E-Mail This Article to a Friend Sullee forth (continued)

The Sullivans also see that song as a rebuke to all those who would question Sullee’s supposed "street cred." "When they start that ‘What do you know about the streets? What do you know about hip-hop? You live in that cushy town of Hingham. Where’s the mean streets of Hingham? What rough spots have you had in your life?’ then Sullee will just say, ‘Okay, well, why don’t you listen to ‘Life Story’ and then, uh, get back to me,’ " Bob says. "As soon as they hear that, it stops all the nonsense. Because that’s all it is, nonsense. How do you know how someone lived his life?"

" ‘Street credibility’ is the funniest phrase," says Sullee. "Because ‘street credibility’ is ... all ... crap. Artists have come out and it’s been proven that they really didn’t do what they said they’d done. And people still believe it. ‘Oh, I’ve been to jail.’ And then you find out they really haven’t been to jail; it’s documented that they’ve never been arrested! But they’re still credible?! But when I come out, and I have an album that’s full of truth ... there’s nothing but the truth in any of my songs, but I need street credibility. I need to be around people who have that image, just because I have a house that I live in, that I can call home."

Besides introducing him to hip-hop culture, Bob Sullivan’s stint in prison was valuable insofar as it offered his son an object lesson in what not to be. And, let’s face it, stories like these make for great material. "I said to [Sullee], ‘I don’t have a problem with you writing it, the only thing is, it has to be correct,’ " Bob says. "Don’t make up stuff about shootin’ guns, and all that crazy stuff. Keep it real. You don’t have to make up stories and try to act counterfeit."

"The people that are taken seriously are the people that actually make an album that means something," Sullee says. "Every song is true. Every song is something that has to do with my life. If you’re listening to my album, you’re listening to my life." Sullee has no desire to construct an image that will gain him the phony credibility that helps sell records. "A lotta keep-it-real rappers out here frontin’," he sings on "Hip Hop," "the rest of those busters really ain’t saying nothin’." Hip-hop is a genre — and a business — where image is king, but Sullee wishes it weren’t. "I really don’t like that, and I really don’t agree with that at all. Hip-hop didn’t come from image. It came from struggle, and it came from having fun and trying to get people together to do something good."

But he accepts that it’s part of the game. For Sullee to make it, he’s got to have a hook. An identity. I ask him if he’s afraid of being pigeonholed as the "white-suburban-Boston-Irish dude." He admits that sometimes people prejudge, writing him off, presumably, as the bastard child of Vanilla Ice and House of Pain. "Right when I walk on the stage, people get up and walk away because I got a scally cap and a boston shirt on," Sullee says. "My father tries to tell me I can’t wear certain things, and I’m like, no, this is me. I’m not changing for nobody. This is how I am, and this is how I talk, and I’m just me. If people can’t handle that, that’s on them."

Besides, Sullee says, "I’m already pigeonholed. Me being white in hip-hop, I’m gonna get pigeonholed one way or another. I’ll never get to be an artist that everybody just accepts doing what he does. I won’t be accepted like that; it’s just not gonna happen. If I came out and I tried to do the same thing everyone else is doin’? Then I’m ‘trying to be black.’ If I come out trying to do the opposite of what everyone else is doing, and try to put guitars in, because I like guitars? Then I’m ‘Kid Rock.’ "

As for whether Sullee’s Boston-Irish roots are good for his identity as a musician, Teddy Riley is emphatic. "No," he says. "It’s great. It’s not good, it’s great. I think he’s gonna open up Boston. I haven’t seen anyone yet to really blow up Boston like it’s supposed to be, and I think this kid could do it."

As far as Sullee’s concerned, he just does what he does. "I just gotta make music about having fun," he says. "I just do what I do. I have fun, I like girls. That’s just me. I enjoy women, I enjoy parties, and I enjoy sleeping. I don’t mind; if you want to pigeonhole me, put me in ‘Pop.’ If I’m popular music, then that means I’m doing pretty well."

And that’s just what Bob Sullivan wants: to give his son opportunities that he never had. To help him, at least, stay on the straight and narrow, and, at best, make it big. "We hear things like, ‘Okay, he’s a rapper because his father’s putting up the money,’ " Bob says. "Well, his father’s putting up the money to try to give him an honest shot at it! I’m sure every rapper in the country would like to say, ‘Yeah, my family put up the money.’ Most can’t."

But if he’s trying his damnedest to make a new and better life for his son, he’s also carried over a few lessons from his old life — a hard-nosed sense of loyalty that’s sometimes helped him navigate the tougher corners of the record industry. On the intro to Sullee’s song "Gangsta," Bob Sullivan makes a spoken-word cameo, looking back on his days in the South End: "Everybody’s a gangster, everybody’s a tough guy today. I’m from the old school. ‘Gangster’ to me was loyalty to your family, loyalty to your friends. Meaning what you say. Doing what you say. A handshake. A handshake was a man’s word."

"I can tell you, today’s a joke," Bob says. "Back in the day, you better mean what you say. People held you accountable. You can say and do things today, and no one holds you accountable. Back then, you were held accountable. When they said they were coming for ya, they were coming for ya. You could bet on it. You could sit out front, and they’d be there. They’d be pulling up."

"They didn’t drive by," Sullee says.

"They didn’t drive by. They got out."

"They drove up to you and said, ‘Goodbye,’ " Sullee says, recoiling a tilted index-finger gun. "It was different. And that’s kind of where I learned from. That’s where I got my street sense from: a old-school type of gangsta, instead of some kid who’s selling crack on the corner and who gets mad when you step on his $100 shoes. These were guys that were real serious. Who didn’t wear expensive shoes, ’cause it didn’t matter what they wore, because everybody knew. Then they went back to their million-dollar houses. I learned a whole different type of gangster."