Diddy disbanded Da Band and now the three remaining members have the unenviable task of proving that they are true MCs. Can the stars of the small screen make it on the rap scene? Let’s chop it up with Ness, Babs and Chopper.

There’s a big difference between being a reality-TV star and being a rap star. The distinction is illuminated by the types of people who stop the alumni of the MTV program Making The Band 2 to ask for autographs. Folks aren’t always sure exactly who the members (or former members) of Da Band are, but they know they’re famous. Often, that’s enough. Such is the case one warm June evening outside the Times Square  recording studio, Daddy’s House, when a Black couple in their early 40s glimpses Babs, the show’s fiery female MC. “You’re the girl from the show,” the man begins. “Wait, don’t tell me your name...” Before they’ve figured it out, his wife begins snapping photos. Babs smiles, sweet and accommodating. As her former bandmate Ness explains, “I got to be nice to muthafuckas, ’cause everybody is a potential album buyer.”  

Three days later on South Street, Philadelphia’s version of Greenwich Village, Ness is playing nice with the fans. Despite the fact that his single “My Hood” is the number-one song on Power 99, Philly’s number-one rap radio station, and his mixtape Rhyme Or Crime Volume 1 is aimed squarely at the D-Block demographic, his main autograph seekers are not the Muslim hip-hoppers patronizing the sneaker spots, but the grammar-school students and high-school freshmen on their way home from school.  

But Ness has come to expect this. In fact, a couple of hours later at the noted Philly seafood establishment Dinardo’s, Ness actually becomes flustered when the 40ish Italian-American hostess doesn’t recognize him. Thankfully, a waitress, a woman of roughly the same description (who looks unlikely to be able to pick Nas out of a police lineup), does. “You’re great,” she tells him. “I watch yous fight all the time.” 

Like any other reality-TV program, people watched Making The Band for conflict. With its combustible collection of explosive personalities, the show seemed to have been cast with an eye for beef. It worked: every half-hour installment was a smorgasbord of acrimony—the rest of Da Band vs. singer Sara Stokes and her possessive husband; more fistfights than a hockey game; and, of course, the ongoing saga of Dy-lan, Dy-lan, Dy-lan, Dy-lan, Dy-lan. (Filling a role common to many reality shows, Dylan played the resident delusional asshole—an archetype that should be credited to Puck from The Real World’s third season.) Finally, there was the pot at the end of the rainbow: the probationary Bad Boy record contract. 

Viewers didn’t watch the show to find the next Rakim or Biggie. And for the three young rappers who survived zygote-like odds to earn their place on the Bad Boy roster after P. Diddy dismantled Da Band on the final episode of the show’s second season (Sara, Dylan and Fred were dropped), the challenge now is to be taken seriously as artists. It doesn’t help that the group’s first effort, Too Hot For T.V., was cobbled together in five weeks at the end of the first season—and summarily panned by critics. (The magazine you hold in your hands awarded the album a lowly “M” rating.) “The shit was cluttered,” Ness admits. “Rushed. They had to put a product out when the show was over.”

Standing on South Street, receiving an unending stream of prepubescent fans, Lloyd “Elliot Ness” Mathis takes pains to distance himself from Da Band and Too Hot For T.V. “Niggas think I’m a TV-ass nigga,” says the 26-year-old, clearly comfortable in his hometown. “That’s why I be getting in so much shit out here on the street. Niggas be running up on me, saying my name on songs. I’m a hungry nigga, like I got feelings too, so I’ma come back. Then we end up throwing our hammers and we be shooting at their cars and shit.”

While Ness defends his artistic merit with firearms, he’s also trying to develop himself businesswise. He’s assembled a crew of Philly MCs called the Young Hitmen (he is bullish about the potential of Bruno Brinx) and started his own putative entertainment company, Rest Ya Neck.

This ethos has obviously trickled down. “Bad Boy do their shit real military-like,” Ness explains over some Philly water ice. “They make you write five rhymes for one verse, and pick one out of that and that’s the first verse. Then five rhymes for the second verse, then five rhymes for the third verse and they pick the best one.”    

On the unpolished Rhyme Or Crime, Ness’ natural abilities shine through. In fact, there are many times on the CD where he evokes Biggie, be it stylistically on “Gangsta, Gangsta,” where his lethargic vocal tone is a dead ringer for the Black Frank White; or through the humorous braggadocio “After Hours.”

Getting Ness from the “Party And Bullshit” stage to the Ready To Die phase, though, is a tough charge for Bad Boy. A decade earlier, when Puffy played Svengali to Biggie, both were hungry, and the roster consisted of just Biggie and Craig Mack. While Craig Mack has returned, the similarities between Bad Boy ’94 and Bad Boy 2004 end there. Puff is busy managing a greatly expanded empire. Who will be there to guide Ness, to give personal attention to the recording of his album?

It’s clear the young rapper yearns for just that when he describes his fondest memory, the night he appeared on Hot 97 alongside Diddy. “We was on Funk Flex, then we spilt over into Clue’s [show],” he recalls, describing a night when he freestyled for more than five minutes. “We was playing all Bad Boy [records]. Diddy was in a good mood, he had come from Teterboro [airport], he had the Maybach outside and all that shit. Loon was up there. I just felt good I was in the room with all them niggas.” The freestyle is featured on Rhyme Or Crime with Diddy’s patented overdubs: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Ness... Bad Boy!”