COVER STORY : The King of Radical Pop : Rick Rubin doesn't look corporate, but he's parlayed $3,000 and a love of rap and metal bands that are often too extreme for rival labels into a $75-million-plus partnership with Time Warner.

By ROBERT HILBURN

May 10, 1992 12 AM PT

<i> Robert Hilburn is The Times' pop music critic</i>

The lunch crowd at the Ivy on Robertson Boulevard is accustomed to celebrities, so there’s only a faint ripple of curiosity among those at the sidewalk tables as a black Rolls-Royce pulls up.

Heads turn noticeably, however, when a man with a long, unruly beard and menacing dark glasses steps from the car.

The restaurant host isn’t caught by surprise. He wastes no time in stepping forward. You don’t fool around with power at the chic eatery.

The new arrival may look like some strange interloper in this well-manicured world of Ivy Leaguers, but he is one of the pop world’s pivotal players for the ‘90s.

Rick Rubin, 29, has been called everything from his generation’s Phil Spector--someone who combines great musical instincts with an entrepreneur’s independent spirit--to the next David Geffen, a potential empire-builder who can inspire both talent and executives.

The week of the lunch alone, there were enough references to Rubin or his acts in the trades to keep a photocopier machine busy for much of the morning.

Among the events happening in Rubin’s life:

* The Black Crowes, one of the rock bands on Rubin’s Def American record label, was about to release the follow-up to the group’s 1990 debut album, which sold more than 4 million copies. (See review, Page 52). Rubin signed the Stones-flavored Atlanta band after other labels turned it down.

* The Red Hot Chili Peppers, the wry, alternative-rock band from Los Angeles that had stardom written all over it for years, had finally broken into the national Top 10. A key reason: Rubin, who produced the newest album for Warner Bros. Records, persuaded lead singer Anthony Kiedis to record a ballad, “Under the Bridge,” that Kiedis had thought was too personal for the record. Radio programmers’ fondness for that song exposed the group to a mainstream audience. Sales through last week: an estimated 1.6 million.

* Mick Jagger, eager to pump life into his stalled solo career, has asked Rubin to work with him on the singer’s next album.

You can see why Jagger would be interested.

Rubin, who made his first record in his dorm at New York University, has built a $3,000 investment into a company, Def American, that he owns in partnership with Time Warner and is worth an estimated $75 million to $100 million. His specialty: an emphasis on controversial--but also frequently acclaimed--rap and metal acts that most other companies considered too radical.

The strategy has worked for two reasons.

Rubin’s acts--like militant rappers Public Enemy and speed-metal rockers Slayer--express the anger and frustration that many young Americans feel these days. And because he signed many of the acts before others recognized their commercial potential, Def American didn’t get into bidding wars.

Rubin, however, rejects the word s trategy .

He says he simply signs the acts he likes, including raunchy comedian Andrew Dice Clay.

“For me to put something on the label, I have to love it,” he says, sitting in a choice corner booth and nibbling at a vegetarian salad. “I’m not one of those guys who tries to figure out how much an act is going to sell before signing it.

“Take Dice for instance. I went to a little comedy club next to Greenblatt’s Deli on Sunset to see him. There were maybe 20 people in the audience . . . and all of them hated him. That would have scared a lot of record people off. . . . They’d sit there and think, ‘Why do I want to sign someone that everyone hates?’

“But I thought Dice was one of the funniest things I ever saw. I followed him to Greenblatt’s and we agreed over coffee to make a record. That first album sold over 700,000 copies . . . the biggest-selling comedy record in years.”

You hear it again and again when talking to people who know and work with Rick Rubin: The thing you’ve got to understand about this rock ‘n’ roll maverick is that he loves the game .

Like Geffen and Spector at similar stages in their careers, Rubin is consumed by the record business. He loves the music, the gossip and the deals--but especially the music. Preferring an informal work style, he operates more out of his car or home than the company’s headquarters, which occupy one floor of a high-rise near the Warner Bros. recording and film complex in Burbank.

The closest thing he has to an office is probably his king-size bed, which is on the second floor of his handsome but modest Mediterranean house in the hills near the Chateau Marmont. He’s usually on the phone before his feet hit the floor in the morning--and a bank of audio-video equipment is within arm’s reach of his pillow.

On a recent afternoon, there was a sizable trail of CDs (Beatles to Nine Inch Nails) and books (including yet another biography of Jim Morrison) leading from the bed across the floor to a pair of fluffy chairs by the window. The magazine on top of a high stack of reading material in the bathroom: Billboard, the music-industry trade.

The other thing you hear over and over about Rubin is his loyalty. Blessed with an understated self-confidence that never seems to spill over into arrogance, Rubin combines the qualities that often define successful people in the entertainment business. He is smart enough to view situations logically and yet intuitive enough to operate on gut-level feelings.

Rubin also trusts those around him. He’s careful about hiring someone (the staff only numbers 15), but once they’re aboard he gives lots of latitude. “He is very supportive and encourages creative ideas,” said one Def American employee. “He’s also not obsessed by how much something costs if it’s a cool idea. He doesn’t make you nervous about giving him suggestions. He loves it when you come up with something that’s creative or different.”

One story frequently cited to demonstrate his loyalty and trust involves George Drakoulias, whom Rubin has known since his days in the early ‘80s at NYU and who now is in charge of artists and repertoire for Def American. When Rubin decided to start Def American, he contacted his old friend, who was working for another company. Drakoulias was discouraged because his company had turned down the band he wanted to sign. Rubin simply told him, “If you love ‘em, I’ll sign ‘em.” That band was the Black Crowes.

Rubin is a bright man with a warmth that is disarming--and surprising--given the nature of many of his bands (including Houstin’s notorious Geto Boys) and the tough, unapproachable image he likes to project in photos.

“I think it’s the funniest thing in the world every time I step out of the Rolls in public,” he says, smiling broadly. “The two just don’t go together, which is what I love. It’s just fun--which plays a lot in what I do.

“In some ways, I’ve been spoiled. I’ve never been in a situation where I had to get a job to support myself. I’ve always had the things I wanted. My parents paid for everything up through college . . . and then I started making records as a hobby . . . and it just took off. I made the first LL Cool J record for $400 and it sold 120,000 copies.”

Interviewing Rubin can be difficult because he frequently can’t resist breaking away from a question to play a favorite new tape or CD.

Sometimes, the record illustrates a point, but often it’s just something he likes, and he’s eager to get someone else’s reaction. The choices this day ranged from the customized Queen remixes that Nine Inch Nails’ Trent Reznor had sent him to the Jayhawks, a softer Neil Young-meets-Burrito Brothers band from Minneapolis that Def American recently signed.

He also doesn’t let business interfere with pleasure. During one of the interview breaks, he slipped a tape into the VCR. Instead of a video of a band, the tape was of a pro wrestling elimination match featuring Hulk Hogan and Ric Flair.

Having seen the tape several times, Rubin knows when the key punches or body slams are coming and offers running commentary. He is such a wrestling fan that he has even bought a small wrestling circuit in the South and imagines the day when he’ll challenge the ruling World Wrestling Federation the way he challenges the giants of the pop world.

“A lot of the people who used to go to wrestling when I was growing up feel disenfranchised because the WWF has turned the whole thing into a circus with cartoon characters, where before it was more an adult soap opera,” he says, as Bret (Hitman) Hart drops Flair to the canvas with a right to the chin. “There used to be this heavy theatrical story line . . . rooted in jealousy and revenge. I mean there were reasons guys were fighting--like maybe the guy tried to blind him last week in the parking lot or something.”

At the end of the tape, however, Rubin is back to music. He plays a tape of the Red Devils, one of seven albums he is releasing this summer.

“He just completely loves music,” says Kiedis of the Chili Peppers. “He loves listening to it, he loves making it and he loves being with people who make it. It’s very rare to find someone like him at a record company, which is one of the reasons I hang out with him so much.

“Rick’s always got new music to listen to. Like after we go to a restaurant, we’ll have to go into his car and he’ll play me a stack of five new CDs. The look on his face when he pops the CDs in is like a little 12-year-old opening presents on Christmas.”

The only child in an upper-middle-class Long Island family, Frederick Jay Rubin loved during his midteens the kind of music he now makes: hard rock. He spent hours listening to albums by raw, shrieking groups like Aerosmith and AC/DC. The latter’s “Highway to Hell,” in fact, remains one of his all-time favorites.

By his late teens, however, Rubin was so intrigued by the even darker intensity of punk groups, such as Los Angeles’ Black Flag, that he formed his own band while in high school.

The youngster’s interest in hard-core music continued at NYU, where another of his bands, Hose, recorded for a small, independent New York label. But music was never more than a hobby--and his interest shifted to a new discovery: rap. He found in the inner-city street music much of the same primitive energy and do-it-yourself spirit of punk.

Rubin listened to rap records of the time, but his real fascination with the new pop form was with the live rap in downtown clubs. The difference: Rap records featured the music of conventional R&B; bands, while club rappers worked with DJs, who made more original and exciting music by mixing and matching sounds from actual records.

“The (live) scratching opened a whole world of possibilities,” Rubin recalls. “That’s when I started thinking about producing records rather than being on records. I wanted to put that live sound on records.”

Working with rapper T. La Rock and DJ Jazzy Jay, Rubin produced his first record in 1984 in his dorm room at NYU. “It’s Yours” became the biggest rap record in New York, selling an estimated 90,000 copies. Though music was still a hobby for Rubin, who planned to go to law school, the excitement stirred by the record--with its fresh, striking sound--drew people to the young pop Wunderkind .

One of them was Russell Simmons, brother of Run-D.M.C. main-man Joseph Simmons. Though only two years older than Rubin, Simmons was the most established businessman on the fledging rap scene. He not only made records but managed acts. Together, they formed Def Jam Records--and immediately set the new standard for the young urban rap sound.

Another person who entered Rubin’s life around this time was a 16-year-old named LL Cool J, who would go on to become the biggest New York solo star in rap in the ‘80s. LL Cool J had heard “It’s Yours” and sent a demo tape of his own music to Rubin’s college dorm. Rubin recorded a song with the young rapper and it launched the Def Jam label. Within a year, Def Jam was generating so much heat critically and commercially in New York that Columbia Records signed a multimillion-dollar distribution agreement with the label.

Rubin’s parents were anxious about their son’s skipping law school, but he eased their fears when he showed them the first check he received under the new deal. It was for a cool $600,000.

Def Jam was a major and immediate hit.

Besides LL Cool J, Rubin found and/or helped shape the vision of several other acts that contributed greatly to the creative and commercial emergence of rap: Public Enemy, the socially conscious group that remains the most acclaimed in rap; Run-D.M.C., whose reworking of Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way” did much in 1986 to help build interest in rap among rock fans, and the Beastie Boys, whose “Licensed to Ill” album later the same year was a landmark merger of punk, rock and rap sensibilities.

There’s no unmistakable trademark sound that links those classic albums a la the elaborate “wall-of-sound” production technique of Spector’s hits--which undercuts somewhat the Spector/Rubin comparison. Rubin also shows little of Geffen’s genius for deal-making and industry power-brokering, which also makes that comparison shaky.

So, the real parallel between Rubin and other important record industry figures may be Sam Phillips, the fiercely independent owner of Sun Records, the Memphis label in the ‘50s that launched the careers of such rock pioneers as Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis and Carl Perkins.

Like Phillips, Rubin helps bring out the best in artists by encouraging them to be true to their own musical instincts rather than compromising their music to fit the commercial currents of the day.

“One of the great things about working with Rick is that he makes you feel comfortable,” says the Chili Peppers’ Kiedis. “He is very upfront and makes you feel you can trust him, which is a key to getting someone to express your creative feelings . . . because if you don’t completely trust someone, you don’t want to open your deeper creative thoughts in front of them.”

But the pace was grueling on Rubin, whose other credits during the short Def Jam tenure included the “Less Than Zero” soundtrack, a key album that brought rap, hard-rock and mainstream rock together in a highly successful package.

By late 1986, the strain was beginning to show.

There was such a sense of invincibility at Def Jam that Rubin and Simmons made some questionable decisions, such as making a Run-D.M.C. movie. Though he had studied film at NYU, Rubin clearly overreached in trying to write and direct “Tougher Than Leather,” an awful gangster-rap movie.

It was around that time, Rubin says, that he began to drift from rap back to his earlier hard-rock/punk roots. He had already found a new favorite in Slayer, a controversial Los Angeles speed-metal band whose approach was so dark that Columbia Records refused to release the group’s “Reign in Blood” album on Def Jam.

Though the company didn’t comment publicly on its decision, it was clear that the giant corporation was uneasy about an album that touched on such themes as sadism and satanism at a time when the record industry was under attack by parent groups.

Geffen Records agreed to distribute the album, which climbed into the Top 100 on the sales charts despite almost no airplay.

It was a turning point for Rubin.

Unhappy with Columbia and eager to devote more of his time to rock, Rubin said goodby to Def Jam and New York, ending his partnership with Simmons and moving in 1987 to Los Angeles, which he felt was a better rock ‘n’ roll town.

Despite his whirlwind success at Def Jam, Rubin had to prove himself all over in Los Angeles with the new Def American label. Lots of young entrepreneurs make it once in the record business. Few make it twice.

Def American held its own at Geffen, but there were also problems. The company released Rubin’s albums (though not always with the Geffen logo)--until the Geto Boys in 1990. Charging that the Houston rap group’s music “glamorizes and possibly endorses violence, racism and misogyny,” the company refused to distribute the group’s album. Soon afterward, Geffen exercised a clause in its Def American contract and severed ties with Rubin’s company.

Rubin, who had used his own money under the Geffen arrangement, then went to Warner Bros. Records and signed a U.S. partnership deal with the industry giant. Under the plan, Warners would finance the company, but with Rubin retaining part ownership and running the company. The foreign rights are with Phonogram.

Since the 1990 arrangement, Def American has released only two albums, a live double album by Slayer that has sold about 250,000 copies and an album by Seattle rapper Sir Mix-A-Lot that has just passed the 500,000 mark.

But this summer should be a major test.

It’s late afternoon at Rubin’s house and he’s looking across the city on a beautiful California day.

Sitting in one of the comfortable, den-style chairs in the bedroom, you can see much of the Los Angeles basin. On this day before the rioting that would leave smoke trails across the heart of the city, the view was gorgeous.

Things have been going so well for Rubin that it’s hard to find anyone to criticize him.

“Rick is the kind of person who has convictions and lives by them,” says Steven Baker, vice president of product management at Warner Bros. Records. “Go all the way back to Def Jam. He and Russell had an idea of the kind of music they wanted to make--and it was stuff they liked.

“With most new companies, they take a little of this, a little rap group, a metal group, a pop group, a new wave band, cover all the bases. Rick’s whole thing is signing what he likes. The music doesn’t have to be market-driven.”

Some observers, however, do question his ability to be both record fan and businessman over the long haul.

“Rick is certainly an interesting guy, but a lot of the things he loves haven’t sold a lot of records,” said an industry insider, who asked not to be identified. “Take away the Black Crowes album, which is very mainstream rock ‘n’ roll, and there’s nothing on the label that sold the way his records did on Def Jam. He has a big hit in the Chili Peppers, but that’s not on his label.”

Adds another observer, posed a different question about Rubin’s future:

“Rick has had a tremendous amount of success, but it’s still early. Sooner or later, one side of him has got to take over--either the music fan side or the business side. What happens if he wakes up one day and he decides he wants to be as big as A&M; or Geffen?”

And there’s the question of his taste in music.

We’re not talking here about parent groups complaining about albums by Slayer and the Geto Boys, but albums other record companies didn’t want to be associated with. It raises the question about whether these albums--with violent and sexual images--reinforce dangerous stereotypes.

Rubin’s not defensive.

“I believe 100% in the records I put out,” he says. “In the worlds of entertainment and art, I don’t think there are any boundaries of what we should and shouldn’t talk about. Who should tell people what they can and cannot hear? I wouldn’t reject anything for a philosophical reason.

“If you start doing that, you are as much of a censor as the person who is trying to stop rap records, people who are trying to stop heavy-metal records, the people throughout history who have stopped art of its time.”

Is there anything that offends him?

“Yes . . . bad records,” he says, forcefully. “I hear records all the time that I think would sell for their shock value and I don’t put them out because I don’t think they’re good. An example might be 2 Live Crew back when it was selling a lot of records.”

What about Rubin’s ambitions for Def American?

Rubin tends to downplay the question. It’s as if he’s aware of the conflict between businessman and music man--and is wary of any goal that would smother the music. But, slowly, cautiously, he speaks of his dream.

“I want the records to be great first, then the company can be as big as it can be,” Rubin says, staring at the city below. “If the company becomes as big as A&M;, great . . . as big as Elektra, fabulous--but I’m not obsessed with it. I still feel apart from most of the record business.

“The whole motivation is different. I’m in what I call the music business. Most record people aren’t really. They’re in the banking business. They think of the company as an investment and they see how they can make the most return on that investment. Music is just what they happen to deal with.”

Still, Def American is looking to the future.

Because he finds only one or two bands a year that excite him enough to sign them, Rubin has begun relying on others to sign acts to the label. His old NYU buddy George Drakoulias has signed former Georgia Satellites leader Dan Baird and the Jayhawks as well as the Black Crowes.

Recently, Rubin also added Marc Geiger, a former agent who has a solid feel for college/alternative acts. Geiger, who helped put together the hugely successful “Lollapalooza” tour last summer, has already brought the Jesus and Mary Chain and Flipper to the label.

It’s nearly sundown now, but everything still looks lovely from Rubin’s bedroom window. He stares out across the city for a few seconds.

“You know, I’m really a lucky guy,” he says, finally. “I liked rap before it really happened, got into it early, helped make some really good records. By the time I decided I wanted to do rock and metal, it was not cool to do, but now it is what’s happening.

“A lot of record companies that have started recently kind of put the record company before the artist. They say, ‘We’ll hire 60 or 70 people and then we will go out and find some bands.’ I don’t think that’s the way you do it. There aren’t enough good bands out there to support all these labels.

“That’s why I don’t know how big we’ll ever be. I think we have the ability to grow big because we are young, aggressive, we like the music. I don’t measure what I have by the value of the company. I measure it by the records we make . . . how cool they are . . . how much fun they are. It’s about the means, more than the ends.”