A broke music promoter and his detoxing son hatched a plan to solve all their problems. With Nas. On New Year’s Eve. In Angola. joshbearman and richschapiro report in partnership with epic
This is the first installment of a three-part story. In part two, with their passports confiscated and heroin withdrawal setting in, they ask a team of mercenaries for help. In part three, their situation only gets bleaker — until a relapse and a sudden death set the stage for an unlikely breakthrough. Skip to: Part 2 | Part 3Patrick Allocco Jr. was drunk and confused, sprinting through the back alleys of Luanda, Angola, a place he barely knew.
And nearly naked. When it was finally quiet and he hoisted himself out of the water, his pants caught on something and slipped off, along with his shoes. He managed to grab his shoes, but his pants were gone, along with his wallet, phone, and keys. So Patrick Jr. was wearing only wet sneakers and underwear as he climbed up the wall of the dead end and started walking across the sheet-metal roofs, looking for a way out.
Patrick Jr. sensed that this was Danilo’s idea and couldn’t tell if Osvaldo was in on it, going along in the moment, or maybe even trying to help. Either way, Patrick Jr. felt betrayed. “I thought we were brothers,” he said to Osvaldo. “My name is Patrick Allocco Jr.,” he said. “My father is Patrick Allocco Sr. And we are trapped in Angola.” Illustration: Zohar Lazar Patrick Allocco Sr. was down and out. He had been a real-estate speculator, a campaign manager, and a music promoter, all of which were self-created jobs he describes as “professional crisis management.” These days, there seemed to be more crisis than management. An arrangement with “the Barry Manilow of Spain” had blown up in Las Vegas.
Patrick Sr. was working in ad sales at Dow Jones, doing well but feeling the itch to strike out on his own. He’d gotten his first taste of music promotion when he arranged for Don McLean to play a concert at Upstairs, Downstairs. He followed that with McLean at Carnegie Hall. Patrick Sr. made money on the former, lost money on the latter. Nevertheless, he was drawn to the business.
Concert promotion was often not about one’s personal taste; the job was to sell whatever you could — like when he put on a Radio Disney show with Lindsay Lohan and Hulk Hogan. Or when he took Menudo on tour or worked with Julio Iglesias. This gave Patrick Sr. the idea to bring on a partner who spoke Spanish and head south with American acts, like Stevie Wonder. He helped organize a jazz festival in Tobago, where he booked Elton John, Shakira, and Sting. As Patrick Jr.
Patrick Sr. was about to lose the house anyhow. The only moneymaking gigs he had going were a couple of tours with Colombian comedians, one of which had such a skeleton crew that Patrick Sr. was in charge of firing the confetti cannon. One night, as he was waiting for his cue, someone texted him a picture of Patrick Jr. on the street, panhandling. How did it come to this? Patrick Sr. thought.
Using the internet at a friend’s house, he reached Riquinho. “I look forward to doing business with you,” Patrick Sr. wrote. He quickly discovered that Riquinho’s first choice, Lil Wayne, was unavailable. And his first few backups, like Nicki Minaj, were booked. Eventually, Riquinho suggested Nas, and after several days of effort Patrick Sr. managed to get the rapper’s manager on the phone. Incredibly, Nas was available. Patrick Sr.
Patrick Jr. was sick in both senses; he was trying to keep down opiate-withdrawal pills while managing a rumbling cough. Although that didn’t stop him from stepping out for a cigarette. Patrick Jr. unzipped the tent and put on his one item of personal value, a rabbit-fur bomber hat. He lit a Camel and wandered over to a tree. This was the nicest part of his day: peeing in the middle of Military Park, ear flaps down, watching the traffic go by.
That was the story, but Patrick Jr. didn’t like to talk about it much, certainly not with his father. After the overdose in November of 2011, Patrick Sr. visited him in rehab, and they kept the conversation light. It was Thanksgiving Day. They ate turkey, tried to make the best of it. Patrick Jr. was in a bit of a daze, probably from the detox medications. But how much was there to say? Both of them knew he was not interested in sobriety. When his days were done, Patrick Jr.
For a week, Patrick Jr. remained unconvinced. He was on probation, for one thing, and wasn’t supposed to leave the state. When his dad called, Patrick Jr. would say he was happy with his tent and his drugs. He was also hoping to patch things up with Rachel, although it was tough going. One night, when Patrick Jr. was extremely high, she stopped answering his calls.
It had been a rough trip. Patrick Jr. had managed to get a doctor to give him some Suboxone pills, but he did not have quite enough, so he was spacing them out and was beset by constant, low-grade withdrawal. There had been only a few days to get ready in New Jersey. While running errands with his father, they’d had lunch at Friendly’s, where Patrick Jr.
To his relief, Patrick Jr. was cleared at the Angolan immigration desk after an hour. It did seem strange that the officials kept his passport, but he made no protest. He was collected by one of Riquinho’s associates, Zeca, who walked right through a security checkpoint and cracked a beer at the pickup curb as they drove away.
“After independence,” Zeca said, “we had a long civil war.” Patrick Jr. asked what it was about, and Zeca said it was complicated. For 27 years, the conflict was a proxy Cold War battlefield — well funded and highly destructive. Any infrastructure the Portuguese hadn’t shipped to Lisbon was annihilated. The country’s oil and diamond resources only made it worse. More than a million people died.
Patrick Jr. wanted to get this right. There were, in fact, critical logistics to arrange. And he was a Nas fan — as a kid, he’d listen to “N.Y. State of Mind” on headphones while riding the BMX bike his father had bought him. Now he had to procure visas for Nas and his entourage and get him onstage at a giant arena. After the show, Patrick Jr. thought, maybe we’ll smoke a blunt together. That would be pretty cool.
It worked. He was impressed and unnerved. The next stop was Riquinho’s office, where there was a big desk and pictures of the man shaking hands with President José Eduardo dos Santos. They sat beneath a large Angolan flag — a striking take on Soviet iconography with a machete instead of a hammer — and discussed plans for the concerts. Out front, Patrick Jr. smoked a cigarette with one of Riquinho’s men who spoke English. “Riquinho can get anything in this town,” the man said.
Patrick Sr. wandered around a survivalist supply depot in New Jersey called Get Out Safe, gearing up. He’d never been to Angola and didn’t know what to expect. Preparation time was short, and he figured it couldn’t hurt to get provisioned as a precaution; he stocked up on basics, including a first-aid kit, MREs, and a box of Mayday-brand emergency drinking water. Walking back to his car, Patrick Sr. passed by the sign out front that said: DON’T WAIT UNTIL IT’S TOO LATE.
After enlisting a former partner to help with logistics in the U.S., Patrick Sr. took 20 minutes to pack a duffel bag with some clothes and his survivalist larder, arranged to get the money to Nas’s manager, and headed for the airport. He didn’t have time to worry about the jittery emails he got from Nas’s manager about travel documentation, safe transportation, and the one that said: “If for any reason Nas doesn’t board the flight … we will get that money right back to you.
Very funny, Patrick said. “No,” his son said. “I’m serious. Nas did not board the flight. No one is coming. We are fucked.” Patrick Sr. stopped smiling.
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