From the time he first met Chuck D at a Public Enemy concert nearly 40 years ago, director Janol Ture was on his way to befriending and working with the members of the groundbreaking hip-hop collective, including a stint as president of Chuck D’s SLAMJamz label. But when he saw Straight Outta Compton, the dramatized 2015 version of N.W.A’s story, something clicked for him and others in that camp. “It was a phenomenal movie, and we thought, ‘That’s a great story,’” he says. “But we were looking at it like, ‘We have to have a Public Enemy movie.’ It has to happen.”
Little by little, the market for hip-hop nostalgia has been percolating. For years, back catalog and streaming numbers for vintage rap records were paltry compared to those for classic rock. But in recent years, some of the genre’s legends have been getting more of their due, from Straight Outta Compton (which has grossed $161 million domestically) to a 2013 arena tour by Nas and Wu-Tang Clan that grossed $18 million, among many other examples.
In that context, has Public Enemy’s time arrived? Ture and those close to the group seem to think so. Talks are currently underway to produce a dramatized feature on the PE story, a la Straight Outta Compton, or possibly a stage musical — either of which would surely include socially conscious and sonically ambitious hip-hop landmarks like “Fight the Power,” “Bring the Noise,” “Rebel without a Cause,” and “911 Is a Joke.” In what he calls a “teaser” for a potential feature film, Ture has completed To My Rescue, It Was the S1Ws (A Public Enemy Story), a two-hour doc on the mysterious, uniformed crew that, in various configurations, has been part of the Public Enemy live show and organization as long as the group itself has existed.
Even in a world of posses onstage and off, the S1Ws (the name stands for Security of the First World) stood apart. Their berets, army fatigues, black boots, and plastic Uzis were partly a nod to the Black Panther movement, and their choreographed military drills during PE stage shows derived from the Nation of Islam. The 911 hotline may have been a joke, but the S1Ws were definitely not. “They were symbols of resistance, discipline, power, organization, and purpose,” says Ture. “Seeing the S1Ws and how disciplined, organized, and structured they were was impressive. It wasn’t, ‘Hey, let’s party.’ It was music with a purpose, not just for vanity.” As a testament to their role in the development of rap, an S1W uniform from the early Nineties is in the National Museum of African American History & Culture in Washington, D.C.
After decades behind the scenes, the founding members of the crew —James Norman, John Oliver, James Allen, Roderick Chillous, and Michael Williams — decided it was time to step forward and teamed with Ture for the new doc. “People looked at us like we were some guys who didn’t talk and who looked very militant,” says Norman, known as Brother James, “but we were so much more than that, from taking care of things with the group to making sure everything was on point on that side.”
This summer, To My Rescue, It Was the S1Ws (A Public Enemy Story) won two awards — the Social Impact Award and the Audience Award for Best Feature — at a film festival held at the Long Island Music and Entertainment Hall of Fame. The location of that festival made sense, since both PE and the S1Ws had their roots in that area. The original five members (all executive producers of the movie) met on Long Island, and as the documentary reveals, each had distinctive back stories, from a stint in the Marines to a friendship with a young Eddie Murphy. At first, the five men, along with the soon-to-be-controversial Professor Griff, bonded through a mutual love of martial arts classes.
From left: Brother James, Janol Ture, and Chuck D.
Courtesy of Janol Ture
The crew grew out of Unity Force, a uniformed security group that kept things in check at the legendary Spectrum City hip-hop parties of the early Eighties. “When Chuck and [brothers/DJs] Hank and Keith Shocklee were doing those parties, they wanted to make sure anybody who came was going to be safe,” says Norman. After Public Enemy signed with Def Jam, Chuck D, who was firmly in control of the group’s vision, renamed them the S1Ws and began putting the crew onstage with Flavor Flav, DJ Terminator X, and himself. “We started into the performance aspect of it, doing one or two songs, and some of us were standing onstage with our arms folded, giving that security presence,” says Norman. “It was just to enhance the overall image of Public Enemy.”
Soon enough, though, they got busy. At the urging of Doug E. Fresh, who thought Public Enemy’s performances needed to be more animated, the S1Ws were urged to mix it up more onstage. “At that point,” Norman says, “we started moving into different positions instead of just standing there the whole time. We started enhancing with drills and stuff like that. The next thing you know, without any serious thought, we were just there, because everything was happening so fast.”
As Williams, a.k.a. Brother Mike, recalls, “Once we got the word that we need to start moving, we would get together in my backyard with a big radio box, put the songs on, and start putting the whole show together. We weren’t dancers.” (As Ture says with a laugh, “They weren’t just background dancers. If you say that, it’s going to be an issue.”)
As Public Enemy began blowing up in the late Eighties, the S1Ws found themselves more in the spotlight. Griff, Public Enemy’s Minister of Information and a close friend of the S1Ws, left the group after spewing antisemitic remarks in an infamous 1989 interview with the Washington Times. “It took place, it happened fast, and we don’t talk about it much publicly,” says Norman. “We just felt that things that happen in-house, we discuss it and work it out in-house. We gotta roll with the punches to survive.” (Griff was approached about the movie, according to Ture, but everyone agreed that it should focus on the S1Ws proper; he’s only seen in a few clips.)
The documentary (which includes new interviews with the crew along with Chuck D, Ice Cube, KRS-One, Ice-T, and other luminaries) also recalls the ways Public Enemy, with the S1Ws, pushed envelopes in ways that are still notable. Take the life-size Ku Klux Klan doll they hung in effigy onstage, which Williams doesn’t think would fly right now. “Now it’s more sensitive,” he says. “We wouldn’t be able to put that out today in the current climate. Not saying we wouldn’t try. It’s just that there are a lot of more people in the background, like riggers, who might say, ‘I ain’t doing that.’”
In 1990, the state of Arizona voted against turning Dr. Martin Luther King’s birthday into a holiday, resulting in Public Enemy’s biting “By the Time I Get to Arizona.” In the song’s video, the S1Ws were seen brandishing weapons, mapping out plans for an attack, and pointing their guns at white officials. In another scene, an actor playing Arizona’s then-governor is blown up by a car bomb; another politician collapses from a poisoned candygram.
Public Enemy were both applauded and criticized for the video, which Norman feels is still misunderstood. “The song comes out, and the media takes off with their perception of what was going on: ‘The S1Ws assassinated a Senator and a congressman,’” he says. “Nobody in this video ever died. The only one who you see actually die is the [acted-out] assassination of Martin Luther King. But it got people to talk about it, to understand the seriousness, the importance, and the history of Martin Luther King and why that holiday was as deserving as a lot of the other holidays.” (This interview was conducted before the shooting of conservative pundit Charlie Kirk, which underscores how sensitive this subject remains.)
The current edition of Public Enemy, with Chuck D and Flavor Flav still on board, continues to tour with Allen and Oliver remaining in the lineup. But the others have largely retired; Williams put his beret to rest last year, while Norman left the road life behind in 1998. Both men still make occasional appearances onstage.
Whether they can fit into those old uniforms is another matter: “We’ve kind of put on a little weight,” Norman says. The completion of the doc, which they’re hoping to roll out in February in time for Black History Month, is the more serious matter. “This gives us an opportunity to tell our story and give the world the opportunity to meet us as individuals,” says Norman. “People can see we were actually more than just guys who stood onstage and did an exciting job at drilling.”
