No Jumper: Welcome back to No Jumper, the coolest podcast in the world. Today, we’re about to have an unbelievable history lesson. A whole lot of game is about to be spilled all over this table. JT the Bigger Figure is joining us today. Yes sir, how are you doing, JT?
JT: Hey man, I’m happy to be here, my guy.
No Jumper: It’s a real honor to have you here, and I know we’re about to get a serious history lesson.
JT: Oh yeah, we’re definitely going to get into it. It’s a 30-year story right here. I feel like this episode is going to have a 30-year runtime by the time we’re done recording!
No Jumper: Alright, let’s take it all the way back to the beginning. Where were you born, and what was your upbringing like?
JT: I was born in San Francisco in 1973 at Mount Zion Hospital, right on Divisadero Street. My birthday is November 8th. For whatever reason, the next day, they kicked my mom out of the hospital.
No Jumper: The next day?
JT: Yep. She ended up across the street at a house in the Martin Luther King Projects, which people now call KO. That’s how my story begins—literally getting kicked out of the hospital. My mom had a tough time; she was struggling with addiction. But that was my beginning—turbulence from the start.
No Jumper: How would you describe your childhood after that?
JT: It was basic, man. My dad moved on and had other plans, so my mom took care of me, my brother, and my sister. My early days were spent riding BMX bikes, doing backflips—off cars, park benches, you name it. Backflipping was popular back then, and that was one of the first things that gave me some clout in the neighborhood.
When you grow up with nothing, you find ways to differentiate yourself. First, it was backflipping, and then it was bikes. I rode BMX bikes for years. I had the Mongoose, the Redline—it was exciting.
No Jumper: Were you doing tricks?
JT: I wasn’t great at tricks, but I was good at putting bikes together. That earned me respect in the neighborhood. From there, it was about being outside. By the time I was 13 or 14, I got introduced to selling drugs. That became the next phase—learning how to make money.
No Jumper: Was music already part of your life at that point?
JT: Absolutely. This is the 50th year of hip-hop, so I’ve been reflecting on those early days. My first real interaction with music was Run-D.M.C. Somebody brought a tape to my elementary school, and when I heard it, I was hooked. It was something different—rap music—and it felt exciting.
No Jumper: When did you start selling drugs, and how did that lead to music?
JT: Selling drugs? Man, I wasn’t even good at it. There are some people who turned the dope game into a real business, but that wasn’t me. As soon as I made $1,000 or $2,000, I’d spend it on bike parts or video games like Nintendo and Sega.
But the dope game taught me business principles: buy low, sell high, and flip money. That same concept carried over when I started printing tapes and making music.
At 14, while I was dabbling in the streets, I recorded my first songs at Pier 39. They had a little booth where you could pay $20 to record over popular instrumentals. I spent $120—big money back then—and recorded six songs. I rapped over tracks like “Parents Just Don’t Understand” by DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince and “Walk This Way” by Run-D.M.C.
No Jumper: Were you freestyling?
JT: Yeah, I was freestyling. They gave you the option to rap their lyrics, but I made up my own. That’s when I started to feel like an artist.
No Jumper: That sounds like a grind.
JT: It was. Back then, you couldn’t just record on your phone or computer. I had to save up to buy a Panasonic deck—a radio with two cassette slots—so I could make copies of my songs. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was learning manufacturing and distribution as a kid.
Fast forward to 1990, and I got locked up. They took me from my mom and made me a ward of the state.
No Jumper: What was that for?
JT: Mostly stealing cars. That was popular among kids at the time—12 to 17-year-olds stealing cars like crazy. I also got caught selling rocks, but I wasn’t a big dealer. I’d make $200 or so, buy an eight ball, chop it up, and try to flip it.
But I learned the hard way that you can’t do this forever. Eventually, you’ll get caught. That’s what happened to me. I got locked up for a year in a place called Log Cabin Ranch.
No Jumper: What was that like?
JT: It wasn’t like a traditional jail. It was more of a dorm with bungalows for school, a basketball court, a football field, and even a swimming pool. It felt like training for jail, honestly—prepping you for the next level.
While I was there, I watched a lot of music videos—Public Enemy, N.W.A., Eazy-E, and others. That’s when I decided I wanted to be like them.
No Jumper: Was it common to hear West Coast rappers at that time?
JT: Not really. In 1988, Too Short was going platinum with “Don’t Fight the Feeling.” That song tied me to the industry because it featured Rappin’ 4-Tay, who was from my neighborhood, Fillmore. Hearing someone from my area on a platinum record made me think, “I can do this too.”
By 1989, N.W.A. had taken over with their raw sound and messages. That music inspired me to take my craft seriously.
No Jumper: So after getting out of Log Cabin Ranch, how did you move forward with music?
JT: I got out at 17 and said to myself, “I’m going to be a rap artist. I’m going to start a record label.” I didn’t have a deal or much knowledge about the music business, but I knew I had to figure it out.
At the time, artists like Too Short and Mac Dre were examples of how you could make it independently. Too Short got a deal with Jive Records, but before that, he was selling tapes out of his car. That inspired me.
In 1992, I learned how to manufacture my own tapes. A friend told me, “Go to Music Annex and get your music pressed.” That information changed everything. I realized I didn’t need a major label—I could record, print, and distribute my own music.
No Jumper: How did you finance that?
JT: At first, it was just small-time street money—selling tapes to local stores. It cost 65 cents to press a cassette, and I could sell it for $10 retail or $5 wholesale. When CDs came out, it cost $1.25 to press a CD, and I could sell it for $8 wholesale. That profit margin was crazy.
By the time I dropped my first album in 1992, Don’t Stop Til We Major, I started gaining traction. I worked with RBL Posse on a song called “Frisco Ain’t No Punks,” and that helped me build my network.
No Jumper: Did you face challenges being independent?
JT: Of course. Back then, the process was labor-intensive. I had to print posters, make flyers, and physically take my tapes to stores. You couldn’t just send an email or upload your music online.
I remember sending demos to Def Jam, Priority Records, and Universal, hoping for a callback. But nothing came. That rejection pushed me to stay independent.
No Jumper: And being independent paid off?
JT: Definitely. In 1993, I released Players in the Game on CD, and that’s when things really took off. I sold 5,000 CDs out the gate, and distributors owed me $40,000. At 20 years old, that kind of money was life-changing.
No Jumper: How did you manage to stay consistent?
JT: I kept reinvesting in myself. I started producing albums for other artists and putting together compilations. Compilations were cheaper to make because I could buy a song from different artists and create a project without the cost of developing a single artist.
In 1994, I dropped Get Low Playaz, a compilation featuring rappers from Fillmore. That project blew up and inspired others to do the same. Master P, for example, came to the Bay Area and followed that blueprint with his West Coast Bad Boyz compilation.
No Jumper: When did you meet Master P?
JT: I met Master P in the early ’90s when he moved to Richmond, California. He came from New Orleans looking for a better life but landed in another war zone. He had a record store, and we started networking.
In 1995, we both signed distribution deals with Priority Records. I signed in April, and two weeks later, he signed his deal. We were both part of this new business model where Priority handled manufacturing and distribution, but we retained ownership of our masters.
No Jumper: Did you work closely with Master P after that?
JT: Yeah, we worked together on a few projects. I produced tracks for his early albums and helped him market The Ghetto’s Tryin’ to Kill Me. I also watched him make his first movie, I’m Bout It, in 1997. That movie was a game-changer for me. It inspired me to make my own movie, Beware of Those, in 1998.
No Jumper: You were really ahead of the game.
JT: I was just following the blueprint I saw. Master P showed us that you could own your product, from music to movies, and make serious money.
No Jumper: Speaking of movies, how did you get into film?
JT: After seeing I’m Bout It, I realized I needed to diversify. I shot Beware of Those on 16mm film with no script—just making it up as we went. It cost me a lot of money, but when I released it on VHS, it brought me back into the spotlight.
By 1999, I started working with Daz Dillinger after he left Death Row. We made two albums—Long Beach to Fillmore and Game for Sale—and included a DVD. Those projects kept me relevant and opened new doors.
No Jumper: How did you meet Juvenile?
JT: I met Juvenile in 2001 after he left Cash Money. We connected through mutual friends, and I started touring with him. He had Young Buck with him at the time, before Buck joined G-Unit.
No Jumper: And then you met The Game?
JT: That was in 2002. I attended a hip-hop summit hosted by Minister Farrakhan in Beverly Hills. There were over 400 rappers in the room, but The Game stood out. He was rapping in a cipher, and I immediately saw his potential.
I introduced myself, and he told me he knew who I was because of the work I did with Daz and Juvenile. I flew him to Fillmore and put him in the studio. We recorded a mixtape called QB to Compton, blending his songs with Nas’s unreleased tracks. That mixtape got him noticed by Dr. Dre.
No Jumper: Did you sign him?
JT: No. I didn’t believe in locking artists into 360 deals. I owned the masters for the songs we recorded, and I made millions from them over time. But I never tried to control his career.
No Jumper: So how did your relationship with The Game change?
JT: Once he signed with Dr. Dre, he stopped acknowledging me. He even registered the Black Wall Street name that I started. I didn’t take it personally, though. I kept moving and focused on my own projects.
No Jumper: Do you regret not signing him to a stricter deal?
JT: Not at all. I made my money, and I’m proud of what I contributed to his career.
No Jumper: So after working with The Game and seeing his career take off, how did you keep your momentum going?
JT: I kept doing what I knew best—investing in myself and diversifying. Around that time, I started working more on compilations, producing for other artists, and creating new business opportunities. I’ve always believed in staying independent, owning my masters, and focusing on longevity.
No Jumper: You mentioned that The Game registered the Black Wall Street name. How did you feel about that?
JT: Honestly, I didn’t like it. I came up with the Black Wall Street concept after hearing Minister Farrakhan speak at that summit in 2002. He talked about how the original Black Wall Street in Tulsa, Oklahoma, was a thriving community because the people there supported each other and kept the money circulating within their own community.
I thought, “We can apply that same concept to the music industry.” That’s how I came up with the Black Wall Street movement, and The Game was my first artist under that. So when he took the name and acted like it was his own thing, it stung a little.
No Jumper: Did you ever try to reconcile with him?
JT: I’ve reached out a few times, but I never got a response. The last time I saw him was in 2016 at a gang truce event with Snoop Dogg. We talked briefly, and it was all love at the time. We even took a picture together. But after that, nothing.
No Jumper: It’s surprising that he hasn’t helped push other artists. Most successful rappers at least try to bring others up with them.
JT: Exactly. You look at guys like Snoop Dogg, who brought up the Dogg Pound, or E-40, who’s helped so many artists. The Game didn’t really do that. Black Wall Street was supposed to be a platform for other artists, but he kept the spotlight on himself.
No Jumper: Let’s shift gears a bit. What was your relationship with Tupac like?
JT: I first encountered Tupac in 1991, but not in the best way. There was an incident at a show where Richie Rich, Tupac, and The Governor were performing. Richie Rich had mentioned something about Fillmore in a song, and some guys from my neighborhood took offense to it.
We went to the show and rushed the stage during their performance. Tupac fought back—he grabbed a mic stand and swung it like a bat. But we outnumbered them, and my people ended up taking his chain.
No Jumper: That’s crazy. Did you ever reconcile after that?
JT: Yeah, we did. In 1995, Tupac was directing music videos for Mac Mall and Ray Luv. Layla Steinberg, who had managed Tupac and was managing Ray Luv at the time, invited me to the shoot.
During one of the breaks, Pac and I ended up in the same RV. We started talking, and I brought up what had happened in 1991. I said, “Man, that was some dumb stuff. I just want to let you know it wasn’t personal.”
Pac was cool about it. He said, “That’s in the past, homie. I’ve got bigger problems right now.” He was dealing with his case in New York and other stress. We smoked a blunt together, and it felt like we squashed the beef.
No Jumper: That’s good to hear. But there was another story about your phone?
JT: (Laughs) Yeah, man. During that same video shoot, I left my two phones charging in the RV while I went to the store. When I came back, both phones were gone. I asked everyone in there, including Tupac’s crew, “Hey, did anyone see my phones?” They all played dumb.
Pac just sat there smirking. He didn’t say anything, but I got the feeling he knew what happened. I didn’t push it, though. I just took the loss and kept it moving.
No Jumper: So, you feel like that was payback for the earlier incident?
JT: Probably. It was all love, though. I didn’t take it personally.
No Jumper: What about Mac Dre? What was your relationship like with him?
JT: My first encounter with Mac Dre was wild. This was in the early ’90s at a party on Folsom Street in San Francisco. Some guys from my neighborhood got into it with his crew, and one of his guys hit my homie with a bottle.
When they tried to leave, we chased them down the street. They jumped into a minivan, and one of their guys pulled out a Tec-9. Thankfully, he didn’t shoot, but that was my introduction to Mac Dre.
No Jumper: That’s intense. Did you guys ever work together after that?
JT: Yeah, years later, after he got out of prison, we connected on a much better note. We never had any real beef—it was just a misunderstanding that escalated.
No Jumper: You’ve had so many interactions with legends in the game. How do you look back on your career?
JT: I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. I’ve been in the game for 30 years, and I’ve stayed true to myself. I’ve worked with legends, built my own platforms, and shown that independence is possible.
The most important thing I’ve learned is this: if you don’t own anything, you don’t have anything. That’s why I’ve always focused on ownership—whether it’s my music, my films, or my business ventures.
No Jumper: Any advice for young artists coming up today?
JT: Own your work. Don’t wait for a label to discover you. Invest in yourself, build something that’s yours, and let your ideas make you money. The opportunities today are endless, but you have to be willing to put in the work.
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