NEW YORK (AP) - The rapper ODB, a founding member of the Wu-Tang Clan whose erratic behaviour and incessant legal troubles made him a figure as wild as his lyrics, collapsed and died inside a recording studio at age 35.
The cause of death was not immediately clear, but ODB had recently finished a prison sentence for drug possession and escaping a rehab clinic.
He had complained of chest pains before collapsing Saturday, and was dead by the time paramedics arrived, said Gabe Tesoriero, a spokesman for ODB's record label, Roc-a-Fella.
ODB would have turned 36 today.
From his first appearance in the early 1990s, ODB - also known as Ol' Dirty Bastard, Dirt McGirt, Big Baby Jesus or his legal name of Russell Jones - had an unorthodox delivery that stood out even in the nine-man Clan, which featured such future stars as Method Man, RZA and Ghostface Killah.
The Wu-Tang blueprint was for each member to pursue solo projects, and ODB's were among the best. He released hit singles such as Shimmy Shimmy Ya and Got Your Money, and appeared on remixes with artistes like Mariah Carey.
"There's nobody like him in the game," RZA told the Associated Press in an April interview, when asked if ODB could resume his career after prison.
"He's got a lot of problems he's got to iron out, of course, but as far as a one-of-a-kind person, a one-of-a-kind artiste, he's one of a generation, one of a lifetime. He's a very rare commodity."
But as his fame increased, so did his erratic behaviour, and fans came to expect the unexpected from ODB.
When MTV News followed him around at the height of his popularity, he took the camera crew and several of his kids (he was said to have more than a dozen, by numerous mothers) to the welfare office - in a limousine - to get an allotment of food stamps.
And he received them.
In February 1998, he crashed the stage at the Grammy Awards and hijacked a microphone from singer Shawn Colvin as she accepted an award, apparently upset over losing the best rap album Grammy to P Diddy (then known as Puff Daddy). He complained that he spent a lot of money for new clothes because he thought he was going to win. The rapper later apologised.
Unlike Chuck D, the Notorious B.I.G., or Rakim, Ol' Dirty Bastard wasn't one of hip-hop's great rappers. Even within the Wu-Tang Clan, the seminal rap collective of which he was one of the founding members, he wasn't the best rhymer, that distinction belonging to his groupmate Method Man.
Yet when Ol' Dirty Bastard collapsed and died Saturday at a New York recording studio after complaining of chest pains, two days shy of his 36th birthday, the loss to hip-hop was incalculable. In a community that can take itself much too seriously, ODB was one of its last true eccentrics.
This is not to diminish the many problems that plagued ODB during the decade since the Wu-Tang Clan came out of Staten Island (of all places!) and revitalized East Coast hip-hop with its 1993 classic, "Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers)." His first arrest came in 1997 for failure to pay child support for three of his children. (He was reported to have at least a dozen kids by several women.)
From shoplifting to drug offenses, his scrapes with the law escalated. In 2000, he defied a court order and left drug rehab, remaining at large for a month before he was arrested at a Philadelphia McDonald's. (He was nabbed while signing autographs.) Last year, he completed a two-year prison sentence for drug and parole violations.
Still, for all his troubles, he wasn't a malicious figure. While some rappers treasure their well-honed personas of menacing cool, ODB was the madcap court jester, always willing to poke fun at himself while deflating the scowling, mythic image of the hip-hop star.
Frankly, what else would've been expected from a man, born Russell Jones, who throughout his life and career was also known as Osirus, Dirt McGirt, and Big Baby Jesus?
In July, Wu-Tang reunited for a show at the Rock the Bells festival in San Bernardino, Calif. It was the first time in ages all nine members had shared a stage, and ODB, absent for so many performances and albums, was clearly an audience favorite. On "Disciples of the 36 Chambers: Chapter 2," a recently released DVD of the show (also on CD), fans sported "Vote Dirty for President" T-shirts and went wild as he rapped, "Shame on a *****." After all his trials and tribulations, he looked as well as he had in years, and his voice was strong and commanding.
As news of ODB's death spread Sunday, the reaction was often surprise, sadness, and then laughter. Even more so than Biz Markie or Flavor Flav, ODB made his fans laugh, and laugh hard. With a flow ranging from tremulous drawl to barking yowl, his rhymes, such as those on his duet with Mariah Carey on the remix of her 1995 hit "Fantasy," could bring an instant smile:
Me and Mariah Go back like babies with pacifiers What at first seemed like a contrived attempt for the chanteuse to garner street credibility became an inspired match, with Carey's refined vocals juxtaposed against ODB's sandpaper growl.
His lyrics were often sexually charged, but his manic delivery counterbalanced just about anything he uttered on songs such as "Got Your Money," "Shimmy Shimmy Ya," and "Brooklyn Zoo."
His unpredictability was also well-served during his TV appearances. A decade ago, MTV spent the day with ODB, the highlight of which was the rapper arriving at a New York welfare office -- in a limousine -- to collect food stamps. Looking into the camera, he said unapologetically, "It's free money. Why wouldn't you want to get free money?"
Most notoriously, ODB rushed the stage at the 1998 Grammys as singer Shawn Colvin was about to accept the song of the year award, and exclaimed, among other things, "Wu-Tang is for the children!"
As loopy as that statement was, ODB's personality allowed us to believe he meant every word he said. He was that crazy uncle always guaranteed to make any gathering memorable; he was the guy who got the party started and made sure a good time was had by all.
In an April interview with the Associated Press, fellow Wu-Tang founder RZA, who is also ODB's cousin, said: "There's nobody like him in the game. He's got a lot of problems he's got to iron out, of course, but as far as a one-of-a-kind person, a one-of-a-kind artist, he's one-of-a-generation, one-of-a-lifetime. He's a very rare commodity."
And now that commodity is gone. There are hints of ODB in Bizarre of D12 and crunk master Lil' Jon, but ODB was truly unlike anyone before or since, and that's why fans adored him. For all his troubles, you always rooted for him to tame his demons and get himself sorted out. (It speaks volumes that no one ever had a beef with ODB.)
In truth, few probably expected ODB to die of old age, and it may even be a surprise that he managed to live as long as he did. Still, it doesn't diminish the shock or lessen the mourning for an inimitable hip-hop icon gone too soon.
Ol' Dirty Bastard first roared into view 12 years ago, howling a wild threat: "Bite my style, I'll bite your ..." - well, never mind the rest. The track was called "Protect Ya Neck," and it was the epochal first single from his group, the Wu-Tang Clan, which swiftly became one of the most important hip-hop acts of the 1990's and certainly one of the strangest. Somehow an entropic octet obsessed with obscure kung fu movies and even more obscure neo-Gnostic theology became one of the decade's most visible pop-culture brand names.
Even within this oddball crew, O.D.B. was a misfit. On the group's classic 1993 debut, "Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers)," his was often the first voice listeners noticed. While his cousin RZA unspooled dense, sometimes acronymic rhymes ("Ruler Zig-zag-zig Allah jam is fatal/Quick to stick my Wu-Tang sword right through your navel"), O.D.B. was content to be merely and spectacularly funky - or as he put it, "fzzza-funky." He had a hilarious, wobbly howl and an earthy wit; one of his rare squeaky-clean boasts went, "I come with that ol' loco/Style from my vocal/Couldn't peep it with a pair of bi-focals." In a skit between tracks, another Clan member, Method Man, paused to explain how O.D.B. got his name: "'Cause there ain't no father to his style."
O.D.B., who was born Russell Jones, died on Saturday afternoon after collapsing in a recording studio two days before his 36th birthday. No cause of death has been determined, but already, as often happens, wild anecdotes and bits of speculative biography are threatening to obscure the exhilarating music that won him so many fans.
The Wu-Tang Clan cultivated a carefully enigmatic image - on the first album cover the members' faces were obscured. But O.D.B. emerged as one of the group's first breakout stars, in part because of his knack for pulling memorable stunts on camera. In 1994 MTV cameras followed him as he rode in a limousine to collect food stamps. The next year he released his solo debut, a wildly entertaining collection of low-down jokes and memorable rhymes called "Return to the 36 Chambers: The Dirty Version."
With its scratchy piano loops and howl-along choruses, the debut O.D.B. album sounded like a party spinning out of control. One surreal sex song, "Don't U Know," portrayed a hallucinatory classroom encounter: "Teacher says 'Open up your texts/You! Read the first paragraph on oral sex!' " And "Drunk Game (Sweet Sugar Pie)" had the rapper moonlighting as the world's groggiest R&B singer. His pitch was less than perfect, but his charm never failed.
By 1997, when the Wu-Tang Clan reunited for a sprawling double-album, "Wu-Tang Forever," O.D.B.'s vibrato-enhanced hollering and down-and-dirty jokes seemed slightly out of place with the group's rhyme style, which was darker and more intricate than ever, the beats slower and more cinematic. For the next few years O.D.B. made headlines: he always seemed to be having either too much fun (as when he crashed the stage at the 1998 Grammy Awards to protest the Clan's loss) or not enough (as when he was shot during what he said was a robbery at his house).
Even so, he found time to record "N***a Please," his 1999 album. Or sort of record it: the CD sounded suspiciously like something that had been stitched together at an editing desk, as if someone had recorded a bunch of the rapper's rhymes and outbursts then found a way to assemble them into songs. Still, the album included a left-field hit, "Got Your Money," a prescient collaboration with Kelis and the Neptunes, recorded before either the singer or the production duo were established stars. There was also an absurd version of the jazz ballad "Good Morning Heartache," which should have sounded like a joke but somehow didn't. You could hear the sorrow that lurked beneath the surface of so many other O.D.B. songs and stunts.
More recently, after a series of arrests (including one for possession of crack cocaine), O.D.B. was sentenced to two years in prison; no doubt some people who read about it imagined him as just another rapper in trouble with the law. But in life, as on record, O.D.B. was a hip-hop anomaly. For hip-hop stars, unlike rock 'n' roll stars, there is nothing glamorous about being out of control. O.D.B. burned hot in a world where stars are supposed to stay cool.
After his release from prison O.D.B. filmed an hourlong VH1 special that was hard to watch even before his death. It was depressing to see a formerly irrepressible man looking so fragile. He also signed a deal with Roc-A-Fella Records, Jay-Z's label, and appeared on a few songs: "When You Hear That" with Beanie Sigel and "Keep the Receipt" with Kanye West.
Now that he's gone, some people are wondering whether O.D.B.'s tenure in the treacherous hip-hop industry did him more harm than good. But it seems more likely that hip-hop merely gave him a way to capitalize on the things he did so well and so strangely: his infectious love of wordplay, his sly (and often filthy) sense of humor, his huge, bellowing voice. Without hip-hop O.D.B. might have been a neighborhood star, beloved by a small circle of acquaintances who told tall tales about him. But thanks to hip-hop, that circle stretched around the world.
