Dez, Skeme, and the Birth Of DJ Kay Slay
R.I.P. DJ Kay Slay. The following is quoted from Skeme (3 Yard King Skeme) as told to RockTheBells.com. Two legends and kings in their own right. Enjoy.
It was 1979. Bronx River, The Renaissance, and the T-Connection were just a few of the places to be if you wanted to party. But that summer, I caught a bad, bad bug. Some called it “Graffiti,” but we just called it “Writing.”
Writers like myself were the sworn adversaries of New York City’s Mass Transit System, particularly the subway system. Just like countless other wayward souls in the Big Apple, graffiti consumed my life like a possession, transforming me into someone unrecognizable to most.
My newfound passion created a rift between me and my family and friends, people I had known for the better part of my life. It also played a central role in my high school truancy.
In 1967, my mother relocated us from the Bronx to Harlem, into a newly constructed cooperative known as Esplanade Gardens. “EG” stretched from 145th St. and Lenox Ave to 148th and 7th Ave, marking the final stop on the uptown No. 3 train line, right next to the 3 train yard.
During my childhood, I often played on the service tracks, only a hundred steps away from my building, completely oblivious to what lay inside and around the bend. I would soon come to learn that this yard had a storied history as the namesake yard for the renowned graffiti crew, CLIFF159’s 3 Yard Boys (3YB) Crew.
This crew boasted an impressive roster, including legends like STAN153, JESTER, GEAR1, SO5, ROGER, CHINO174, CORNELL139, and JACE2 (the founder).
When you entered the yard and saw the remaining “tags” they had left behind, it was as though you could sense their spirits resonating from the concrete and steel. The yard’s proximity to my home made it a natural choice for my home base yard due to the familiarity I had with its nooks and crannies.
After spending a year exclusively writing on the interiors of trains with markers, I felt ready to take on the more intricate challenge of adorning the exteriors. One early Sunday morning, I headed to the yard with the intention to bomb the trains and explore.
To my surprise, I encountered a group of seasoned writers like BLAZER, PUSH2, SEAL, and PORE1. PORE1 introduced himself not only as a member of the 3YB crew but also as the president of the Bad Graffiti Artists (BGA) crew. They inquired about my graffiti alias, and when I told them “SKEME,” they responded, “Yeah, we’ve seen that around… but can you piece?”
Despite having no prior experience with piecing, I instinctively answered, “Yes,” because that’s simply what you did in the graffiti world.
“Graffiti is a game of bravado played by type-A narcissists who never admit to being second best.”
My initial bravado soon led to a challenging situation. PORE1 saw through my bluff and issued a direct challenge: to meet up the following week with some paint and create a piece alongside BLAZER.
I accepted the challenge with enthusiasm.
Over the next week, I engaged in some resourceful paint acquisition (often involving theft) from the Woolworths store near 141st and Lenox. After four trips, I had accumulated around 30 cans of Red Devil and Epoxy brand spray paint in various colors.
When Sunday finally came around, I arrived at the yard with two shopping bags filled with paint. The crew was already assembled, but there was one new face that I hadn’t met during our previous encounter. This newcomer didn’t say a word; he simply glanced at me and continued with his painting.
PORE1 introduced him as DEZ.
“Hes nasty…”
It was my inaugural experience with spray paint, and as I started working, they all observed my progress. I could tell they were genuinely surprised that I hadn’t been bluffing about my piecing abilities.
BLAZER and I joined forces to create a two-man car, emblazoned with both of our names. I incorporated three characters into the piece: two B-Boys sporting ski goggles, one brandishing a ray gun, and the other donning an Afro and some stylish Playboy shoes. Between them, I placed Charlie Brown in the center.
DEZ, while somewhat reserved and initially unimpressed, approached me a couple of times to assess my work. He gave me a look that seemed to say, “Alright, I see your talent.” And just like that, I became a part of BGA.
Before long, DEZ and I both recognized that we were the primary individuals with a distinctive style and exceptional skills in the crew. This realization, combined with PORE1’s gradual shift from graffiti to hustling and making money on the streets, led to DEZ and me naturally gravitating toward one another.
We engaged in a few phone conversations, essentially feeling each other out, each of us trying to ascertain the other’s trustworthiness, reliability, loyalty, and dedication. It may sound odd to say now, and perhaps somewhat superficial, but it felt as if DEZ and I had known each other for years. Our bond deepened almost overnight.
“Man, we were deep like roaches, and just as quick.”
Our friendship faced a significant trial not long after we became close. One night, we were painting in the yard along with around 20 to 30 other graffiti writers. Among them were individuals from various crews like BGA, the BALL BUSTER crew, and DEZ’s recently established TFA crew (The Fantastic Artists Crew) – a playful nod to BUTCH2 and KASE2’s TFP (The Fantastic Partners) crew.
We had been painting for about an hour when I spotted a transit cop stealthily approaching, about 10 feet from where I was. Without hesitation, I bellowed, “RAID!” as loudly as I could, then maneuvered past the cop with the agility of Jim Brown making a crucial touchdown run.
Pandemonium ensued. Most of the guys present were less familiar with the yard’s layout, causing them to scramble aimlessly. However, DEZ and I knew the yard like the backs of our hands. Within seconds, we both found ourselves back at the hole in the fence that we had cut.
While the wall was tall, I sprinted forward and propelled myself off the wall. I managed to catch the ledge on my first attempt and pulled myself up and through the hole. DEZ followed closely behind me, but that one-second delay allowed a cop to seize his leg.
As I doubled back and grabbed DEZ by the arms, pulling him up and out, the officers began striking his feet and legs with their nightsticks.
“That night, we transcended being friends, and became brothers. For the next year, we were inseparable. If you saw one, you saw the other.”
DEZ had a meticulous nature. Even in the graffiti yard, he took pride in wearing his regular attire. It was not uncommon to see him amidst the dirt and grime, sporting a fresh pair of knit pants or LEE jeans with perfectly sewn creases, a mockneck shirt, and his distinctive terrycloth Bermuda Kangol hat, which he always made sure had a sharp crease.
His approach to piecing reflected this precision: it was clean, neat, and highly technical. DEZ was renowned as the undisputed king of straight letters, known for his unwaveringly steady hand.
As our friendship deepened, we began to let each other further into our lives. In the neighborhood, you knew your bond was solid when you visited each other’s homes and met each other’s parents.
In DEZ’s case, he lived with his grandparents at 429 East 103 Street in Spanish Harlem’s East River Houses. They were warm and welcoming, though I’m sure they wondered about our activities and why our clothes were always stained with ink.
They never pressed us with questions, and were probably just relieved that we weren’t caught up in more dangerous pursuits like drug dealing or robbery.
I learned that DEZ was a Hip-Hop triple threat; he could paint, DJ, and could dance. I’m probably one of the few writers — or people in general — who’ve ever seen him dance. But it was his DJ skills that would make him world famous.
His DJ name was DJ Kay Gee — now most famously known as DJ Kay Slay. He most likely adopted this moniker for something a little more “mature,” as well as wanting to avoid any similarities with Almighty KG of The Cold Crush Brothers.
He balanced his DJ gigs with his graff exploits — giving 100 percent to both endeavors. We rode the rails with class, laying down cars that excited the toys and the police. We were unstoppable and relentless, but like most sunny days, some rain must eventually fall.
One evening, DEZ called and said that he wanted to do a car for his cousin, Kevin Simmons, who was killed earlier that day. New York is always New York, the real Gotham city, complete with the mayhem and the dark underbelly. You move through it and accept it, but it hits home when someone you love is the victim.
