Welcome to another Deep Dive customized just
for you. This time we are exploring the fascinating,
accidental genius of Nucleus, the pioneering
1980s Brooklyn electro and old school hip -hop
group. Discover how a parody track meant as an
anti -hip -hop joke transformed into the legendary
billboard hit, Jam On It. We unpacked the group's
Bedford Stuyvesant block party origins, the literal
family ties that bound them, and the hilarious
1970s DJ battle insult that inspired the iconic
WikiWiki hook. Plus, we trace their profound
footprint across cop culture. From early video
games to the sequencer line that fueled Snap's
monumental Eurodance anthem, Rhythm is a Dancer,
perfect for fans of music history, electro boogie,
and behind -the -scenes industry tales. Join
us to find out why sometimes the greatest art
happens completely by accident. Welcome to another
deep dive customized just for you. I'm your host,
and today we're exploring a concept that I just
find endlessly fascinating. I'm thrilled to be
here as your resident expert. And yeah, today
is really all about the accidental masterpiece.
Exactly, the accidental masterpiece. You're digging
into some incredibly comprehensive source materials
today, ranging from historical retrospectives
to deep biographical archives to bring you the
full story of Nucleus. The pioneering 80s. Brooklyn
Electro Group. Right. Old school hip hop royalty.
I mean, you definitely know their beats, even
if you don't instantly recognize the name. But
our mission for this deep dive is to unpack how
a track that was originally conceived as a parody.
A completely cynical anti hip hop joke. Right.
Somehow bypassed its own irony to become the
foundational billboard hit Jam on it. It's a
remarkable case study in intention versus reception.
You set out to satirize a specific trend and
the energy of your satire accidentally builds
a pillar for that exact same genre. It's wild.
And the roadmap for this deep dive is going to
take us through some really rich territory. We'll
unpack their origins in late 70s Brooklyn, look
at the literal family dynamics that insulated
them and analyze the highly specific DJ battle
insult that gave us their biggest hook. Plus,
we will trace their architectural influence on
global dance music and pop culture decades later.
Okay, let's unpack this. Starting right at the
beginning. 1977. Right. in the Bedford Stuyvesant
neighborhood of Brooklyn. Bedstush, to really
grasp what Nucleus was, we have to look at their
precursor. Jam on Productions. Yeah, Jam on Productions,
which was basically just an organic grassroots
group of teenagers centered around Ben Sinek.
Who operated under the name Cosmo D. Right, Cosmo
D, and his cousins Monique and Pierre Angevin.
Though Pierre usually went by P. P, yeah. And
they started out just by hauling their equipment
out into the streets and playing block parties.
And this is where the geography becomes really
important. Because when we talk about 1977 in
New York, the historical focus is almost always
on the Bronx. Cool Herc, Grandmaster Flash. The
parks, the Bronx River houses. That's the mythology.
But our sources specifically highlight that Jamon
Productions was operating simultaneously in Brooklyn.
What's fascinating here is the concept of parallel
cultural evolution. The Bronx gets the lion's
share of the historical credit, and rightly so
for originating the architecture of hip hop.
But Brooklyn, in the late 70s, had this fiercely
independent, highly competitive scene of its
own. And it was somewhat isolated, wasn't it?
It was. In Bed -Steady, the sound system culture
was vital, but it was slightly geographically
removed from the Bronx pioneers. And that isolation
gave crews like Jamon Productions the breathing
room to divide develop really idiosyncratic tastes.
So they weren't just copying what was happening
up north. Exactly. They weren't just mimicking
the Bronx breakbeat formulas. They were integrating
heavier synthesizers, different funk records,
and this distinct flavor of early electro that
would become their signature. Building an empire
block by block. Entirely outside the gaze of
the Bronx mythology. It makes total sense that
physical distance would breed a different sonic
palette. And as they're developing this localized
bed -stooey sound, the internal structure of
the group shifts. In a way that's incredibly
rare for a musical act. Really rare. By 1979,
the core lineup settles. You have Cosmo D, Yvette
Cooke, who goes by Lady E Monique Angevin, and
Bob Crafton, known to everybody as Chili B. And
this isn't just a crew of neighborhood friends
anymore. No. Cosmo D ends up marrying Lady E.
And Chili B marries Monique. which fundamentally
changes the entire dynamic of the crew. It does.
You have two married couples forming the creative
and logistical core of a hip hop production crew.
The level of trust, the shared financial realities,
the communal living, it completely insulated
them. They didn't have to deal with the usual
industry drama. Right. They didn't have to navigate
the ego clashes of four different teenagers,
all seeking individual fame. Their ambitions
were collective. Which directly inform their
identity. The sources point out that this literal
coming together of families is what prompted
the name change. To Nucleus, spelled N -E -W
-C -L -E -U -S. Because they recognized they
had formed a nucleus. They were a self -contained
atom. And this familial insulation is critical
to understanding their later clashes with the
record industry. Because they had that unshakable
foundation. built on profound personal bonds,
not corporate contracts. They approached their
art with uncompromising authenticity. They were
making music to entertain the people standing
right in front of them in their neighborhood.
Completely unbothered by commercial aspirations.
At least at first. Right. Because then we hit
1981 and there's a severe ideological pivots.
They rebrand themselves as positive messenger.
Positive messenger. Yeah. And the sources indicate
they wanted to pivot away from just making party
rocking beats. They wanted to focus on messages
of love, faith, and the socio -political conditions
of the world. Which is a huge shift. By the sudden
seriousness. What prompted that? If we connect
this to the bigger picture of the early 80s,
the cultural atmosphere in New York was shifting.
Much heavier. Much heavier. The initial exuberance
of the post -disco era was giving way to a sober
reality. Economic disenfranchisement in the outer
boroughs was severe. And musically, things were
changing too. Exactly. Groups like Grandmaster
Flash and the Furious Five were on the verge
of releasing the message. Which permanently altered
the trajectory of hip hop. by injecting stark
realism into the lyrics. Cosmo D and his family
were already feeling that undercurrent. They
looked around bed steady, assessed their platform,
and felt a moral imperative to use their voices
for social elevation. They didn't just want to
be an escape anymore. They wanted to be modern
-day griots for Brooklyn. That is a highly ambitious,
deeply earnest goal. But as often happens, earnest
missions encounter friction. Usually from within.
Yeah, in their case, it came from a guy in their
broader crew. DJ Salvador Smooth. The catalyst?
The sources note that Salvador kept pestering
Cosmo D to just make a standard, commercially
viable rap song. Just give the people what they
want on the radio. But Cosmo D was deeply resistant
to that idea. Why? Because Cosmo D was a purist.
His sensibilities were forged in the crucible
of unrecorded live street battles. The raw culture.
Exactly. To understand his resistance, you have
to understand the dichotomy of hip -hop at the
time. There was the live culture, which was spontaneous,
highly aggressive, dependent on crowd interaction.
And then there was the emerging recorded culture.
Right. By 1981, rap records are starting to get
radio play. But to a battle -tested veteran like
Cosmo D, those radio tracks sounded sanitized.
They were too clean. Structured, predictable.
They prioritized catchy novelty over raw skill.
He viewed the commercial rap of that specific
moment as an inferior, watered -down imitation
of the genuine culture he lived and breathed.
So for him to make a rap record for the radio
would basically be selling out the purity of
the block party. He viewed his positive messenger
project as high art, or at least smart with profound
integrity. To stoop to making a generic rap track
just to satisfy Salvador Smooth felt But he eventually
caves. He does. Albeit in the most cynical way
possible. He doesn't sit down to write a masterpiece.
He sits down to write a caricature. A parody
jam. Just to get Salvador smooth off his back
and to mock the state of rap radio. This raises
such an interesting question about the psychology
of the creative process. It really does. When
an artist removes the pressure of earnest ambition,
when they stop trying to be profound and operate
purely on sarcasm or irony, they often bypass
their own intellectual filters. They stop overthinking
it. Exactly. Cosmo D was sketching a cartoon
of a genre he felt lacked authenticity. He didn't
labor over the sociopolitical weight of the lyrics.
He just tapped into this raw, infectious, ridiculous
energy. Which brings us to the anatomy of the
joke itself. The focal point of this parody track.
The element that would ultimately define their
entire career. The famous wiki wiki hook. The
anecdote Cosmo D shares about where that phrase
came from is just incredible. It wasn't a random
sound. No, it was a deeply specific insult from
a 1970s DJ battle. Jam On Productions had just
defeated another crew. Right. But the losing
DJ, trying to salvage some pride, confronts Cosmo
D and delivers this very precise critique. He
says, yeah, you guys are bad, but you can't do
this. Wiki wiki wiki wiki. We all know that WikiWiki
is the onomatopoeia for a record scratching.
But why would that specific sound be an insult
if Jam -On had just won the battle? It reveals
a fascinating transitionary period in DJ culture.
In the earliest days, battles were often won
based on the sheer volume of a crew's sound system.
Or their record selection. Exactly. The exclusivity
of the obscure funk breaks, they found. Jam -On
productions excelled at this. Formidable system,
great taste. But things were evolving. Pioneers
like Grand Wizard Theodore and Grand Mixer DST
were elevating scratching. It went from a basic
cueing technique into a highly complex rhythmic
percussion instrument. Technical finesse was
becoming the new benchmark. Right. So by mimicking
the scrap sound, the defeated DJ was highlighting
a glaring technical deficit in Jamon's repertoire.
He was basically saying, you have the speakers,
but you lack the cutting edge turntablism. It
was a surgical strike at their credibility, a
raw nerve. So years later. Cosmo D is begrudgingly
cobbling together this parody rap track, and
he digs up that old, highly specific insult.
He weaponizes an old wound for the sake of satire.
He decides to use wiki -wiki -wiki -wiki as the
central hook. He pitches up the vocals to make
them sound like cartoon chipmunks, leaning entirely
into the mockery. And the casual nature of its
creation is so obvious when you look at how he
handled the physical take. Right. The tape filler
detail. He was actively shopping his serious
positive messenger demos to labels. He had this
reel -to -reel tape filled with earnest, socially
conscious tracks. But he had some blank space
left at the tail end. Rather than waste the magnetic
tape, he simply dumps the wiki wiki parody jam
onto the end of it as filler. He wasn't even
planning on showcasing it. Not at all. But then
they actually test the track out in the wild.
The sources note that when Cosmo D played this
cynical joke track at their local parties, it
absolutely demolished the dance floor. The crowd
went crazy for it, which presented a severe ideological
dilemma for the group. They were pouring their
souls into being positive messengers, trying
to enlighten their community. And the community
is basically saying, enlightened is cool, but
we want to dance to cartoon voices imitating
a turntable. The empirical evidence of the dance
floor was undeniable. It's the ultimate reality
check. The audience decides what resonates. And
to their credit, the family listened. They demonstrated
a remarkable lack of ego. They shelved the positive
messenger concept, embraced the absurdity, leaned
into their synthesizer -driven electro sound,
and fully committed to the name Nucleus. They
allowed the accidental creation to dictate their
trajectory. And that trajectory accelerated fast
once the right ears heard that piece of tape
filler. Record producer Joe Webb. He hears the
track. recognizes the kinetic energy, signs them,
and puts it out as their first official single
in 1983 on Mayhew Records. Retitled as Jam on
Revenge, the WikiWiki song. And suddenly this
inside joke is charting. It broke into the top
40 on the U .S. R &B chart. It's competing for
airplay alongside established, heavily funded
acts. And it proved to be a foundational stepping
stone because their follow -up single in 1984,
The Absolute Anthem, Jam on It, it eclipsed it
entirely. Yeah. Jam on it right round in number
56 on the Billboard Hot 100. For an independent
electro hip hop track in 1984 to cross over to
the mainstream Hot 100 is staggering. They followed
it with Computer Age, Push the Button, which
also hit the R &B Top 40. They were producing
undeniable hits. Yet this string of ubiquitous
singles masks a deeper structural conflict they're
about to encounter. The music industry machine.
Exactly. When we examine their full length output,
specifically the albums Jam on Revenge in 1980,
and space is the place in 1985, a stark contrast
emerges. Despite having these monumental singles,
the albums themselves suffered commercially.
They did not move units at a volume commensurate
with the success of the singles. Which is confusing.
If millions of people are losing their minds
to Jam on it, why aren't they buying the Jam
on Revenge album? It exposes a fundamental friction
between the culture of electronic dance music
and the corporate economics of the 80s music
industry. The major label apparatus was optimized
to the LP. The long playing record. Rock, pop,
soul artists were expected to deliver cohesive
45 minute albums. Labels allocated marketing
budgets based on projected LP sales. But hip
hop and electro were cultures rooted in the DJ.
and the club. The primary vehicle of consumption
was the 12 -inch single. A DJ didn't need a sprawling
concept album. They needed an extended, heavy
-hitting beat. To mix in and out of a live set.
Right. And consumers just wanted the specific
track driving the party. Nucleus was inherently
a singles act, engineered for the dance floor.
But they were forced to operate within a corporate
structure that exclusively measured success.
by album sales. So the label is looking at them
through the lens of a rock band fundamentally
misunderstanding the consumer behavior. And that
misunderstanding leads to genuine industry interference.
They eventually sign with Sunnyview Records.
And we get the specific incident regarding the
song Where's the Beat. The sources state that
Sunnyview insisted on putting Where's the Beat
onto the 1984 Jam on Revenge album. Which was
a massive overreach. If the label knew Nucleus
was already capable of producing massive hits
from within their own family unit, why risk ruining
that chemistry by forcing outside music onto
the debut album? It stemmed from that LP -centric
corporate panic. The executives at Sunnyview
likely looked at the track list, worried there
wasn't enough crossover pop appeal, and decided
to hedge their bets. So they just bought a prepackaged
track. Where's the beat was entirely foreign
to Nucleus. Cosmo D and his family didn't write
it, produce it, or play the instruments on it.
It violates the very premise of the group. They
were a tight, self -contained unit. That was
their magic. It is a textbook example of A &R
overreach. It demonstrates how executives view
artists not as autonomous creators but as brands
into which external content can be plugged. You
cannot manufacture the wiki wiki magic in a boardroom.
But despite that interference, the sheer architectural
strength of the music they composed from their
own weird instincts proved unstoppable. It survived
the 80s and infiltrated entirely different genres
in subsequent decades. Which brings us to the
ripple effect. Let's talk about the musical DNA
and how foundational ideas travel across time,
because you highlighted a connection that is
just mind -blowing. The snap connection. Snap,
as in the 1990s German Eurodance project. The
group behind the 1992 monster anthem Rhythm is
a dancer. How does an early 80s Brooklyn hip
hop crew connect to a 90s Eurodance track? featuring
Thea Austin and Turbo B. The connection is direct,
structural, and deeply embedded in the technology.
In 1984, Nucleus released a track called Audermen,
which was overshadowed by Jam on it. Definitely.
But within Ottoman, Cosmo D programmed a very
specific synthesizer sequencer line. Okay. Eight
years later, the producers behind Snap in Germany
heard that exact pattern. They lifted that precise
melodic and rhythmic sequencer architecture and
used it as the foundational backbone for Rhythm
is a Dancer. That is wild. When you say they
programmed a sequencer line, why is that so easily
transferable? It's the shift from analog to digital.
In the early 80s, artists were using equipment
like the Roland TR -808 drum machine or the TB
-303 bass synthesizer. So you aren't physically
playing an instrument. You program a sequence
of notes into a machine, dictating pitch, timing,
rhythm. It creates a highly rigid, mathematically
precise loop. It's basically data. Exactly. That
pattern is stark and highly translatable. The
German producers recognized the driving momentum
of Cosmo D's sequence, adapted that exact mathematical
pattern, and dressed it in 90s Eurodance production
values. Building an international empire on a
Brooklyn foundation. It proves Cosmo D was operating
on a level of structural genius. Writing the
base code that later generations would use. And
their pop culture footprint was incredibly diverse.
Spanning highly disparate forms of entertainment.
On the prestige end, you have Frederick Wiseman.
The documentary filmmaker. In 1986, he released
a film titled Blind, documenting the Alabama
Institute for the Deaf and Blind. During a Halloween
party sequence, the track driving the scene is
Jam on it. To go from high art documentary cinema
to a quintessential Hollywood comedy is quite
a leap. But in 1998, Jam on, it shows up in the
Adam Sandler movie The Wedding Singer. Which
makes perfect sense for cultural curation. The
Wedding Simmer is hyper -specific 80s nostalgia.
If a music supervisor needs to instantly communicate
the feeling of a vibrant mid -80s party, jam
on. It is the undisputed shorthand. And it extended
into interactive media, too. Video games. You
have Computer Age providing the soundtrack in
Matt Hoffman's Pro BMX. And jam on. It integrated
into rhythm games like Dance, Dance Revolution,
Ultramix 2. Where physical movements are dictated
by the beat. And it even appeared in DJ Hero
2. Which is the most poetic, full circle irony
imaginable. The WikiWiki hook was born from an
insult about lacking turntable skills. And decades
later, kids are using plastic peripheral turntables,
trying to simulate scratching, playing a game
set to the exact track born from that insult.
You couldn't write a better resolution. It highlights
the physical reality of the music. The physiological
response to those beats remains universal. But
history is rarely a constant upward trajectory.
We have to examine the complexities of legacy,
exploitation, and reclaiming their narrative.
The initial run of the group concluded around
1989. Right. The hip hop landscape was evolving,
moving away from electro boogie toward golden
era, sample heavy. Boom Bat production. But what
happened in the years after their hiatus reveals
the darker side of Bat catalog economics. We
talked about Sunnyview forcing tracks onto their
album. That lack of respect seemed to metastasize
once they stopped releasing new material. During
the 1990s, several albums were released bearing
the nucleus name, but they weren't nucleus records.
This is a deeply cynical practice. Producers
and labels who acquired rights or found legal
gray areas began releasing material branded with
the nucleus. name to leverage consumer recognition.
And the most egregious example was the fake live
albums. I need to break down how audacious this
scam was. Please do. How do you fake a live album
for a group that isn't touring? You utilize the
original clean studio tracks. the recordings
everyone knows. Then in a studio, you overlay
an audio track of generic pre -recorded crowd
noise. Just canned cheering. Cheering, clapping,
whistling. You mix them together, package it
on a CD, and market it as a live concert version
or a rare live recording. That is effectively
consumer fraud, a blatant cash grab. Offering
zero artistic value, but beyond the financial
deception, it actively corrupts the historical
record. For a crew built on genuine Brooklyn
block parties. Having their legacy simulated
by corporate producers adding canned applause
is profoundly insulting. It floods the market
with inauthentic artifacts. But Cosmo Dee fought
back to regain control of the narrative. In 2005,
he orchestrated the release of Destination Earth.
the definitive nucleus recordings. The word definitive
is crucial. It was a legal and historical declaration
of ownership. He wanted to supersede the inferior
compilations, particularly a widely distributed
one released by Rhino and Atlantic Records called
Jam on this. He wanted to establish a pristine
document. And the technical care they put into
it is staggering. They restored and remastered
directly from the original analog master tapes.
Bypassing the degraded copies, it was a comprehensive
reclamation project. They partnered with the
German label Dominance Electricity to release
definitive versions on 12 -inch vinyl. Re -establishing
their presence in the DJ ecosystem. And the packaging
was brilliant. They commissioned the legendary
illustrator Bill Ray to create the cover art.
For those who don't know, Bill Ray is heavily
associated with the surreal, expressive art of
the Ren and Stimpy show. Why was a Ren and Stimpy
animator the right move for an 80s electro group?
Because it perfectly aligned with their sonic
identity. The pitched up, cartoonish vocals,
the sci -fi synths, their music possessed an
animated, absurd energy. Bill Ray's distinctive
style was the exact visual equivalent of Cosmo
D's audio production. It was a triumphant moment
of taking their history back. But within this
narrative, we also have to acknowledge a somber
reality. The family unit suffered a monumental
loss. On February 23, 2010, Bob Crafton, universally
known as Chili B, passed away from a stroke.
He was only 47 years old. Tragically young. And
when you look at the architecture of this group,
cousins, husbands, wives, losing Chili B is not
like a standard rock band losing a bass player.
It's the fracture of a family pillar. His specific
contributions were indispensable. Cosmo D was
the architect of the sequencers, but Chili B
provided the heavy undulating bassline grooves.
He grounded the electronic blips. He gave the
music its undeniable funk. He was the anchor.
His passing was a profound loss for the wider
electro boogie and hip hop communities. Without
Chili B, the nucleus doesn't hold together. He
was essential to that bedstady magic, which brings
us to the end of a truly staggering historical
arc. Let's look at the totality of what we've
unpacked today. We started in 1977 with teenagers
wiring up sound systems to street lamps in Brooklyn,
evolving parallel to the Bronx. We saw them consolidate
into a tight family unit, pivot toward earnest
art as the positive messengers. And then the
ultimate inversion of intent. Right. In a reluctant
effort to appease a DJ and fueled by a desire
to mock commercial rap using a highly specific
wounded insult. They record a cynical parody.
They relegate it to the blank tail end of a demo
tape. And that tape filler forces them to abandon
their earnest messaging, rebrand as nucleus,
and accidentally revolutionizes electro hip hop.
Spawning Billboard hits and providing structural
DNA for Eurodance empires a decade later. It's
a testament to the unpredictable nature of art.
And before we close out, I want to leave you,
the listener, with a final thought to ponder.
This narrative raises a crucial question regarding
the canonization of art. We often view cultural
milestones as the result of agonizing labor and
calculated intent. But if one of the most structurally
important tracks in electronic history, a track
that embedded itself in global dance movements
and cinema, was created literally as an inside
joke and a blank tape filler, how much of the
broader culture we revere as genius today was
actually born simply from someone, somewhere?
deciding not to take themselves too seriously.
It completely reorients how you listen to a masterpiece.
Thank you so much for coming along on this deep
dive with us today. It's been a privilege to
unpack these hidden corners of history with you.
Remember to always question the origins of the
art and the music that moves you. You never know
what bizarre accidental history is hiding right
beneath the surface of a drum machine. Until
next time, keep digging.