Jonathan Shecter - Page 2

Two years later, following the founders’ graduation, The Source relocated to New York. Thanks to authoritative writing, shrewd marketing, and the novel idea that hip-hop could encompass not just music but also clothing, cars, food, and an entire lifestyle, the publication became the genre’s bible. Shecter’s proximity to the music’s unfolding history was heaven for a rap disciple: He carried around a cassette of Illmatic for seven months before the magazine famously declared it a “five-mic” classic (“I was just copying Rolling Stone,” Shecter admits of a rating system that sparked a million barbershop arguments), and smoked weed in the office stairwell with Notorious B.I.G., as the Brooklyn rapper debated signing with Puff Daddy’s upstart Bad Boy label.

In 1994, it all came to an end. Unbeknownst to the editorial staff, Dave Mays penned a gushing article about Benzino’s group, the Almighty RSO, and inserted it in the magazine. “It was an ethical violation, from a journalist’s point of view,” Shecter says, “but for me, it was a personal violation. We weren’t really best friends, per se, but we were business partners and there was a level of mutual respect.” Shortly thereafter, he resigned. The questionable relationship between Benzino and the publication continued, and ultimately grew into a beast that devoured itself. “So much time has passed [that] I don’t feel like I’m connected to it anymore,” says Shecter. “I know that not every person who listens to hip-hop or reads The Source knows who I am, but there’s enough people who know the story, and the truth is out there.” Following his departure, and after several months of legal wrangling, Shecter’s ownership share in The Source was bought out for, as he puts it, “a million bucks.” He was young and wealthy—but after leaving his dream job, what was there to do?

Shecter is now 38 years old and, with his medium build and delicate hands, is nothing if not unassuming. Telling stories, he speaks with such poise and fluidity that his words seem rehearsed. It’s an ideal temperament for a poker player, which is why he’s seated at the highest-stake table in the Bellagio casino (the “Yankee Stadium of poker,” he calls it) among the other regulars: a scruffy slob chewing on a steak sandwich; a skinny white kid in an oversized button-down and New Era fitted hat; and a middle-aged Asian man whose tinted glasses, slicked hair, and dangling diamond-slathered crucifix make him look every bit the Cambodian military strongman.

Shecter’s personality bleeds into his play: He rarely bluffs on a bad hand or takes unnecessary risks. Hidden behind dark sunglasses, he makes mincemeat of the competition in No Limit Hold ’Em, winning several thousand dollars in under an hour. “We’re off to a good start, and it’s not even midnight,” he says softly, handing a stack of chips over to the hostess to be transferred into different denominations. Shecter calls himself a semi-pro: He competes at the same high-stakes tables as the gambling elites, but he doesn’t make his living by the turn of the card.