Taking Control and Being Real With the Men of Cypress Hill

Cypress Hill is in control. Control, y’all.

That’s secret No. 1 to being a rap group with 10 successful years behind you, in a ruthlessly trendy industry where new acts come and go with hummingbird speed.

Secret No. 2, they say, is the support of cannabis smokers the world over. No joke.

As was the case with the Grateful Dead, the evil weed is a cornerstone of Cypress Hill’s lyrics and stage show, and lead rapper B-Real credits a huge core fan base of potheads for his group’s enduring success.

Beyond ganja, though, control is the dominant issue.

You control what you do. When you do it. Where. And how. You do this because, as the group’s new single, “Rap Superstar,” says: “When you sign to a record label, you don’t know if you sign your life over, and these white boys don’t care about you. ‘Cuz the minute you fall off they’ll find another.”

Today, the multimillion-selling quartet (two rappers, one percussionist and one DJ) has agreed to the what: be interviewed. They have chosen where: at a head shop/coffee bar on Melrose Avenue. The when: Time is all relative with Jah, baby. And the how: making minimal eye contact, speaking in wet, loping phrases abutted and interwoven with expletives that can’t be printed in a family newspaper.

Bobo (Eric Correa), the group’s percussionist and newest member, shows up on time (a bright 10 a.m, suckuuuh) for the interview, in a ski cap. He’s the son of famed Puerto Rican jazz percussionist Willie Bobo, and the godson of Bill Cosby--who paid for five years of college for him. And he’s locked out.

But that’s the problem with holding a meeting at a head shop. The workers who polish the rows of colorful bongs just might not come in on time. So Bobo leans on the graffiti-stained wall and waits behind his shades until rapper Sen-Dog’s arrival is announced by the low thrum of bass under the sidewalk.

The ominous vibrations come from a slow-moving black truck riding close to the ground. Sen-Dog (Senen Antonio Reyes) is grinning from the cab. His head is shaved bald, wrapped in sunglasses, and he looks really . . . happy. To see him now you might never guess he’d fled Cuba at age 9, when his dad, a schoolteacher, was given a choice of prison or exile for refusing to teach Leninist theory to his pupils.

Incidentally, Sen-Dog’s dad, who moved to Los Angeles to work for Delta Airlines, dislikes rap, but is cool with Cypress now that they hired Willie Bobo’s kid and recorded a Spanish-language album.

Sub-incidentally, the Spanish album, translations of Cypress Hill’s past English hits, released last year on Sony Discos, was a hit in Latin America and got rave reviews in Spanish rock magazines. Though three of four members of the group grew up speaking Spanish, this was their first all-Spanish effort. It was so popular, Bobo says, that he and the other dudes got spit on in Chile.

“That means they like you a lot,” Bobo explains. “They take their mosh pits seriously, man. I stage dived, and they ripped off all my clothes and my chains. I came back with, like, nothing but my ripped underwear on.”

Sen-Dog emerges from the truck, and he and Bobo perform an elaborate handshake. They head to the cafe on the corner to wait for another member, B-Real, to show up. (DJ Muggs, the musical composer for the group, begged off, being busy in the studio.)

As they wait, they chat about the pitfalls of fame and the downside of the music industry--recurring themes on the new, English-language album “Skull & Bones,” due in stores today. The single from the album is being played on rap and rock stations, in different incarnations (“Rap Superstar” and “Rock Superstar”).

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The whole rock thing is a big deal on the new album, they say, and not because rap-rock is popular now, but because they helped forge the sound 10 years ago. Furthermore, they say, the lines between rap and rock are increasingly blurred and essentially false constructs of a narrow-minded media and industry. “It’s just hip-hop taking over global youth culture,” Sen-Dog says. “That’s all it is.”

Anyway, among fame’s pits: women (not the exact word, which rhymes with “itch”) who claim to have had your baby--even when DNA proves it ain’t true, yo. Another: time away from your legitimate family. “You leave on the road for three months and come back and your kid looks different,” Sen-Dog says. “That’s why we have to control our schedules more now.”

And the music industry downside: Being treated like a stupid, replaceable punk, no matter how obviously valuable and intelligent you are. Media downside: Being portrayed as perpetual potheads.

But . . . doesn’t being interviewed at a head shop, choosing to be interviewed there in fact, and having an enormous burning blunt pinched between two giant puppet fingers on stage during live performances contribute to this, uh, misperception?

Sure, they say, but people need to recognize it’s possible to be an organized and responsible pothead.

B-Real arrives nearly an hour later, stuck to a cell phone, too serious for his bright red sports jersey--but serious enough for the acres of tattoos on his Popeye forearms.

He nods cursorily to his band-mates and paces the length of the block with a serious scowl lurking some where inside his goatee. Then he paces back again, punching a new number into the phone. “Only if we open the show,” he barks. “If not, forget it. If we open, cool.”

Twenty minutes into this, Sen-Dog watches and shakes his head. He suggests an interviewer might have better luck reaching B-Real from a pay phone across the street than by meeting him in person at a head shop in the morning.

By now, said head shop has opened, and the employees have ignited sickly sweet incense in every corner. Bobo, Sen-Dog and B-Real stroll back to the store and cozy up on a plush gold sofa while a reporter from CNN en Espanol appears nervous, standing next to a $3,000 peace pipe shaped like a curly blue dragon.

B-Real finally clicks his phone shut. He sits at the bar, where an employee in a tiny white tank top with the pink words “barely legal” on it swabs the counter. He talks, but doesn’t smile much. His real name is Louis Freese. His mom was a political prisoner in Cuba who escaped in a dramatic tale worthy of its own article. His dad is a Mexican American who, according to the son, is very tough. B-Real says he got his nickname from friends who used to always say “be real” because he joked around so much.

Really? A joker? Him? So why the death and mayhem imagery on the Web site and album cover, which look something like Marilyn Manson’s dream wallpaper? Why the songs about slitting people’s throats and making them perform sexual acts? Why the bashing of the music industry and the group’s label, Sony’s Columbia Records, when clearly the cell phone, nice car, slick clothes and everything else are a product of a good relationship with the companies?

He grimaces at the line of questioning, and answers.

“They’ve known we always talk a lot of [expletive] about what this business is. They know we’re just telling the truth. Whether they want to say it or not, it really doesn’t matter. Because until Columbia puts the eight ball, or black ball move on us, there really isn’t anybody that can shut us up with what we believe and what we want to say to people.

“We never say anything that’s detrimental to anybody’s well being. We just tell the truth on the way things are, and certain aspects of that, whether you’re in the street, politics, or in the home, or in the music business, you know.”

(Columbia Records vice president and general manager Will Botwin says the label has never uttered a peep to the group about its lyrics, even the ones slamming people like him. “We respect their right to rap what’s on their minds,” Botwin says.)

The phone rings again. B-Real turns it off, and keeps talking, this time about the key to staying fresh and popular for 10 years in a fickle business.

“It’s a combination of a few different things, work ethic, you gotta be consistent with your music and the level of quality that’s involved in it. Not compromising who and what you are and what your music is. Be honest with who you are and what your music is about. And basically doing a good show, you know, people always remember a good stage show.

“It’s a combination of all that. As well as knowing how to treat your fans, you know, not acting like an [expletive] or a superstar.”

He sighs and looks at his watch. Time’s up. CNN is waiting. Interviews, man. It’s the worst part of being a rap superstar.