Tucked away somewhere in North Hollywood, at the dead end of a nondescript side street, a low-slung building squats behind a chain-link fence. If you were to pull into the lot and step into the late-afternoon sun, you'd hear a beat drifting out of an open door--some real go-to-war shit too, fist-pumping, sword-rattling, layered with guitar licks and wailing female voices, like the wrath of Elohim himself is fixin' to rain down. It sounds like a welcome throwback, actually, the kind of vibe hip-hop's been missing. And that's fitting, because inside that building is someone who's been missing for a minute too. Someone we should all be happy to have back.

See, it's been exactly one month since Ras Kass touched down from a bid upstate. Twenty months since he was put behind bars, two years since he went on the lam. Close to three years since his last album was supposed to hit the streets, and almost seven since you've been able to see any label-sanctioned Ras Kass on the New Releases shelf.

It would appear that the wait hasn't been in vain. The studio, headquarters of production team Da Riffs, is officially called Red Room--but someone might want to think about changing those two "O"s to a "U," because Ras is in the vocal booth going Jack Torrance on a track tentatively titled "Get Your Bars Up." In the space of a single verse, he careens from funny to political to violent to straight triflin', a murderous 16 that takes no prisoners--"They'll put you on the cover if you mastered grammar/Or put you on the cover if you dance like Hammer/Fuckin' hypocrites..." He finishes it off, of course, with one of those rewind, did-l-really-just-hear-that? moments he's so renowned for: "Diamond-mine slavery back again/And I'm smart enough to know what's happenin'/But I might just be ignorant enough to stunt/And gold-dip a real live African." As he listens to the playback, he just laughs.

"Fuck hip-hop," he says, quoting himself. "This is skulljumpin'."

* * *

Hip-hop has always had its unsung heroes, those near-legendary figures who never seemed to get a fair shake or move units on a scale reflecting their stature. The Organized Konfusions, the Freestyle Fellowships, the Goodie Mobs. It's damn near undeniable that king among these heroes is John Austin, Ras Kass, the Waterproof MC, the rapper's rapper.

Ras stormed out of the LA underground in the mid-'90s with a series of tracks and collabos that had backpacker kids in permanent nutswing mode; then he signed with Priority. He released two albums, Soul on Ice and Rasassination; despite a few buried classic cuts on each, they both went certified pleather. People blamed the first sales failure on weak production, the second on Ras' lyrics growing glitzy and unimaginative. Whether or not those charges have merit, the albums' performance led to predictable tension between the man and the label.

"I don't think some of the executives knew what they were doing," he says of Priority, which has since been folded into the Capitol Records branch of EMI Music. Having finished recording for the day, Ras sits in Red Room's lounge and rolls the first of many Bugle cigarettes. "They didn't get it, and didn't attempt to get it, but were unwilling to let me go because I'm an industry darling. Dr. Dre's getting on TV and saying that of his top five rappers, I'm the only one who's not platinum-so they're sittin' around scratching their heads like, 'We'll let him dangle on a fuckin' string and eventually he'll bring it all to us and we'll get all the money.' It's always been brewing that way."

While Ras was recording his next album, Goldyn Child (the expansion of a heavily bootlegged project originally titled Van Gogh), he was arrested on a DUI charge. The case was his third, which meant a 16-month felony bid. He finished production using work extensions to delay his sentencing hearings and keep himself out of jail. Ras had recorded three singles for the album: the title track with Premier, a song with Hi-Tek and one with Dr. Dre. Priority didn't know about the Dre track, and Ras wasn't about to tell them; he and Dre were saving it for the third single. Of course, when the label found out about it, they tried to pull the Premier track and move Dre's to the lead position. "Dre and I had everything planned out," says Ras, "but they were so groupied-up that they were gonna hang my career on the next man." Dre refused clearance on principle, and Priority put the project into limbo, pushing back the release date numerous times.

By late 2002, Ras' relationship with Priority was at its breaking point. "I came to the realization," he remembers, "that if I turn myself in now, my sentence is sixteen months. I figured half-time for first offense, that's ten months to a year. [If I run], my max is three years, but with half-time, that's a year and a half; what the fuck is the difference? So I do what the fuck I deem necessary to get my paper right for my family." He disappeared--along with the masters for both Van Gogh and Goldyn Child--forgoing his sentencing appearance in January, 2003 and effectively becoming a fugitive.

Somehow, Ras' disappearance made him more visible than ever. Not only did otherwise mainstream media outlets start paying attention, but with nothing to lose, he finally had the freedom to speak out. He talked about his "slave deal," likening Priority to a plantation and putting label executives on blast. He recorded a mixtape, Runaway Slave, and assembled a compilation album. In late May 2003, though, the ride came to an end: Ras was arrested in Las Vegas after a car he was riding in was pulled over for a moving violation.

California State Prison-Corcoran, located halfway between Fresno and Bakersfield, crams nearly 5,000 inmates into a space designed for fewer than 3,000. Operating at 170 percent of capacity seems par for the course in the Governator's California, a place Ras vehemently calls a police state. "California has thirty-two state prisons," he says. "This is how we make our money. It's not cheese--it's the prisoners."

And while Ras had done some county time as a minor, a state bid is some other shit entirely. "You just don't know what to expect," he says. "It doesn't matter what you do in here, they're not lettin' you out no sooner. You could be the nicest person, you could cry all the time, but your date is your date."

So he treated it like an out-of-body experi-ence. Talking about it now, he quotes Jigga: "'Trapped my body, can't lock my mind/Vis-a-vis, easy how we adapt to crime...' I wasn't there, niggas'll tell you. Why should I go outside? I'ma use the phone, watch institutional movies and write raps." Inmates at Corcoran are allowed 12 CDs; Ras ended up writing close to 100 songs, with the help of Biggie's Life After Death, Nas' I Am..., the Makaveli joint and Freeway's first album. "That shit is a penitentiary album," he says, yelling into the tape recorder: "Freeway, you need to gimme some publishing, nigga! I put Corcoran onto yo' shit!"

He did his time smart--no borrowing, no bullshit, no backing down--and got out without any major problems. Now, he's concerned with staying out. "You can't tell me it's cool to be in prison," he says. "'Cause everybody in there wish to fuck they was outta there. I seen niggas slice they own shit ear-to-ear, seen niggas jumpin' off the fifth tier. It's ugly, man. I seen a lot of shit. That's what niggas wanna hear about, so I'll give you a bar and tell you what's crackin', but I ain't gonna say it's cute or it was fun."

Ras Kass walked out of Corcoran on December 18. He flew into LA, reacquainted himself with the opposite gender and got his head right. Then came two and a half weeks of nothing but readjustment time with his family and his twin nine-year-old sons, making sure Blockbuster and Sam Goody got paid. "Shit moves fast out here," he says. "if you think you're gonna hit the ground runnin', you gonna run into a brick wall. You need to take some time out, clear your brain. I hadn't had privacy in almost two years. Now, I don't have to share a toilet with these other muthafuckas. I have toilet paper that doesn't feel like a boar's dick. So I took some time, and came out swingin', ready to work."

Ras is a self-described "studio whore" now, spending most days prepping a mixtape that's an album in every sense but the legal one. (Never underestimate the power of the phrase "For promotional use only.") He's knocking out freestyles, sending tracks to DJs-one of them ' Green Lantern, calls his cell phone during our conversation. Ras plays a couple of new tracks, the first an organ-driven Rick Rock-produced heater. "I went from drink some smoke some to Folsom/Made my nuts and biceps grow some," it begins-then goes on to blaze at a unnamed rapper: "All of a sudden niggas actin' like what I always was/West Coast lyricist with East Coast buzz." Less subtle insults follow. It sounds like not only is Ras spittin' game, he's spittin' at Game. He denies it--with a grin. "I don't think I'm being that specific, man. I just made a blanket statement. If the shoe fits, find a matching purse. It's just how I feel. Everybody got killers, don't nobody wanna die-and you can't outrap me."

Despite the stress of the last few years, Ras seems largely unchanged. Maybe the Corcoran weight room got him a little swoll' through the neck and shoulders, a little grown up in the face. but that's it. Same goatee, same waves. Psychologically, there doesn't seem to be any baggage; he's quick to laugh, and as thoughtful as ever. "I'm not jaded," he says. "I'm not frustrated. I'm real cool. I love what I do. I'm fortunate enough to be able to live comfortably doin' what I do. Now I just want my title, my championship ring. I'm hungry--and I really feel like niggas can get it."

Last May, announcing that he was "trying to get off the plantation," Ras filed a five-million-dollar lawsuit against Priority for breach of agreement and refusing to dissolve his contract. Now, it's looking like he's about to get caked off lovely. "My lawyer would beat me up if I talk about it," he says with a grin, "but it's close to being resolved--and it looks very favorable for me. Freedom plus payment. So I get to be rich and go ahead and pursue other avenues." [Capitol Records never responded to XXL's calls seeking comment.]

What might those other avenues be? While Ras was in Corcoran, Xzibit tried to buy out his Priority contract and sign him to his new Open Bar label. Priority refused at the time, but the situation has obviously changed. Also, given Ras' close ties with Dre, it's been whispered that he might end up at Aftermath. Ras sidesteps the issue like Dubya at a press conference: "I can't say, man. But I can say that it looks like I'll have a home by the summer." He smiles again, though, and the expression on his face makes it clear that whatever he's not saying is some good news for him.

Add in getting his Re-Up Entertainment crew off the ground--proteges Scipio and 40 Glocc are getting steady mixtape buzz--and it's clear that it's about to be a busy year for Ras. Don't think for a second he's not ready. "I've been airin' niggas out for ten years," he says. "I own this shit. I'm just tryin' to get my equity out the game. It's about settin' that precedent about what the fuck the West Coast is. That is our fuckin' birthright."