"Wait a minute, turn it back on Bob Dole."

Scarface, a/k/a Brad Jordan, one-third of the notorious Geto Boys, looks at the television screen above his head with a chagrined expression. Taking a momentary break from mixing down the group's seventh LP, The Resurrection, he sits at a table inside Burbank's Enterprise Studios nursing a fifth of Remy Martin and, reaching for a lighter fires up his first marijuana joint of the night. Scarface has little respect for any authority figures, but has absolutely no tolerance for someone like Senator Dole, whom he considers a personal enemy. Fuming, Jordan exhales smoke through his nose like a dragon and watches with red-eyed fury as the presidential candidate in the blue blazer waves his hands and receives rousing applause from the conservative crowd.

It was Dole, of course, who cited the Geto Boys self-titled Def American debut -- along with Oliver Stone's film Natural Born Killers -- as being among the most deplorable entertainment offerings from Time Warner, and urged stockholders to divest their money from the music and media conglomerate in protest. This, combined with added pressure from fellow rap foes C. DeLores Tucker and former education secretary William Bennett, led to Time Warner severing its ties with Interscope (and subsequently Death Row) Records, possibly setting the stage for an all-out ban on albums that the government hierarchy and elements of the private sector deem unacceptable. Everything we're witnessing -- from the possibility of a Dole White House to legislation requiring that all post- 1996 TV sets have a V-chip with which parents (and later your neighborhood politician) can block certain programming- brings up questions of censorship and whether or not freedom of speech is a thing of the past.

"All I'm trying to do is tell my side of the story," Scarface says, absorbing the speech. "This Dole muthaf**ka, is telling his side, so let me tell mine."

He turns down the sound and, pouring himself another drink, starts speaking as if he was the one running for office. A short, stocky character with a deep Southern drawl, Scarface has a voice that would seem forceful even when he's at his most laid-back. Just seeing Dole's face raises his blood pressure, as well as the timbre of his voice.

"What's the biggest killer in the Black community? Is it the AIDS epidemic or is it guns and violence?" Silence. "AIDS," he continues slowly, using his hands to accentuate his words. "So why are they blaming our music for the problems? Babyface and Luther Vandross are always talking about f**kin'! In rap songs we at least talk about slapping on a condom, but all those guys are about is buck-naked fun- so who's the biggest villains? Is it us who kick reality, or them talking about sex?

"People should just accept it for what it is, which is music," Scarface finally says with a weary expression. "Either you like to be entertained by Andreas Vollenweider, Ricky Scaggs or Spice 1. Just leave it as music and don't try to segregate it by categories. Never blame the problems on music, 'cause music ain't got shit to do with it. Music didn't create them, so it ain't gonna stop them either. It's gonna be left up to the individuals, those in position of power that can make change," he says, pointing his finger at Dole. "Just take my shit for what it's worth.

"Just look at that cool muthaf**ka, man," says Scarface watching Dole leave the podium to mingle with the crowd. The senator shakes hands with his left arm, keeping his right pinned to his side, giving his constituents a wooden grin that somehow appears effective. "That nigga got way more money than me," Scarface says, shaking his head from side to side. "I ain't trying to knock his hustle, so why is he trying to knock mine?"