TURNING HIP-HOP RHYME AGAINST LONG JAIL TIME

At the moment, it is uncertain whether Russell Simmons, the hip-hop
magnate, will get to the seaplane on time. It is floating at an East River
marina, set to take off at 5 o'clock. Mr. Simmons wants to fly to East
Hampton for the weekend, but the timing is not looking good.

This late afternoon, Mr. Simmons is still in his coolly luxurious office at
Rush Communications on Seventh Avenue. Assistants bustle in and out.
Telephones ring incessantly.

Mr. Simmons, who is 45 and decked head to red-sneakered toe from his Phat
Farm clothing line, settles into a leather chair but suddenly darts off to
a conference room to confer with staff members of the Hip-Hop Summit Action
Network, which he founded to spotlight issues directly affecting hip-hop fans.

He is intensely engaged, preoccupied, in deal-making to revise the
Rockefeller-era drug laws, which impose long mandatory minimum sentences
for drug offenses, even for first-time nonviolent and low-level offenders.

Mr. Simmons is known as the godfather of hip-hop, but he has emerged as a
leading advocate of change in the drug laws. He says he has spoken on the
telephone with Gov. George E. Pataki three times on this day. Mr. Simmons
has a way of making people pay attention, holding loud rallies at City
Hall, raising awareness about the drug laws just as he did on school budget
cuts.

"No one has a bigger mouth than rappers," he says. "They are brand
builders. I don't know if politicians can imagine the kind of pressure
rappers can put on them."

One can only sit back and watch Mr. Simmons, the master multitasker. This
is the man who founded the Def Jam label, which put out albums by L.L. Cool
J., Public Enemy and the Beastie Boys, and who presides over an empire that
by its own account grossed more than $400 million last year.

It includes apparel lines, an advertising agency, a magazine and
filmmaking. He produced "Russell Simmons's Def Comedy Jam" for HBO and just
won a Tony for "`Russell Simmons Def Poetry Jam on Broadway." He even has a
new Visa debit card for consumers without bank accounts and an energy drink
coming out.

But in his nascent role as political power broker, Mr. Simmons is catching
heat. Some advocates seeking full repeal of the drug laws complain that he
is too eager to compromise.

"I negotiate deals every day and I don't care about people being upset," he
says, crossing a jean-clad leg. "This law has been there for 30 years and
it needs changing now. If there is a deal at all, it will be a compromise.
In this session, there will not be a full repeal. I want a deal. I want
people to get home. What we want is for nonviolent, first-time offenders
never to be subject to these harsh laws. We want them to be able to appeal,
for a judge at the very least to be able to overrule the prosecutor."

Truth be told, Mr. Simmons is a bit exhausting to watch. He has an affable,
open manner and an open face, the color of caramel. He got the nickname
Rush growing up in Hollis, Queens, for a reason. An assistant comes in with
a sheet of talking points for this interview. It's about how he will be
honored with the Montblanc Arts Patronage Award tomorrow for his
philanthropy in exposing underprivileged children to the arts.

Mr. Simmons warms to subjects like this. He mentions how he had just
returned from a luncheon for 1,200 in which he was the keynote speaker. It
was sponsored by Crain's New York Business magazine, honoring New York's
100 most influential minority business leaders. His wife, Kimora Lee
Simmons, a former model who runs the Baby Phat women's apparel line, is the
mother of their two young children. She and his older brother, Danny, an
artist, were also honored by Crain's.

Mr. Simmons glances at his wristwatch, encrusted with diamonds. The seaplane.

As he descends in the elevator to a waiting black Ford Excursion, one finds
oneself rooting for Mr. Simmons to make that seaplane. He seems like a nice
guy, this son of a public school teacher and a social worker who has made a
fortune from hip-hop culture, even as critics have deplored it for its
often sexist and violent lyrics. He dropped out of City College and started
his career by promoting rap concerts and managing the Queens hip-hop group
Run-D.M.C., of which his brother Joey Simmons was the rapper Run, also
known as Reverend Run.

THE customized S.U.V., big as a tank, crawls down Seventh Avenue, then east
on 23rd Street. Mr. Simmons is on the cellphone, switching between waiting
calls, his eyes darting out cracked tinted windows as people call out, "Mr.
Simmons!" He seems calm. And that's a wonder, given the frenetic pace of
his life. He credits yoga with changing him. So, what was he like nine
years ago, before he first went to yoga class to check out foxy women? He
is now a serious yoga adherent, and credits the practice for focusing his
energy on social change.

"The first 30-odd years of my life was all about consumption and now, of
course, I recognize my purpose on earth and it becomes the basis of my
work," he says. "You do the best you can to support efforts to help people."

The S.U.V. pulls up to the marina. Mr. Simmons hops out, promising to call
when he lands. He makes a dash down the pier to the plane. Lo and behold,
that little plane and its passengers have waited the extra five minutes.
The plane spins around, then off it goes, creating a great commotion in its
wake.