Come to think of it, I did remember this guy. We’d met maybe a year or two back one day when I was hangin’ in my old neighborhood. He’d been with some of my old partners from the Zone 6 Clique. At the time I didn’t know he rapped, but I did figure he must have some street in him to be there gamblin’ with my old partners. They didn’t hang with anyone who didn’t.
When Future reintroduced us I immediately took a liking to Scooter. He was pretty green when it came to the music. I don’t think Scooter had even put out a mixtape yet. But I liked his approach. There was an effortlessness to it. Lackadaisical. Almost like he wasn’t even rapping. Like Scooter was just talking on tracks.
I’d wanted to get Future to sign with Brick Squad, but by that point I’d come to terms with the fact that that wasn’t going to happen. Future already had his situation with Rocko, and he was so hot that summer that his major-label deal was coming any day. I’d missed the boat on Future, but it was still early for Scooter.
“I’m telling you he hard, Gucci,” Future told me. “You should sign him.”
Scooter and I kept in touch and a year later, after he got himself a buzz in the city off a song called “Colombia,” we put it on paper and made it official. Scooter was now a 1017 Brick Squad artist.
Then there was Young Dolph.
I linked with Dolph through Drumma Boy, who put me in touch with him for a feature at some point in 2011. But I was sleeping on Dolph then. I did a lot of features for lesser-known rappers in the South. A lot of the time these were dudes who already had money in the streets—which was how they could afford a feature from me—and were now looking to give it a go in the rap game. So I did a verse for Dolph and that was that.
Months later I was hanging out with one of my partners from Mobile, Alabama, when he asked me if I fucked with the nigga Dolph from South Memphis whom I’d done that song with. At first I didn’t even know who he was talking about.
“Well, Dolph got a serious following out here in Alabama,” he told me. “You really should fuck with him.”
He had Dolph’s new mixtape—A Time 2 Kill—in his car. I gave it a listen on the drive to Atlanta and I was impressed. With him it was his voice. Superdistinct. Superdeep. I knew how far a voice could take you in the game, so I hit Drumma for Dolph’s number and told him the next time he made it to Atlanta he should pull up on me at Patchwerk.
My buddy was right about Dolph’s movement too. This was not some unknown up-and-comer with nothing to show. He already had money and his own independent thing going. That would keep us from doing a deal with 1017, but Dolph and I ended up getting tight anyway. He was just a real nigga. When I got the new studio I made sure he knew he was welcome to pull up and work anytime he wanted.
I was checking in on the renovations at the Brick Factory one day when one of my partners started telling me about Peewee Longway.
“Gucci you know the dude Peewee from Zone Three?” he said. “The nigga who rap?”
“Peewee?” I thought. “From Jonesboro South?”
“That nigga.”
“Yeah I know Peewee,” I said. “He don’t rap, though.”
“Well, he rap now.”
I had not seen Peewee in many years, but I’d known him for quite some time. Peewee repped Zone 3, on the Westside of Atlanta. We always ran in different circles coming up, but I would see him frequently at the Libra. I’m talking way, way, way back when I was twenty-three, performing at their open mic nights. But Peewee was never rapping at the Libra. He was always there just as a patron of the club. From what I knew of him, Peewee was strictly a hustler.
As soon as I heard that Peewee was a rapper—the “Longway” part was new—I sent for him to come to my studio. I was signing him to Brick Squad. That might sound odd, but it’s a good example of something else that I look for in artists.
Peewee was always this little, funny, charming nigga whom people just seemed to gravitate toward. Everyone I knew liked Peewee and he was very much respected from his dealings in the streets. So I didn’t really need to hear Peewee’s music to know I wanted to sign him. The music was the easy part. That shit I could help him out with. And once I did, I already knew Peewee was someone who would be well received in Atlanta.
I had twenty-five thousand dollars in cash waiting for him when he came to the studio a few days later. But Peewee had other plans.
“You ain’t even got to worry about paying me, bro,” he said. “What I really want is for you to sign my young boys here.”
“I’m pretty much set on signing you, Peewee,” I told him. “But if this is what you really want, then tell me about your boys.”
That’s when Peewee introduced me to Young Thug. Not only had I never met Thug, but I’d never heard a word about him. But I took a look at this tall, skinny kid with a bunch of tattoos on his face like me and I got the feeling he could be something. He definitely had a look.
Peewee wanted me to sign Thug as part of a three-man crew, but it was clear who the diamond in the rough was. So I took the twenty-five thousand I’d had ready for Peewee, gave it to Young Thug, and signed him on the spot. I hadn’t known him longer than thirty minutes.
I’d taken a chance on Thug but it didn’t take long for me to realize he was something special. Thug started coming to the studio every day, staying for days on end, and man, listen . . . the boy was going fucking crazy. I remember Thug had some shit going with his teeth and was wearing some type of mask over his mouth for a brief period. When he would take it off to record it would be like Scorpion from Mortal Kombat pulling his mask off and breathing fire. He was bouncing off the walls. He had different voices, different flows, and he was switching in and out of ’em effortlessly. I remember when he made “2 Cups Stuffed.” It was obvious Thug was a superstar in the making. All he needed from me was a little seasoning.
?
A few weeks later I was at Zay’s crib when he waved me out of the booth to show me something on the computer.
“Check this out.” He laughed. “There’s some boys here who sound just like you and they’re rapping over some beats that sound just like mine.”
Zay was watching a music video for a song called “Bando” by a three-man group calling themselves Migos. He was right. There were similarities. Like Zay and I had first started doing a decade earlier these boys were talking about cookin’ up work in the kitchen and they were making it fun. It was upbeat. Animated. Catchy. Silly. Right away I liked what Migos were doing.
Later in the day I was back at the Brick Factory showing the “Bando” video to Scooter, Thug, and Peewee. I found a booking number in the description on YouTube and called it. Whoever answered couldn’t believe it was me.
“Get the fuck out of here, man,” I was told. “This ain’t no Gucci Mane.”
“Well, if this ain’t Gucci, then tell those boys not to come down to 1074 Memorial Drive because Gucci Mane don’t want to sign ’em.”
They were on their way.