Small town hip-hop
Tulare County has underground rap scene all its own
By Mike Hazelwood
Staff writer

Some think rap music comes only from gritty urban areas where former and current thugs make millions of dollars off their tough-guy images.

But Tulare County — yes, anything-but-urban Tulare County — has a brand of rap all its own.

Try visiting For the Kids, a hip-hop music and fashion store tucked beside Hometown Buffet in Visalia. There, in the back, dozens of CDs sit on a rack labeled “Local Artists.”

Rappers from Visalia, Tulare, Porterville and nearby Kings County are represented on that rack.

“If anybody brings in an album they made that’s hip-hop, we’ll carry it,” says Bobby Naugle, 25, co-owner of For the Kids.

Thumb through the rack and you’ll come across a CD by “Aztek,” a Visalia rapper who proves that hip-hop doesn’t always come from where you’d expect.

Small-town rap

Noel “Aztek” Ahedo, 29, is not a spoiled multi-millionaire. He’s nothing like, say, Jay-Z, who lives the high life in New York City, the birthplace of hip-hop culture.

“I was raised in Pixley,” says Ahedo, a father of two.

After working all day as a surgical technician at Kaweah Delta Hospital in Visalia, Ahedo returns to a one-bedroom apartment tucked between Redwood High School and the Visalia Police Department.

That’s where he lives and makes music with his friends. His crowded bedroom, which barely allows room to walk, is his music studio.

At the foot of his king-sized bed with a Raiders bedspread is a mixing board. It’s connected to a computer system, microphones and keyboards — thousands of dollars worth of equipment laid out under a sign, made out of stickers, that bears the name of his musical enterprise: “Dangerous Sounds Productions.”

Oh, and once you move the ironing board out of the closet, that’s the recording booth.

But that doesn’t matter. It’s the music that matters.

“The music we do here, I can feel that 100 times more than that other stuff [on TV and radio],” says Ahedo, who is set to release his second solo CD next month.

He sold hundreds of copies of his first CD, “Barrio Prophecies,” and he dreams of more sales for his second, “Aztek Gold.” But today, he’s helping a few friends with their dreams.

In the studio is Mark “Amrous Son” Lee, a 23-year-old who deals cards at a local casino and Robert “The Dubd One” Wyckoff, a 19-year-old who works at Krispy Kreme donuts.

Neither rapper has released a CD, but they spend countless hours each day writing new lyrics. They take turns in Ahedo’s recording booth, showcasing distinct styles.

Lee raps calmly, with an easy-to-follow flow based on clever wordplay. Wyckoff has a rapid-fire delivery that seems to defy the human respiratory system.

But they admit that talent alone won’t get them anywhere. The rap industry, they say, is a also business of connections, marketing and image crafting.

“It’s all part of the complete package,” Lee says.

But the rappers in this studio claim that they’ll always rap — even if the millions never arrive. They’ll do it:

i On the road — “I have to pull over to the side of the road because something just hits me,” Ahedo says.

i On bad days — “I can create some good songs when I’m in a bad mood,” Ahedo says.

i On the job — “I think of so much stuff while I’m at work, I go home at write down whatever I can remember,” Wyckoff says.

They’ll even practice their art … on the toilet?

“That happens all the time,” Wyckoff says.

A bad rap

Rap star 50 Cent rhymes about being shot nine times, threatens fellows rappers with violence and thrives on his fast-spending, fast-living image. You may consider him typical. A thug.

But Jeff “Sci-Ryl” Riggs, 25, of Tulare lives and raps differently.

He’s made five albums that he sells out of the back of his Chevy Avalanche for $10 each. Those sales have earned him a local following and enough cash to make a recording studio in his home.

But he doesn’t dream of being the next 50 Cent.

“I just want to be able to make my music and take care of my son,” says Riggs, father of a 1-year-old boy named Lyric.

Sci-Ryl doesn’t curse much or rap about being filthy rich or desperately poor. He’s always been middle class, a struggle he says many people feel but don’t hear about.

But most people know 50 Cent, not Sci-Ryl.

That’s how even local rappers get stuck with the big-city stereotypes.

When some heard about the coming of Streetrock, a hip-hop competition in Visalia sure to draw hundreds, they called for extra security because of the threat, in their minds, of violence and vandalism.

But the Nov. 1 show came and went peacefully, a success by most accounts.

“We understand why [there’s a rap stereotype],” says For the Kids’ co-owner Naugle, who promoted the Streetrock event. “But all we’re saying is give us a chance.”

Local rappers have their work cut out for them. Venues are hard to come by. Radio stations treat them like they’re invisible. And the record deals that do come are usually with small companies looking for room in the industry themselves.

So why not move to the big city like Los Angeles?

“There’s a lot more people in L.A. who want the same things,” says Devan Watson, a 17-year-old hip-hop singer from Exeter who records with Ahedo’s company.

Besides, going to the big city is a risky financial move that doesn’t guarantee success.

But, remember, big-time success isn’t the only motivation. Neither is making it in the local-artist rack at the record store.

“I rap first for myself,” Wyckoff says, “because of how it makes me feel.”

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