In an era when label CEO's drop albums, romance pop-stars and parlay their mogul-dum into multiple endorsement deals Chris Lighty, the 36-year-old CEO of Violator Records/Management is a bit of an anomaly. Since 1989, his company has been stealthily creating strategic multi-million dollar opportunities for its artists—among them 50 Cent, Missy Elliott, Three 6 Mafia, LL Cool J and Diddy — in film, television, advertising, sports and finance with little media fanfare. Why so under the radar? Lighty's preference has always been to let Violator's numbers —70 million plus in combined record sales and millions in brand related ventures — speak for the company.

But in 2006, when Forbes magazine's outed him as "one of the industry's most influential talent managers" and the business mastermind that helped transform 50 Cent from multi-platinum artist to a $200 million dollar industry encompassing CD's, films, tours, video games, book deals, G-unit clothing and an unprecedented investment/endorsement deal with Glaceau's Vitamin Water — the cloak of anonymity was pulled off. And inquiring minds want to know, "Who is Chris Lighty?" More importantly how did a guy with no college or B School degree emerge as one of the most formidable businessmen of the hip-hop generation?
"I earned my MBA," says Lighty. "In hell."

Turns out the grisly streets of the South Bronx in the late '70's and '80's those streets provided one hell of an education.

Raised a single mother of seven in the notorious Bronx River Projects Lighty was no stranger to poverty or the desperation it fostered. "My mother worked two jobs and still struggled to make ends meet. We were changing price stickers on groceries just so our family could eat." Violence, fueled by the explosion of the crack trade, was rampant. "Friends were dropping like flies. People were dropping out of school, trying to get jobs or hustling to make money on the side. This was the era of Reaganomics. They were no programs, no clear-cut educational directives on how to survive or how to get out."

Some like his mother believed that education was the best escape route and she tried her best to instill those values in her children. As the eldest, Lighty was charged with making sure his siblings were dressed, fed, taken to and picked up from school and completed their homework. No great fan of school but appreciative of the daily escape it provided, he attended regularly and got good grades. But he was always acutely aware that those accomplishments did not solve the immediate dilemma of putting food on the table. So when an economics course conflicted with an after school job Lighty told his teacher to give him the textbook and let him take it as an independent study. His teacher warned him he would undoubtedly fail. In typically Lighty fashion, he ignored him and ended up with an A. Eventually he turned down a college scholarship. An acute observer of the streets around him, Lighty knew that education was not the only exit strategy.

Others may have dismissed the Bronx as a cauldron of urban blight but Lighty saw flourishing businesses —from the barely legal to the felonious —and businessmen. Number runners. Bottle collectors. Drug dealers. Salesmen who specialized in goods that happened to fall off the truck. "The streets taught me that as impoverished as that environment was, it was really possible to make something out of nothing."

"Street entrepreneurs had set hours," he explains. "They created sales and cultivated a viable product. They had to advertise, market and promote to make themselves distinguishable from the next man who was always ready to move in on a competitor's territory. They had to be provocative enough, and productive enough to find ways not only to create repeat customers but loyal ones too. And given the volatile nature of most the hood's enterprises, businessmen had to have the leadership skills necessary to run an organization that could easily run amok if left to its own devices."

Perhaps the most important lesson Lighty learned was that in an environment where everyone has nothing, the most valuable commodity is time. "If you frittered it away, you were left with nothing. Use it wisely and you can make a lot of money." Young, hungry and looking for a way out, Lighty invested his time in the one industry with stronger growth potential than the crack trade. Hip-hop. In many ways the decision was an easy one. "It was all I cared about. I didn't listen to the Jackson 5 and Marvin Gaye. I was listening to Bambaata and break beats. I searched it out, stayed up till two in the morning to hear it. So when people around me like Scott La Rock and the Jungle Brothers were getting signed, I knew I wanted to be a part of that."

His first job in the industry was carrying crates for DJ Red Alert. His second was road managing a tour for the Jungle Brothers. But what should have been a heady, lucrative time was consistently marred with financial with disappointments. When the Jungle Brothers got signed to Warner Brothers for 1.7 million and ended up with a paltry $35,000 a piece, Lighty realized he had to get into management. "Even artists like Scott La Rock, who went to college, were at a disadvantage when it came to the contracts because they didn't know the business side. So I became the person who would read the contracts and ask a lot questions. I read books on the business. And books I could apply to building business strategies like The Art of War, the Bible, the Koran. I considered it my investment. And it paid off."

In 1989 Lighty joined Russell Simmons and Lyor Cohen at RUSH Management. Shortly after, he started the indie label Violator signing Fat Joe and Beatnuts. In the early 90's he moved the label to Def Jam, inking multi-platinum artists like Warren G and Foxy Brown. In 1999, while maintaining his management position, Lighty sold the Violator Records roster to Def Jam and relaunched the label at Jive Records.

Today Violator Records/Management is multi- million-dollar company, with 14 employees. Many of them are from environments strikingly similar to the neighborhood where Chris Lighty got his start. Everyone, from his employees to the artists he represents, learns what Lighty considers the cornerstones of wealth building; the importance of investments, career diversification and the building the strength of the brand.

But it's dedication to putting his artists first that has given him the most success. "I pay my artists before I pay myself. My philosophy is that if I'm doing my job correctly, if the artist is paid and happy, then I'll make what I'm supposed to make. If I make less it's because I've made a mistake. I'll learn from it and it won't happen again."

It is this trust, the ability to speak both the language of the streets and the boardroom that make Lighty so valuable to both his clients and the industries anxious to work with them. "I've learned to speak to people in their own dialect. If I'm going to the bank, I dress like the banker. If I'm going to the show, I dress like the audience. When you're dealing with multi-million dollar corporate entities, being the hip-hop guy is not enough. Because nobody wants to give a million dollars to a guy they think can't give it back — tenfold."

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