death row record

I sat in the studio, the contract from Universal and Sony laid out in front of me. The five-album deal with a $100,000 advance glared back at me, almost taunting me. Most artists would jump at the opportunity—after all, $100,000 wasn't pocket change. But as I stared at it, I couldn't help but feel like there was a catch.

On paper, the terms didn't look too bad. They promised to increase the budget for my next album depending on how well the first one sold. The royalties seemed decent enough at first glance. But I wasn't some wide-eyed rookie. I'd seen enough to know how these labels worked. They'd lure you in with promises and advances, but in the end, they'd be the ones walking away with the real money.

The labels would take the lion's share of every dollar my music made. Sure, they'd give me some upfront cash now, but in the long run, I'd be left with scraps. Even worse, they'd own my masters, the rights to the very music I created. And when it was time for me to release another album, they'd already be moving on to the next hot thing, repeating the same cycle.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate the opportunity. I knew what it meant to have a major label backing you. But I wasn't willing to sell my soul for it. I'd worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to let them control me.

Then there was the single I had just finished. It was bold, raw, and unapologetically real—a song that would make people uncomfortable because it forced them to face the truth. Instead of blindly agreeing to their terms, I sent them the music video with a simple message:

"If you're serious about working with me, release this single. Then we'll talk about an album."

The response came back quickly. They didn't want to touch it. It was too controversial, too risky. They didn't want the backlash, and they certainly didn't want to take a chance on something they couldn't fully control.

I wasn't surprised. I knew they wanted safe, polished hits—songs that were easy to market and wouldn't ruffle any feathers. My music didn't fit into their mold, and I wasn't about to change for them.

That's when Marcus, my lawyer and longtime friend, stepped in. We had been through a lot together, and I trusted him. He was the one who always had my back when the industry tried to play me.

"Pac, forget the labels," Marcus said one afternoon while we sat in his office. "You don't need them. You've got the talent, the audience, and the drive. Why not start your own label?"

I laughed at first, shaking my head. "Start my own label? You make it sound easy, Marcus. That takes money—serious money."

Marcus leaned forward, his expression calm but determined. "It doesn't take millions, Pac. A few thousand dollars, and you're in the game. Register the company, own 100% of it, and you'll have complete control. No one will tell you what you can or can't release."

I sat up straight, his words hitting me harder than I expected. I had always thought of labels as these untouchable giants, something only the rich and powerful could create. But Marcus made it sound possible.

"You're serious?" I asked, still trying to wrap my head around it.

"Dead serious," Marcus replied. "You have the talent, the vision, and the work ethic. All you need is the structure, and I can help you set that up."

The more we talked, the more it made sense. By owning my own label, I wouldn't just be making music—I'd be building something real, something lasting.

Marcus walked me through the process. "We'll need to register the company officially, file the paperwork, and choose a name. Once that's done, you'll own 100% of it. No one can take that away from you."

When it came to naming the label, I didn't even hesitate. "Death Row Records," I said with conviction.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "That's bold. You sure about that?"

"Yeah," I said. "It's real, and it's me.: The Birth of Death Row Records

Tupac had already thought about it. After leaving N.W.A, he had a point to prove—not just as an artist but as a businessman. He wanted a label that would shake the industry, a label that would make the streets feel like they had a voice. But running a label wasn't just about talent. It needed money, connections, and power.

And that's where Jason "Harry-O" came in.

Jason had been around for a while, moving in the same circles as Tupac. But unlike most people in the music industry, Jason had real street credibility. His father, Michael Harris, had been one of the biggest drug dealers in L.A. before getting locked up in '88. Now, Jason's mother, Lydia Harris, was looking to invest in something legitimate.

One night, after a long session in the studio, Jason brought it up.

"My mom's looking for a business opportunity," Jason said. "She's got money to invest, but she don't trust just anybody."

Tupac raised an eyebrow. "And you told her about me?"

Jason nodded. "You need money to run Death Row the right way. She needs a place to invest. I told her you ain't no regular rapper—you're trying to take over the whole game. She's interested."

Tupac sat back, thinking it over. He didn't just need money—he needed someone with influence. The industry was run by executives who didn't understand the streets. The radio stations and distribution networks were controlled by people who didn't respect hip-hop. If he was going to build something real, he needed the right backing.

Lydia wasn't just an investor; she was respected. And respect meant everything in this game.

A few nights later, Tupac met Lydia at an upscale restaurant in Beverly Hills. She was sharp, confident, and knew exactly what she wanted.

"I've been watching you," she said, sipping her wine. "You've got talent. But talent isn't enough. This industry eats up artists who don't have the right foundation."

Tupac nodded. "That's why I'm building my own."

Lydia smiled. "Jason says you need an investment."

"I need a partnership," Tupac corrected. "This isn't about taking a check and walking away. I'm building a label that's gonna run the rap game. We're not here to be a side hustle for a major label—we're gonna be the biggest thing in hip-hop."

Lydia studied him for a moment. "And what do I get in return?"

"Twenty percent of Death Row Records," Tupac said without hesitation. "For two million dollars."

Lydia laughed. "That's a bold number."

"It's a fair number," Tupac replied. "That money isn't just for me—it's for the label. Marketing, distribution, studio time. I want this done right."

She leaned back, considering it. "And why should I trust you with two million dollars?"

Tupac smirked. "Because I'm already the biggest rapper in the game. And because I don't lose."

Lydia nodded slowly. "I like that answer."

A few days later, the paperwork was done. Lydia invested two million dollars into Death Row Records for a 20% stake. And just like that, the game changed.

With the money secured, things moved fast.

Marcus handled the legal side, registering Death Row Records officially. Tupac put together a team—marketing, sales, distribution. He hired experienced people, making sure the label was built for long-term success.

More than that, though, Death Row had something no other independent label had—real backing from the streets. Lydia's investment wasn't just financial; it gave Tupac the credibility he needed. The same way Eazy-E had the Crips behind him, Death Row now had support from Lydia's connections, giving them protection and influence in L.A.

Tupac knew he wasn't making soft music. His lyrics were real, raw, and about the streets. He needed people who understood that world. And now, he had them.