He and a few friends switched vehicles and finally got the rapper safely to a nearby hospital. (First responders found the sidewalk littered with shell casings and spattered with blood.) A friend tried to drive YG to get treatment, but they totaled the car trying to avoid a collision with another driver. YG was hit in the hip by one bullet, resulting in three wounds-entry, exit, and re-entry. on June 12, 2015, an unidentified gunman opened fire in the alley below the studio. The homies would call their homies, who I wouldn’t even know.” “I was having a gang of motherfuckers up over there all day,” he says, “people in and out all day, bringing meals. “I like five records off the album there,” he says, but the atmosphere was starting to concern him. Back then he was living and working out of a two-story apartment in Studio City, just across the 101 from Universal Studios. Last summer, the scene outside of YG’s studio wasn’t so idyllic. The outside world is barely visible over the wooden gate, which has closed again. (At the time, he called the record by its working title, Still Krazy, and while he believed that the tracklist was locked in at the time, the album would be tweaked and expanded in the weeks to come.) As we disappear inside, the smattering of friends and publicists keep watch from the patio, but there’s nothing to see. Laughter, daps, “you good, bro?” Before long-but not before a few more questions about the 10 freeway during rush hour-YG suggests that I head into the studio’s main room with him to hear his sophomore album, Still Brazy. Then he breaks into a smile and shouts at his friend: “Why you driving that like it isn’t mine?” YG, clad in a white T-shirt, black jeans, a Louis Vuitton belt, blue Toms, and gold bracelets, steps to the front of the porch, peering into the sun and pounding one of his fists into an open palm.
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The second the gap becomes big enough to squeeze through, the driver peels into the parking lot, tires squealing as he turns into a spot. The six-inch-thick, wood-paneled gate hums to life and begins to reveal a black SUV. Enthusiastic hangers-on tell him he’ll be able to make the trip in 30 minutes despite his friends’ assurances, YG squints at Google maps on his iPhone and grimaces.Īn intercom buzzes. The issue: the show conflicts with his daughter Harmony’s first birthday party, which he's unwilling to move or miss. YG moves quietly, with the careful control of an athlete, canvassing the eight or so people present about the quickest routes from Santa Monica to the Eastside of Los Angeles. He just got off the phone with a famous DJ who wants him to make a guest appearance at a concert the coming weekend. It’s a Wednesday afternoon in early May, and the sun is beating down on the patio outside a hyper-modern studio in Burbank, Calif.
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