau, VitaminWater’s parent company, for $4.1 billion. The rapper had received a stake in Glacéau as compensation for peddling the “Formula 50″ VitaminWater flavor. He’d continued to add to his holdings as the years went on. Although observers praised 50’s financial foresight as soon as the deal was announced, he was far from satisfied.

“People were talking about how much money I made, but I was focused on the fact that $4.1 billion was made,” says 50. “I think I can do a bigger deal in the future.”

Looking one step ahead of the business has always one of 50’s trademark traits. He grew up rough in Jamaica, Queens, in the midst of the 1980s crack epidemic. His mother, a drug dealer, was murdered when he was 8; soon after, he began running cocaine for his uncles. He realized he could make more money by charging a markup in the neighborhood of 25%. This precocious business sense earned him plenty of dollars–and three arrests–by age 19. He avoided jail time by agreeing to attend a six-month, military-style boot camp in upstate New York.

Returning to Queens, the fledgling rapper scored a $65,000 deal with Columbia Records. But in 2000 his past caught up with him. Days before his first album, Power of the Dollar, was set to hit stores, 50 was shot nine times and left for dead in front of his grandmother’s house. Columbia dropped him, and the record was never released, though it has since been heavily bootlegged. Undeterred, he returned to the studio as soon as he recovered from his wounds. He started churning out “mix tapes,” which are informally circulated at parties, and soon he had become an underground rap sensation.

The tapes earned him a following–and a big break. In 2002 star rapper Marshall “Eminem” Mathers heard his driver playing one of 50’s songs. Eminem was so impressed with the music that he invited 50 to Los Angeles to meet with him and producer Andre “Dr. Dre” Young. Within days, they signed 50 to a million-dollar deal for five albums.

But from the start, 50’s career was more about business than music. He spent his first $300,000 registering the “50 Cent” and “G-Unit” trademarks; in 2003 he brought on veteran talent manager Chris Lighty to head up his business entourage. Today, Lighty is part of an informal board of directors for brand 50 Cent. The team helps 50 sort through endorsement offers, brainstorm new ideas and operate his businesses.

At the top of that pyramid is 50 himself. Ask any of his associates what sets him apart, and they’ll all tell you it’s his fiendish work ethic. In a recent 24-hour span, he started by filming scenes for Streets of Blood from 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. (He will star in the flick, due out next year, alongside Val Kilmer and Sharon Stone.) He then went straight to the mobile recording studio he keeps on set and worked on his new album for four to five hours. After snagging a few hours of sleep, he went right back to the studio.

“I don’t think he’ll ever stop working,” says Laurie Dobbins, chief operating officer of Lighty’s company, Violator Management. “He’s got the work ethic of a robot. I think he works 24 hours a day.”

50 will always be a performer. While he spent the daytime hours of his Africa tour kibitzing with the likes of Motsepe and Nelson Mandela, nights brought concerts–and crowds upwards of 100,000. He watched as his music broke the language barriers between scores of local dialects. He says the rush he gets from performing is the reason he doesn’t need drugs. But don’t be confused about where his priorities lie.

“Closing a deal,” he says, “is a bigger deal.”

Forbes magazine, 12.05.11
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Big banks want a piece of the prepaid debit card business dominated by Green Dot. Founder Steven Streit, a former DJ, says bring it on.

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A Different Tune
Zack O’Malley Greenburg
High price? No problem. Preston Athey’s value fund ignores the first tenet of value investing.

It’s not often that one stumbles home from a long night out to find an e-mail with the subject line, “Oh my God, I read today’s BBC headline and totally thought you were dead.”

On May 30, I returned to an in-box full of such communiques from old high school buddies, current co-workers and even a friend from Israel whom I hadn’t spoken to in months. Lorenzo Odone, the 30-year-old Fairfax County man who survived a dire childhood diagnosis of adrenoleukodystrophy, had passed away earlier that evening; my friends had confused his identity with mine. For six months of my life, I had done the same.

At age 6, about the same stage of life in which the real Lorenzo started to show symptoms, I played the title role in the 1993 film “Lorenzo’s Oil,” which told the story of his and his family’s struggle with then-obscure disease ALD. Though I was old enough to know that I was only acting, it became increasingly difficult to separate the terminally ill child I was portraying on screen from my actual self. On the set, I wore a bald cap and a hospital gown. I was fitted with contact lenses that deliberately blurred my vision and an ear microphone designed to make me slur my speech. Some of my friends avoided me because they were afraid my spectral ailment was contagious.

As the shoot wore on, the script — and my spirits — continued to darken. After filming a scene in which Lorenzo falls off a bicycle, I spent the next day getting my stage wounds stitched up, and though I never felt the needle, I howled as it pierced my synthetic skin. I spent hours in a CAT scan tube undergoing imaginary tests, days under the bespectacled scrutiny of ersatz doctors, weeks motionless on a replica hospital bed hooked up to a mock ventilator. Despite my parents’ assurances to the contrary, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was gravely ill. When we went to Kenya for additional filming, I came down with dysentery, and my own mother barely survived the malaria she contracted there.

I never met the real Lorenzo, and we’ve never had much in common. Unable to walk or speak since his youth, he spent the last two decades of his life bedridden at his Virginia home, fighting a terrifying disease and defying the expectations of a pessimistic medical establishment. Meanwhile, I’ve had the luxuries of health, college and, most recently, the beginnings of a career in journalism.

Yet when I heard the news of Lorenzo’s death, I felt a twinge not unlike the phantom pains people sometimes describe feeling in a lost limb. I thought about how tough it was to live a shadow of Lorenzo’s life for six months. But what right did I have to claim to comprehend even a sliver of his agony?

And for all the awareness that “Lorenzo’s Oil” raised, for all the brilliant performances of Susan Sarandon, Nick Nolte and Peter Ustinov, what did the film do for Lorenzo Odone?

As I pondered, another e-mail appeared. “The real Lorenzo died, I just heard on NPR,” wrote a college friend. “What was that movie about again?” I cringed for a moment, but then I smiled. Not everybody remembers the film. But now many remember Lorenzo, a real human being — far braver than I, and courageous in a way that the rest of us dread having to be.

Green is probably the last word that comes to mind when one thinks of Los Angeles. Smog, earthquake, ocean, anorexia — these are all more realistic free-association choices. But for the 62 hours I spent chugging across the country on an Amtrak train last month, Los Angeles loomed on the other side of a dark continent like the green dock light Jay Gatsby so longingly watched in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby.

I invoke Fitzgerald because it is the current state of the great American train ride that I hoped to investigate on my own cross-country journey. Gatsby’s narrator, Nick Carraway — a Yale Daily News writer himself — describes the way his return trips from Yale made him “unutterably aware of [his] identity with this country for one strange hour, before [he] melted indistinguishably into it again.” I decided to see what had become of this vision — to search for some trace of the romantic railroad days of yore on a modern cross-country train trip.

The itinerary called for a 19-hour jaunt from New York to Chicago on the Lake Shore Limited, followed by a five-hour layover in the Windy City and a 43-hour ride from Chicago to Los Angeles on the Southwest Chief. My cohorts were not the Midwestern gentry with whom Nick Carraway traveled; rather, they were three good friends from my suburban New York public high school. And unlike myself, Julien, Adrien and Kateri were not on a quixotic mission to satisfy some obscure literary hunger. They just wanted to have an adventure.

***

January 4 dawned clear and unsettlingly warm in New York. I hadn’t even packed a winter jacket. As we descended a Penn Station escalator and emerged amongst a mob of travelers who moved with all the energy of a late August afternoon, I began to grow nervous that I would never catch a glimpse of Carraway’s wintry wilderness.

At the edge of the platform, a squat, bald conductor was barking at the arriving passengers in broken English.

“Chicago in last car!” he shouted. Upon arriving in our car, we found two pairs of seats next to each other on the platform side of the train. The car seemed a relic of the late 1970s — seats were upholstered in garish shades of red and orange; magenta curtains swung from the windows. The entire interior looked like some sort of gaudy disco library. As I settled into my coach class seat, which offered the ample legroom of a first-class airplane seat, the conductor ambled into the aisle.

“This the four o’clock train to Chicago!” he exclaimed. “Next smoke-break in two hours.”

The dim lights of the Penn Station platform gave way to the dimmer and more intermittent lights of the underground tracks, and within minutes we were zipping along the Hudson River. The sun hung low above the water, dripping like a great luminous egg yolk toward the Palisades. We glided under the George Washington Bridge, cleared Manhattan, and by 4:30 we had passed Hastings-on-Hudson, the riverside hamlet from which Julien, Adrien, Kateri and I had departed two hours earlier. Forty minutes later, as we passed the Indian Point nuclear power plant at Peekskill, the sun collapsed into a soft orange puddle at the edge of the Hudson.

It was around this time that I began to survey my fellow travelers. Kateri and Adrien sat in front of Julien and me. Across the aisle, two youngish Chinese women were conversing in Mandarin (the conductor had stopped by to flirt with them earlier); in front of them, a young German couple canoodled while watching a game show on a portable DVD player. I glanced back at the rest of the car. Behind us, a middle-aged black man was reading a book; across from him, a pair of grizzled white men spoke in low voices, chuckling occasionally. Beyond them, the rest of the passengers seemed to all be people younger than 30 or older than 50, diverse as the occupants of a New York City subway car.

A stocky, bestubbled college-aged man was now speaking to Julien; they had taken an engineering course together at Columbia. He introduced himself as Elliot, a grad student heading back to Madison, Wisc., after vacation. I asked him why he was taking the train.

“It was cheaper than the plane, on short notice,” he said. “I think you have to be old, poor, or young to take the train. And you have to be a lot friendlier when you’re spending seventeen hours with the same people.”

I told him that I was going all the way to Los Angeles.

“After Chicago, things get stranger,” he mused. “Then you get all the hippies.”

We chatted for a half hour about the future of commercial cross-country train travel before the conductor emerged again.

“Albany coming up soon,” he exclaimed. “You have fifteen minute smoke break. Better smoke two cigarettes at same time, baby!”

The five hulking homogenous office towers of Albany’s skyline soon crept into view, a Le Corbusier daydream shrouded in an eerie blue-green glow. The train came to a stop and we jostled our way to the door. Already, a crowd of smokers had lined the platform, their fumes mingling with the suddenly-cold night air. I ducked into the station to buy some coffee. On the way back, I noticed a middle-aged woman wearing a Harvard scarf. Just as I was about to ask some convoluted question about Nick Carraway’s vision of American identity as constituted by the cross-country train ride, a voice on the loudspeaker announced that my train was about to depart. I hurried back to my seat.

***

Albany gave way to warehouses and dim streets lined with dingy houses. Occasionally we would pass a generic strip of neon-emblazoned stores and restaurants. No wilderness yet. Somewhere around Utica, the restroom door clanged open, unleashing an eggy fart smell into the entire car. The women across the aisle groaned. The Germans started making out. My comrades and I decided that it was a good time to head up to the diner car.

The hot food counter was closed, but there were still about ten people scattered around the cafeteria-style tables. A boy of about thirteen sat scribbling in a math book. A college-aged brunette sat gazing out the window. We sat down across from two men who had just finished a game of blackjack. They smiled and introduced themselves. Reggie and Damian (names changed for this article) were both from the same block in Harlem, though they had never met before tonight, and they were both on their way to Chicago. A bottle of liquid — which was eventually determined to be a concoction of Hennessey and Gatorade — rested on the table in front of them. Reggie had a round face framed by a navy New York Yankees hat and a closely trimmed beard. Damian had a thin face and cornrows that dangled out the back of his baby blue Texas Rangers hat. I asked why they were taking the train.

“Man, I ain’ want to be stuck next to no fat lady,” Damian said, revealing a thick Jamaican accent. “I took de Greyhound bus up fram Flarida one time an’ I ain’ never been so uncomfortable in my life. An’ I really don’t like the plane either.”

“I couldn’t fly because of all those background checks,” Reggie said. “I mean, I ain’t no terrorist or nothin’, but I didn’t want to deal with all that, you know what I’m saying? Hey Damian, why you going to Chicago?”

“Visitin’ my uncle,” Damian said.

“I’m going to pick up my baby boy,” Reggie said, his smile revealing two missing front teeth, which he later told us were knocked out by a drunkard who thought Reggie was a crack-head.

“Baby mom left before my son was born,” Reggie continued. “Her dad said he’d pay her rent if she came home. I wanted to struggle through, you know, try to make it work, but she left. So now I’m going to pick up my boy and take care of him for a few months.”

“Does dat mean no more Henny and Gatorade?” Damian asked. “You gonna be a responsible adult?”

“I’ll get all that stuff out my system on the way up,” Reggie replied. “I’m just worried the cops will see me with a white baby and try to take him away. His mom’s white. Black, white, it don’t matter to me. That’s how my crew rolls, you know? Not everybody’s that way. You know, some kids came up to me earlier and asked me for drugs. Just cause I’m black don’t mean I hustle. But hey. Let’s play cards.”

We played War until Julien and Reggie reached a stalemate. At Syracuse, Julien went back to the seats to sleep. The brunette started playing cards with Reggie. I played the documentary about Yale’s “We Suck” prank on my laptop (Damian’s reaction: “Da’s awesome.”) We spent a half hour watching Damian’s DVD of a 24-hour Jamaican reggae concert. Performers switched between English and Patois; dreadlocked fans spewed smoke from overloaded joints.

“You know, in Jamaica, it ain’ even no ‘ting,” Damian mused. “You can buy a pound for 50 dollars American. I like to cook it up in my collard greens.”

We laughed. Damian was about to say something else when the boy who had been scribbling in the math book piped up from the next table.

“Last time I smoked was three weeks ago!” he said brightly. “Makes me want to just go do some of that shit in the bathroom right now.”

Damian gave a look of horror.

“Wat he talkin’ ‘bout?”

At this point, a man who looked like Groundskeeper Willie from “The Simpsons” emerged from his seat, asked if he could buy whiskey from us, and trundled off dejectedly when we said no.

“Bedtime?” Adrien said, turning to Kateri, then me.

“Bedtime,” I agreed.

As I lowered myself into my seat next to an already-snoring Julien, felt the car rattling feverishly along the tracks, and smelled a fresh waft of the eggy fart smell from somewhere in the not-so-distant distance, another layer of the romantic train myth slipped to the quivering floor like a dry snakeskin. Sleeper cars may have been cheaper in the old days, but the Nick Carraways of the world can still pony up an extra $100-$200 a night for a bed at the head of the train today. The rest of us — poor, old, or young — were doomed to wake up to whatever was left of the Great Midwestern Wilderness groggy and achy-backed.

Somewhere around Rochester, I drifted into an uneasy and intermittent sleep. Old Rust Belt cities flew by in a haze of pinky-orange light; lonely traffic signals blinked vainly at shallow puddles in damp deserted intersections. Around four in the morning, I awoke to the sound of the man behind me speaking on cell phone in a low, sonorous bass.

“I do love you, baby,” he cooed. “With all my heart and three inches of my soul. I’ll be the first to admit, I was a bad little boy.”

It was like Isaac Hayes was doing a voice-over inside my ear.

“How much salad dressing? A quart?”

I drowsily attempted to wrap a sweater around my head.

***

By South Bend, Ind., the dim haze had brightened somewhat. Flat fields rolled by us in the early-morning mist. A young man sitting two rows ahead of us offered Adrien a bagel; the Germans had awoken and were brushing each other’s hair. The conductor came in and turned on all the overhead lights.

“Rise and shine!” he said. “Come up to dining car. Best breakfast you ever have.”

I looked at my watch. It was six in the morning. I closed my eyes and buried my face in my jacket.

Sometime later, Julien shook me awake — Chicago. We disembarked, dumped our bags in a locker at the station and wandered out into the city. On the street, we saw Reggie standing next to a young woman, holding a baby. He saw us and grinned.

“Y’all take care now,” he said. “And if you’re ever in Harlem, swing by my block.”

We slapped hands and headed out into the gray day toward the lakeshore. Even though it wasn’t terribly cold for a January afternoon in Chicago, I was already pining for some California sunshine, not to mention the real bed that awaited me there.

***

Nick Carraway was right about Chicago. Getting there is a chore, but leaving the Windy City for the wide reaches of the unknown West is distinctly exhilarating. When the Southwest Chief lurched into motion, Carraway’s “sharp wild brace” began to stir in my blood. Within an hour, we had cleared the western suburbs and soon we were racing across the great plains of Iowa into the shadowy dusk. Inspired, I picked up my copy of Gatsby, which I had meant to start reading on the previous train. As I sat in the warm glow of the reading lamp, leafing through the browning pages, I felt that some English professor somewhere would have been very proud of me.

When we stopped in Kansas City, Adrien and Julien started talking to a girl who had just boarded the train, and Kateri snoozed in her seat, but I remained blissfully engrossed in my book. We were just starting to move again when a bloodcurdling wail rousted me from my metaphysical basking.

“Aiiiiiiaaaahhhh!”

A screaming toddler had just boarded the train, followed by a more silent toddler, two flustered parents and the conductor. As I silently prayed for their expeditious passage to the next car, I noticed two more families with young children in tow. Much to my chagrin, the first family sat down right behind me, and the other two began to situate themselves in the following rows.

“WHAT IS LOS ANGELES?” the little girl behind me shrieked.

My green light? The hallowed land of sunshine and swimming pools and real beds?

“WHAT IS LOS ANGELES?”

“Well, honey,” the girl’s father said, “it’s a … it’s the … it’s where we … it’s the name of the really big place where we live.”

“WHAT IS LOS ANGELES?”

I turned to my handy Amtrak pamphlet, which informed me that Los Angeles was “the sprawling metropolis that began in 1781 as El Pueblo de Nuestro Senora de Los Angeles.” I briefly considered offering this explanation.

“It’s where we’re going,” the girl’s mother said, finally betraying a hint of irritation. A momentary silence suggested the girl might be satisfied.

“BUT WHAT IS LOS ANGELES?”

Adrien and I quickly grabbed the 32 oz. bottles of Fat Tire Ale we had purchased in Chicago and left for the relative peace of the snack car. When we returned to our seats an hour later, everyone was asleep, including the children. Gleefully, I reclined two nearby vacant seats as far as they would go, snuggled up with my sweatshirt, and closed my eyes, falling asleep to the gentle patter and squeak of the tracks beneath me.

***

I awoke at base camp. Blinding rays of white light gushed in through the open windows, and I looked out to find Colorado caked with a thick coat of fresh snow. It seemed as if the previous night’s snowfall had infiltrated the train itself — people all around the car were groggily grabbing bulky jackets. I overheard someone say that eight inches had fallen in Denver the night before. I dug out another sweater.

“I liked the hotel we stayed at better,” the little girl said. “I wish we could have stayed there longer.”

***

The Southwest Chief bears little resemblance to famous Expresses like Orient, Polar, and Hogwarts. There are no murder mysteries, no magical silver bells, no Chocolate Frogs. You won’t meet James Bond or Santa Claus, though you may encounter a few old men who look like Horace Slughorn. And as you move between cars, you often pass someone who smells like they’ve been on the train for too long. But the Southwest Chief does boast something the others don’t — a spectacular observation car, complete with skylights, a snack bar, and couch-like seats facing the large windows.

When we arrived for breakfast, we were lucky to find a place to sit. Passengers crowded the car, eyes glued to the wide windows. Nick Carraway would have been thrilled. We chugged through curvy mountain passes that snaked down the back of the Rockies, often slowing to a hiker’s pace. We stopped at sleepy villages with names like Lamar, La Junta and Raton. As we began our descent into New Mexico, slabs of red rock peeked out at us beneath the blanket of white. By afternoon, the terrain had leveled off, and we were speeding through an endless expanse of scrubgrass that sprouted like stubble from the snowy ground. We passed more small towns. Trailers dotted the outskirts, clusters of burnt-out automobile carcasses collecting around them like metal shavings drawn to dingy, yellowing magnets.

Near Lamy, N.M., a white-haired woman with a “Mayflower Tours” name-tag that read “Pat” sat down next to me. I introduced myself and asked where she was headed.

“We’re getting off at Flagstaff and taking the train down to Nevada,” Pat said. “It’s just five of us old ladies — senior citizens, excuse me. I took this train down from Chicago 25 years ago, and I wanted to do it again. At least last time all the bathrooms worked.”

When I told her that I was searching for a trace of the great romantic cross-country train experience as detailed by Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby, she seemed confused.

“You might find that on the Internet,” she said. “I don’t know much about the Internet.”

One of her companions tapped her on the shoulder.

“Pat, time for dinner.”

Pat apologized and shuffled off toward the dining car.

***

To me, this is a lot of nothing,” said Amy, the mother of the now-docile Little Miss Los Angeles, whom we had just officially met. She and her family were taking the train from Kansas City to Los Angeles because she had a fear of flying.

“It’s a lot of something … just something annoying,” said Chris, her husband, who had introduced himself as the owner of a company that made embalming fluids.

“So what sort of reaction do you usually get when you tell people about your profession?” Julien asked. Amy laughed.

“He’s not actually in embalming,” she said. “He composes music for cartoon shows. But he really likes to get a rise out of people. Sometimes we’ll be standing in a crowded elevator and he’ll say something like, ‘Hey honey, did you pick up your yeast infection meds today?’ I just fire right back and say ‘Yep — have you found your hemorrhoid cream?’”

We laughed. The conductor came by and told us our dinner table was ready. The train rolled through Albuquerque.

***

After a surprisingly elegant steak dinner in the dining car, Julien, Adrien, Kateri and I returned to the observation car. We sat down and started chatting with two men named Alvin and Gary. Both were middle-aged and black; Gary was a public school administrator from Los Angeles and Alvin was an off-duty Amtrak engineer who usually drove trains on the New York to Washington, D.C. route. I asked him why he was taking the train on his vacation.

“Cause it’s free,” he said, laughing. “Free for me and everyone in my family. So I’m headed Phoenix, transferring at Flagstaff. It’s a great job, pays about $80,000 a year. Only problem is the jumpers.”

“Jumpers?” asked Kateri.

“Yeah, sometimes people jump in front of the train to commit suicide,” said Alvin, whose name has been changed to protect his identity. “First time I saw it was in 2001. A hobo just dove right onto the tracks. I stopped the train — there were body parts everywhere. It was terrible.”

“What’s Amtrak’s policy on that?” I asked.

“If you hit someone, you’re just supposed to keep going,” Alvin said. “Passengers come first. Don’t get behind schedule. I got into a lot of trouble for stopping.”

We talked with Alvin and Gary for another hour. Over the course of the conversation, we discovered that Alvin spent most of his free time caring for foster children, was deeply homophobic and had a brain tumor. We spent a long time trying to convince him that he shouldn’t kick his foster children out of his house if he caught them fooling around with a member of the same sex. The Amish couple sitting a few tables down from us chuckled audibly at various points in the conversation, but left when we started talking about anal sex. Finally, the conductor announced that Flagstaff was coming up in fifteen minutes, and Alvin prepared to leave. He shook our hands, said he was glad to hear what the young generation was thinking and walked back to his sleeper car to get his bags. I thought that maybe we had moved him to start reconsidering his opinions on sexuality. But ten minutes later, he passed us again and acted as if he’d never seen us before. Gary, who hadn’t said much over the course of the conversation, got up to go check on him. When Gary returned five minutes later, he told us that Alvin’s brain tumor had caused him to lose his short-term memory. Gary had notified the conductor, and the two made sure that Alvin was able to leave the train at Flagstaff.

Before we left to go back to our seats and sleep, I asked Gary some rambling question about Nick Carraway and the romance of the cross-country train ride.

“Man, I don’t know about that one,” he said with a laugh. “Maybe the folks on the last train could have given you an answer — I think they were doing crystal meth.”

The next morning I awoke to find that we were already in Los Angeles. I began to feel a strange elation as we zipped along the palm tree-lined freeways clotted with morning traffic. When the four of us finally stepped off the train and wandered into the bright morning, I stretched my arms toward the sun — my own green light at the end of the dock.

***

Today’s Amtrak trains carry a vastly different group of passengers than those of Carraway’s day. Once the mode of long-distance transport favored by the wealthy, cross-country trains have become the realm of a very different cast of characters. College students, international tourists, elderly vacationers, people with a fear of flying, Amish who are willing to bend the rules and folks looking to avoid airline background checks are just a small cross-section of this motley crew.

For centuries, writers have quested after “America,” searching for a way of defining a country and a people through a single experience. Fitzgerald’s Carraway believed that a train ride could capture the spirit of a nation in some elemental way. Indeed, today’s cross-country train ride does capture something essentially American. But in contrast to Carraway’s journeys, that definitive aspect is not the physical landscape, but the bizarre, ordinary, and amazing people on the train. Boundaries of class, race, and gender dissolve along with state lines and time zones. And at the end of the evening, no matter what sort of green light a train-rider pursues, each passenger must return to the same creaky, back-cramping seats.

Zac Bradley

The sun was easing down behind the right field stands at Yale Field and a light wind was beginning to turn the early spring day from pleasant to chilly. Everyone seemed to be passing into a late Sunday afternoon stupor. Everyone except Zac Bradley ‘06.

The baseball team was playing the second game of a doubleheader against Pace early in the 2005 season. The Bulldogs won the first game easily and were leading the second game 2-0 in the bottom of the third. With one out and nobody on, Bradley worked the count to 3-2, hit a dribbler to the mound, and legged out an infield single.

As pitcher David Qualben was preparing to throw his first pitch to the next batter, Marc Sawyer ‘07, Qualben turned and lobbed a pickoff throw to first. But Bradley, sensing an opportunity, bolted for second. Upon catching the ball, the Pace first baseman fired to second, but the second baseman missed the catch in a sliding mass of dust and cleats. As the ball trickled into center field, Bradley jumped to his feet, sprinted for third, and beat the throw with a trademark headfirst slide.

When Qualben finally threw his first pitch to Sawyer, the Eli first baseman slammed a grounder to second and Bradley dashed home to score the Bulldogs’ third run. Yale ended up winning the game 3-0 — an easy victory against a weaker opponent in a non-conference game — but in Zac Bradley’s eyes, he might as well have been playing the seventh game of the World Series.

Whether he’s flying through the outfield to make a diving catch, leaning into a pitch to take one for the team, or sliding head first to notch another stolen base, the Elis’ leadoff hitter always leaves the field with some of it on him. Bradley is the spark plug at the top of the Bulldogs’ lineup. Any baseball fan who sees him play will immediately think of Craig Biggio, Derek Jeter or even Ichiro Suzuki — true playmakers, the kind of guys who do whatever it takes to create runs on offense or save them on defense.

Not bad for somebody who, two years ago, was told that he would never play baseball again.

Playing dirty

Everybody likes Zac Bradley — except for the people who have to do his laundry.

“The equipment guys always have some interesting things to say to me,” Bradley said. “They’re not such big fans of the headfirst slide. I guess the best word to describe my game is ‘dirty.’ Dirt under your fingernails, dirt on your uniform, just going out there at full speed.”

Bradley’s mentality has not changed much since his early baseball days, though he was not always the fastest or most talented player on the field.

“My first memory of baseball was just being the really bad kid on the team,” Bradley said. “I was the one picking flowers and playing in the dirt in right field. I had no idea what was going on, but I was always the dirtiest when the game was over.”

Yale’s leadoff hitter has come a long way from rolling around on the warm Arkansas ground. A two-sport star in high school, Bradley was recruited by Yale as a defensive back as well as an outfielder, but decided to stick to baseball.

“Zac is our igniter,” head coach John Stuper said. “Not just because he bats first and steals lots of bases, but because of his personality. He’s a baseball player. He comes ready to play every day, and he just loves to be out there. He brings so much energy to the game and to practice.”

If you ask Bradley his favorite thing about being a leadoff hitter, his eyes light up and a mischievous grin spreads across his face.

“I like to make the other team feel uncomfortable,” Bradley said. “I think that whenever I get on base and do my thing, it puts the other team on edge and gives us an advantage.”

Bradley’s ability to create plays on both the offensive and defensive sides of the game has helped energize the Elis time after time. When the Bulldogs traveled to Cambridge to play Harvard in a four-game set two weeks ago, Bradley scored five of Yale’s 14 runs in the series.

Although the Elis lost three out of four, Harvard starter Mike Morgalis discovered firsthand how disruptive Bradley can be at bat and on the bases.

“As far as pitching to him, he definitely crowds the plate, and as a pitcher you think that you should pitch him inside,” Morgalis said. “The only problem with that is you don’t want to give him a free base via hit batsman … because of his speed. Zac is a player who plays the game hard for every inning of each game, and as an opponent you have to respect him for that intensity.”

On the defensive side, Bradley has showcased impressive glove-work for the Elis, whether playing second base or center field. Stuper said Bradley made a number of plays in the field during the Harvard series that any big league second baseman would have been proud to have made. And the Bulldog pitchers are always thrilled to see No. 1 behind them, no matter where he is playing.

“Zac Bradley just knows how to make things happen,” pitcher Josh Sowers ‘05 said. “He is the biggest playmaker on our team and is so valuable because he can play any position. I always know he is someone I can rely on to make the big play or to get the team excited to win a game.”

According to his teammates, Bradley always comes through for them off the field as well.

“He’s always there to pick you up when you have problems, baseball or personal,” Adam Barrick ‘06 said. “Coming off of arm surgery last year, I pitched in our first game this year against Davidson. I basically blew the game. Afterwards, Zac came up to me and said, ‘Look, this is the first time you’ve been on the mound in two years. Just being out there is an accomplishment in and of itself.’ Zac is always picking you up when you’re down.”

Working through tragedy

Bradley knows what it’s like to come back from a career threatening injury. He also knows what it’s like to struggle through a life-changing tragedy.

Returning from a Delta Kappa Epsilon event in New York City in the early hours of Jan. 17, 2003, the sport utility vehicle Bradley was riding in collided with a jackknifed tractor-trailer on I-95 near Fairfield, Conn. Four Yale students lost their lives — Sean Fenton ‘04, Matt Dwyer ‘05, Kyle Burnat ‘05 and Nick Grass ‘05 — and the others in the car were severely injured. Bradley suffered a broken jaw and a compound fracture of his left arm.

But even in the gravest of situations, Bradley still had baseball on his mind.

“I remember waking up from my first surgery the night of the accident,” Bradley said. “My mom and Coach Stuper were in the room, and I remember asking coach if I was going to be able to play. He told me it didn’t look good for that year.”

After returning to his home in Arkansas to recover from his injuries, Bradley had another arm surgery. In the days that followed the procedure, he was told that he would never be able to play baseball again.

“The first night after that was really hard on me and my family,” Bradley said. “Baseball was always my thing. I had a sort of identity crisis when I thought I wasn’t going to be able to play again. But that only lasted through the night. This sounds kind of cheesy, but when the sun came up, I realized I had nothing to feel sorry for myself about — I had my life to live. I remember going out to a little league game with my dad. I had my arm in a sling and I had just been told I was never going to play again. But being out there and smelling the grass and the popcorn, hearing the bat hit the ball — things like that really drove me to get back.”

It turns out that telling Bradley he would never return to the diamond was the best thing the doctor could have said. It stirred Bradley’s competitive fires, and he embarked on a long and difficult road to recovery.

“You never want someone else to tell you what you can and can’t do,” Bradley said. “So I just went through the physical therapy — more therapy than anyone can ever imagine. It was painful and there were rough spots, times when I didn’t think I’d get though it, times when I wanted to quit. But I was motivated by my desire to get back and to be competitive, and to prove people wrong.”

As Bradley worked to return to the game, he was also forced to confront the loss of his good friends in the accident. Burnat was a very close friend of Bradley, and Grass was his best friend.

“Nick Grass was like my brother, like my twin,” Bradley said. “We took every class together, we were everywhere together. When you lose somebody like that, it scars you. I guess the first thing everyone told me after you lose friends is that time heals all wounds. And not that time is ever going to make a single day go by where I don’t think about it, but now I can remember the good times.”

Stealing the show

After missing the entire 2003 season, Bradley returned to the lineup in 2004 only to be sidelined with another shoulder injury in the team’s fifth game. Two weeks later, he was back on the diamond. Playing with fractured parts of his arm held together by a steel rod that ran from his shoulder to his humerus, Bradley excelled in a part-time role that included seven starts, a good amount of pinch running and even a couple of stints on the mound. Though every swing was painful, Bradley still made his presence felt — especially on an early April day at Yale Field.

The Elis were playing Princeton, a team that has won three of the past four Ivy titles, on April 9, 2004. Mike Mongiardini ‘07 and the Tigers’ Ross Ohlendorf were locked in a pitcher’s duel. The Ivy rivals were playing a seven-inning game, and the Bulldogs were down 1-0 going into the bottom of the seventh. Ohlendorf, who was eventually picked by the Arizona Diamondbacks in the fourth round of the 2004 MLB draft, had been perfect through six innings.

But Justin Ankey ‘07 slammed a single to right for a base hit to lead off the seventh. Randy Leonard ‘04 bunted him to second, and Marc Sawyer ‘07 plated Ankney with an RBI single to center. After Sawyer moved to second on bobble by the center fielder, Bradley came in to pinch-run. Ohlendorf then plunked cleanup hitter John Janco ‘06 and walked the next batter, Matt Stone ‘06, to load the bases.

According to Stuper, who was coaching third base, Bradley wanted to steal home from the moment he arrived at third.

“As soon as Zac got to third, he told me, ‘I can steal it coach, I can steal it. Coach, I can steal it,’” Stuper said. “I said ‘Zac, I heard you. But there’s only one out. Let’s see what Jake [Doyle '07] can do.’”

Doyle struck out, bringing Orrico to the plate. After Ohlendorf evened the count at 1-1, Stuper gave Bradley the go-ahead.

“Zac looked at me, and I sort of muttered the words ‘go ahead,’ with some trepidation,” Stuper said. “When Ohlendorf started to go into the windup, Zac took off. My assistant coach John Dorman saw it, and he later told me he was thinking, ‘Wow, what a great fake!’ But Zac just kept going.”

Orrico, a lefty, did not see Bradley racing toward home until he was starting to swing.

“I was just up there trying to get a hit,” Orrico said. “Next thing I know, I see Zac busting toward home. I thought I missed a sign or something. I was just as surprised as the pitcher that he was going.”

Fortunately, Orrico did not hit the ball — or Bradley — and the Elis won the game.

“It wasn’t even close at home,” Stuper said. “The crowd went berserk. This is my 20th year of coaching, and without question, that is the most exciting play I’ve ever been a part of. And nowadays, when he gets on third, I haven’t seen anybody pitch from the windup again.”

Moving forward

Bradley’s remarkable comeback has earned him the respect and admiration of his peers in the athletic community.

“Zac is one extraordinary young man,” athletics director Tom Beckett said. “His strength of character and determination put him in an elite classification. He has returned to our community after the tragic accident … and become an inspiration for not only his teammates but for all of us who know him. He has worked tirelessly to recover fully from the injuries he received on that terrible day to help lead his team to a very successful spring season.”

In 2005, Bradley has been almost perfect as a leadoff hitter. He ranks first on the team in runs (22) and steals (11) — good for third-most in the league in that latter category — and has only been caught once. And while he leads the Elis in strikeouts (30), he also leads them in walks (15).

Now that he has made it back and cemented his status as one of the top playmakers in the Ivy League, Bradley hopes to play baseball for as long as possible.

“Baseball was one of the reasons I was able to come back from my injury, just because it’s something I’ve been passionate about all my life,” Bradley said. “I’d like to continue to play baseball for as long as I can, be it pro, semi-pro, or coaching.”

But Bradley likes to keep things in perspective. He still wears the tattered Yale baseball cap that Grass gave him during their first year on the team.

“I lost my hat freshman year, so Nick gave me his,” Bradley said. “It fits right, and I don’t like breaking in new hats. And I guess it helps me, not to move on, but to move forward, carrying them with me. Besides, I like the old-school, dirty look. That’s just the way I play.”