This article originally appeared in the March 2000 issue of SPIN. In light of DMX’s death, we’re republishing it here.
It’s nearly midnight, and Manhattan’s Hit Factory recording studio is teeming with nervous life as DMX races to complete …And Then There Was X, which his label wants in just three weeks. The environment is not exactly conducive to getting anything done: DMX’s wife, sister-in-law, various producers, and manager/uncle stalk about the studio’s windowless maze of rooms, while ruffnecks in identical skullys, boots, and puffed-out jackets stand guard at every door, enshrouded in blunt smoke so thick they can barely see two feet in front of
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