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He’s survived the mean streets of Compton and high-profile beef with rap’s biggest bully. He sells millions of records when other artists are starving. You’d think The Game would be happy. You’d be wrong.

Written By: Clover Hope
Photos By: Kenneth Cappello

Look at the dog!” shrieks Toniqua, dissolving into a fit of giggles.

Heads turn to the center of a vast, white, windowless room inside West Hollywood’s Smashbox Studios, where a celebrity photo shoot is being interrupted by a freaky scene. Photographer Kenneth Cappello’s frisky female Chihuahua, Cicciolina (named after the Italian porn star turned politician), is furiously humping a fuzzy stuffed-toy terrier. You guessed it: doggystyle.

Toniqua, her friend Myleik, who provided clothing for today’s session, bodyguard Kevin Williams and local producer Tre Beatz stand with jaws agape as the onanistic display goes on for a good 30 seconds. Cicciolina is a shameless exhibitionist.

The official subject of the photo shoot doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t much notice. Thumbing away on his iPhone, he’s far from smiling. But he’s not his usual mean-mugging self either. He looks different. It’s not just the mini Mohawk fade he’s sporting, in lieu of his customary low-cut, beneath his black L.A. fitted. It’s not even the new red star tattoo that graces his right cheek. No, Jayceon Taylor, better known as the rap star The Game, seems sad.

He has reason, you’d think. It’s three days before he has to turn himself in and begin serving a 60-day sentence for a gun violation stemming from a February 2007 incident. But that’s not really what’s eating him. Jail seems small potatoes, he says, compared to the personal demons and family strife he’s presently wrestling with. “My life right now is… It’s not what I expected it would be after gaining fame and fortune,” he says. “My life was better when I was gangbanging, shooting, robbing, stealing, getting shot and selling drugs. I’m so fucked up inside and so emotionally driven down to the ground that I can’t… I can’t replace the hurt. I can replace the thoughts, but my heart knows what’s on my heart, and my heart won’t let the pain go.”

While he’s known for airing his feelings through lyrics on wax, he usually maintains an exterior as hard as the streets he came up on—as a Compton Blood born of two former Crips. Today, his chest a little less puffed, the 27-year-old MC is, perhaps, tired of talking tough. “I got the best album of my career,” he says glumly. “And I wish that I could tell you that I was happy.”

Midway through the shoot, Game occupies a brown leather couch at the back of the studio, eating a catered lunch. Pristine black-and-white Chucks peak out beneath his dark denim jeans. He sets his plate beside a can of raspberry tea Snapple, leaving his plastic fork sticking straight up out of a chicken breast. “I think that jail is gon’ serve my mind right,” he says. “I’m really at a point in my life where I need to figure some things out and really get a grip on what I’m doing from here on out, for myself, for my family and for my future and my music.”

With today being Feb. 29, a date that comes only once every four years, Game has an extra 24 hours to spend with his sons, Harlem, four, and King Justice, who turns one on April 25. He’ll finish this photo shoot and then go home. After the boys are in bed, he might head to the recording studio, if his pal, Blink-182 drummer Travis Barker, is down for a session. A mixtape, Free Game, featuring new music from him and his Black Wall Street Records roster, will come out tomorrow. Then, March 2 at 8 p.m., he will officially turn himself over to the Sheriff’s Headquarters Bureau in L.A.

He’s seen the inside of a cell before—eight times since his teenage years. For “stupid shit,” he says. “Nothing serious that’s kept me in jail longer than a month.” Still, “Ain’t no way to prepare to go to jail. Except to just put your head down, close your eyes and run into the bars.”

This stint might not have been necessary, had cooler heads prevailed on the afternoon of Feb. 24, 2007. During a pick-up basketball game at South Central’s Rita Walters Educational Complex, Game says, an opposing player started taunting him. Game punched the guy, whose name is Shannon Rodrick, and, according to police reports, pulled a gun and threatened his life. Game denies the gun part. “I tried to ignore it for as long as I could,” he says. “And, after a while, I just couldn’t no more. A little scuffle broke out. And that whole situation is something that I take the blame for. I’ll be the bigger man, ’cause I could’ve avoided it, should’ve avoided it, and will in the future.”

Two of the initial three charges against Game were dropped in a plea deal, but, on Feb. 11, he pleaded no contest to possession of a firearm in a school zone and received 60 days in jail, 150 hours of community service and three years’ probation. (Game would be released March 10, as XXL went to press, after serving only eight days—a fact he’d keep secret for a week, while recording a new song, “Big Dreams.” On the 13th, Rodrick would file a civil suit, seeking monetary compensation for the assault.)

The courtroom has been something of a second home for Game over the past three years. He’s beaten three cases: one for disorderly conduct and resisting arrest at a Greensboro, N.C., mall on Oct. 28, 2005; another for possession of a dangerous weapon, after Burbank police found brass knuckles in his car in May ’06; and another, six months later, after an NYC cab driver accused him of impersonating a police officer. A prior charge, for assault and battery on a D.C. disc jockey in 2005, was dropped. “I’m just tired of going to court,” says Game, rubbing his eyes to validate the fact. “Tired of putting on suits and nice shirts and getting up at 8 o’clock in the morning. I ain’t got up at 8 o’clock in the morning since high school. I hate people telling me I gotta be somewhere, gotta do this. I live free.”

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Even when he’s not battling charges, Game always seems to be fighting something. Or someone. He’s tussled, literally and figuratively, with a long list of rap names—Joe Budden, Memphis Bleek, Yukmouth, Suge Knight, Rass Kas. And, of course, most famously, with his former employer, 50 Cent, and the G-Unit Records roster.

Initially, the joint patronage of artists turned moguls Dr. Dre and 50 Cent treated Game extraordinarily well. Dre’s killer Cali sonics proved to be the perfect vehicle for Game’s visceral yet vulnerable rhymes, and 50’s singsong hooks made singles like “How We Do” and “Hate It or Love It” as catchy as the common cold. Released as a joint venture between Dre’s Aftermath Entertainment and 50’s G-Unit, Game’s 2005 debut, The Documentary, sold 2.5 million records. Later that year, though, after diverging from 50’s strict G-Unit–against-the-world code of loyalty in a couple of interviews, he was booted from the crew in the most public firing this side of The Apprentice. Suddenly abandoned, adrift on hip-hop’s turbulent sea, Game was faced with the task of proving he was his own man.

“50 never was the driving force of Game, because Game can rap,” says his manager, Jimmy Rosemond. “It’s unfortunate that, every album, he has to prove himself that way. But it’s a great position, too, because it brings out the best in him. You have a different sense of urgency when it’s do or die.”

Sure enough, he came through last time. Despite the absence of Dre and 50, 2006’s Doctor’s Advocate has sold close to a million copies—a victory in this era of diminished expectations. Game’s also claiming a W for crippling G-Unit with his retaliatory G-Unot campaign, conducted through placards, T-shirts and mixtape material, like the 15-minute diss tirade “300 Bars & Running.”

“Where’s G-Unit now?” says Game, a boastful edge creeping into his voice. “Where’s the music? Where’s the power that once was? I did that.” But then he pauses, and offers diplomatic words to offset his brashness. “I don’t got no hard feelings against 50 no more. No hard feelings for nobody. I don’t wanna see that man dead or in jail, see no harm imposed on 50 Cent or Lloyd Banks or Tony Yayo or Young Buck. I wanna see all them make as much money as possible and do it the best that they can. ’Cause, when it’s over, it’s over. My hand ain’t out, saying that I wanna shake it and do music. But my hand, it’s not not out.”

For the past few months, Game has been holed up in a nearby studio, creating his next post-50 disc, L.A.X. (or Los Angeles Times), due June through Geffen Records. He worked through Christmas, skipped New Year’s and watched the Super Bowl in the studio, with the TV on mute. (Seems like this could become tradition, seeing as how he wagered $7,000 on the victorious New York Giants.) He’s confidently calling it the best and the final album of his career. Some big-name beatmakers are signed on—Just Blaze, Timbaland, Kanye—but Game’s been working primarily with a newly formed group of choice producers, songwriters and musicians called The Task Force, which includes Mars and Renz, Nu Jerzey Devil and Tre Beatz. Although Dr. Dre isn’t set to contribute, he also hasn’t been ruled out. Game says the two still speak.

Clearly, for a guy who named his second album after the man he says was “like a father” to him, the artistic estrangement from Dre remains an issue. But, again, that’s not what’s weighing heaviest on Game. A lot of it has to do with real-life kin, and much of it is complicated. “My family has completely showed me that they don’t give a fuck about me, and the people closest to me have turned their backs on me in ways unknown to man,” he says, choosing not to name names. “Even you, or someone 10 years old, could figure out who those people are, if you know The Game, his life and his music, and what he cares about the most.”

“When certain things happen in your childhood,” says Game’s mom, Lynette Baker, “there’s a healing process. You just can’t sweep it under the rug, put a table over it and think that it’s gonna go away. A lot of times people don’t deal with it.”

Gangbanging is a Taylor family tradition. Raised in South Central, Lynette became a Hoover Crip when she was 12. She left the set three years later, after watching a fellow Cripette get shot in the neck, but she remained in and around the lifestyle. She’d already given birth to two daughters when she and George Taylor, a Nutty Block Crip, had Game in November 1979. George already had four other sons—George Jr., Derrick, Jamil and Jevon—all with different women.

Game was a quiet kid who used to hang pictures of Nas and Eazy-E on his wall. When he was seven, his oldest sister revealed the unsettling news that George Sr. had been sexually abusing her. State authorities deemed Lynette unable to protect her kids and placed them in separate foster homes in Carson, Calif. In 1993, Jevon was murdered, an incident that briefly reunited Game with his dad and triggered his eventual rebellion. When he returned to live with his mom in his preteens, their relationship was strained.

As a teenager, Game joined his brother George Jr., now known as Big Fase 100, in a Blood set, the Cedar Block Pirus. Lynette, working three jobs while raising three kids, remained in denial of her son’s new extracurricular activities. “When he was around me he was always good,” she says. “He never let me see any of that.” Indeed, even while banging, he kept his grades up at Compton High and starred on the school’s basketball team, alongside future NBA all-star Baron Davis. His hoops skills earned him a scholarship to Washington State University, but he was expelled before classes started for drug allegations.

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Back home, he took to putting in work with Big Fase, until one night in October 2001, when he was shot five times while tending their crack spot. After coming out of a three-day coma, he committed himself to hip-hop. Rhyming became his main focus, and he and Fase founded a label, The Black Wall Street. Game was first discovered by Bay Area veteran JT the Bigga Figga, but it was Interscope A&R man Mike Lynn who brought him to Dr. Dre, who, in turn, introduced him to 50. Unfortunately, the rocket ride of success tore the brothers apart. In the year following the release of The Documentary, Game accused Fase of embezzlement. Fase blasted back, calling Game’s street cred into question. “For lack of a better word, I certified his gangster,” Fase told allhiphop.com. “A year later, me and everybody that loves me were left out here with nothing… I set the stage and the backdrop, and he’s living my life, basically.”

There has been a dispute over the Black Wall Street name, with Fase, who co-manages up-and-coming Watts rapper Glasses Malone, and many of Game’s Blood brothers running a rival company. “I thought getting out of the hood and being able to do something positive for my family, I thought that would make me happy,” says Game, who publicly disowned his brother in 2005. “But the money has made a wedge between everything that I’ve known to be good before I was a rapper.” (Fase did not respond to XXL’s e-mailed requests for comment.)

Jimmy Rosemond empathizes. “That gotta hurt,” he says. “To have your brother and those kind of guys not really rolling with you no more. It’s a lonely feeling, and all of that bears down on him… Entertainers look for love from the closest things to them. And when the closest things to you ain’t there anymore, it’s even worse.”

Though Game is back on speaking terms with Fase, his mom and his father, the bonds are still broken. If anything, though, his troubled relationship with his family seems to make him more intent on being a good father to his own children. The drama of his life and the demands of his career have him talking early retirement.

“I need to find my place, man, and really be the cornerstone of my family,” he says. “I need to be there for my sons. I know that all my grinding is for them, but I feel like I’m missing...” His voice trails off, and his tone softens. “Being in the studio from 6 p.m. to 8 a.m., I’m missing my son brush his teeth, and I’m not there to put his clothes on right. And, you know, I’m there for him, and he sees me more than not, but I need to be there for him. And hip-hop is taking that from me… I can’t see myself being a part of it any longer after this album.

“My life is fucked up right now,” he continues. “I’m in a fucked up place. My fans love me, and I know what they want. But, in a minute, I’m not gonna be physically capable of pleasing the world with music. Because my mind isn’t right. People are driving me under God’s good earth. For what reason, I don’t know. I’m a good dude. I do for everybody. I look out for everyone. I don’t have money like Diddy. I ain’t Bill Gates. I’ve never been on Oprah’s couch. I’m just a hood nigga with a dream and a great heart.”

He used to find solace in the recording booth. But, today, he says, not even his music brings him peace. “It’s a false reality,” he says. “’Cause it’s just a way to escape from all the demons and all the pain and suffering that I’ve been put through by people that are supposed to care about me. If it wasn’t for my sons, I probably would’ve done something drastic by now. Even killed myself.

“I just wanna be at peace. Sometimes I wanna be at peace so bad that I wish myself off of the earth. Because you gotta be at peace when you’re dead. No nothing to worry about. No bills, no attitudes, no watching your back. Nobody.”

After the photo shoot has wrapped, Tre and Kevin begin clearing outfits off the clothing rack, getting ready to leave. Game sits on the far side of the couch, looking straight ahead, focused on some invisible fixed point. His Interscope rep stands crosswise a few feet away, waiting to usher him out and home. Game’s mood has only worsened. His voice is more solemn, his responses more curt. “I am the nobody in hip-hop,” he says, sulking. “I feel like all the people in the world that feel like they’re the nobody of the world. I sleep where I can. I’ll take a blanket if you got one. I’m homeless in hip-hop.”

Moments later, the subject of his criminal past comes up. “I don’t even wanna talk about that,” he says, beginning to choke up. He’s silent for a moment, and tears start to stream from his eyes, over the new red star tattoo, down his cheeks. “I should just say one more thing for you to understand and know. I’m just crying for music. I’m crying for hip-hop, because it’s like seeing someone you know, someone you’re really in love with die. Slow. The tears coming from my left eye are from my shit that I’m dealing with in my life, and the tears down my right cheek are tears for hip-hop. You know that they’re real, ’cause you see ’em. The world won’t. They’ll be able to read my tears, and hopefully they’ll figure out that what I love so much is worth saving. And, if not, then, hey, I bailed out before it went down, anyway. So I won’t be blamed for it.”

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