Waiting for an audience with JOHNNY DANG
Grill master to hip-hop stars, the ‘King of Bling’ can open doors for hopefuls
The young DJ with the soft voice and long pink hair brushed to one side is asked why he’s standing beside the pingpong table on the patio of Johnny Dang’s jewelry store on Richmond. It’s a late-summer Monday, at that time in the afternoon when the sun cuts through the horizon at a low angle but is still hot enough to make you soak through your clothes in seconds.
He shields his eyes against the light, squinting at the inquisitor, who, like him, is also a striver — a skinny, tattooed, sweaty white guy named Kelby who goes by Meeklow Diamond. Here, everybody goes by something. The DJ says he’s looking for new grills, but last night, sometime during or after the Drake afterparty at Spire, he lost his wallet, so he’s out of cash for now.
In reality, the DJ is here to meet Dang. To hand him a mix tape. Or pimp a SoundCloud page. Or simply be in the presence of the man who’s become one of the premier hip-hop jewelers in America, supplying mouth diamonds for everyone from local hero Travis Scott to Olympic swim star Ryan Lochte. An immigrant from Vietnam who still carries his accent, Dang is an example of the American dream buttressed with fame and fortune. But because he’s a man who welcomes rap stars into his home, Dang has also become a conduit for dreams as hopeful musicians, DJs and hangers-on just want to step into his sphere of influence in
After our pingpong game, I wonder if my kills were too much, if my play style was disrespectful. Johnny Dang’s assistant Meeklow whispers that I did well, that Dang normally counts the score out loud but this time he didn’t. ‘Next time, he’ll remember you,’ he says.
hopes of getting a little bit of the shine.
Which is why a day of lingering around the patio at Johnny Dang & Co. could be treated as a job interview. And why gaining audience with Dang isn’t easy. Like the DJ, I’m here on the promise of hope — I had received a tip that “someone very famous” would be stopping by today.
The young DJ says he performs primarily at College Station but happens to be in town for the Drake-related festivities. He shows Meeklow his Instagram page, mentioning, in a low, nearly inaudible voice, that he’s opened for Waka Flocka Flame. His stage name is Internet Famous. The two hunch toward each other as they peer at a video of what the DJ calls a typical concert he puts on, a montage of lights and pulsating bodies backed by one of the DJ’s songs. An attractive, 20-something woman wearing a T-shirt with the DJ’s moniker sticks out her tongue in slow motion. Meeklow nods and smiles.
Meeklow, sweating through his flannel shirt, is nearly done with his first patio cigarette. He’s used to these encounters, these reaches for acceptence. He helps manage the store’s Instagram account, which includes a phone number for inquiries. Meeklow spends part of every day at work answering the phone, hanging up on hip-hop obsessed kids prank-calling to say something funny to a famous person. But sometimes, the callers themselves are famous. Meeklow must be ready for both scenarios.
Even if the DJ proves to Meeklow he’s an interesting, talented dude the Dang family should know, follow and support, Meeklow’s only a new assistant. A third person walks on the patio. He’s a young, muscular man with slicked hair. His unbuttoned shirt reveals a giant tattoo of a diamond on his chest. He says he’s Johnny Dang’s right-hand man. He’s also named Johnny, so in the shop he’s referred to as Johnny Boy.
I’d been sitting down, balancing my butt against the edge of the couch, still wet from what appears to be one of those ephemeral Houston rain showers. I stand to meet Johnny Boy. We look around the patio, the size of an average living room. It’s a hidden treasure to all those unfamiliar with Dang’s business. A grill sits on the other side of the edge of the balcony. Across the patio, near the entrance back into the jewelry store, is a white projection screen that Meeklow had explained is a golf simulator — that kind of arcade game that you hit a golf ball into, and it shows a video of where your ball would have ended up. Some call this Johnny’s man cave.
Johnny Boy is not like Meeklow. He smokes slightly more expensive cigarettes. He’s been in Johnny’s circle about seven months and can handle transactions over $10,000. Meeklow and other newer employees must refer larger deals to a more senior member.
The DJ’s eyes dart around. A videographer, D. Will, enters. The patio is becoming livelier, with multiple conversations, therefore multiple possibilities for social connections. Someone implies the man of the house may soon make an appearance, as soon as he’s finished seeing some other clients. The conversation turns to the pingpong table. It’s a beautiful model, fit for a professional tournament, with buckets filled with balls hanging off the sides.
Snoop Dogg has played pingpong here. Quavo of the platinum-selling hip-hop act Migos has played pingpong here. Paul Wall and Chamillionaire and a bulk of Houston’s greatest rappers, no doubt, have played here. This makes me happy.
I’d been standing off to the side, sitting and sweating and pulling up my iPhone when I couldn’t contribute anything to the conversation. The DJ is in the music industry, which gives him an edge in conversing with Meeklow, D. Will and Johnny Boy. But I’m an Asian guy who plays table tennis. I heard Dang’s game is ferocious, but I grew up with a pingpong table and played club in college. That gives me a potential in with Dang, who perhaps isn’t easy to impress. This is a patio built for famous men and gorgeous women who namedrop people like Waka Flocka Flame. But ping pong makes a lot of noise. It dominates the aural flow of the room as much as even the most entertaining, impressive story.
Johnny Dang walks in. Just like that. There’s no fanfare, no buildup, no cheers. The conversation stops, and all our eyes are on him. He has his usual short, spiked hair and laconic demeanor. He reminded me of the “untalkative Asian uncle,” a common trope among AsianAmerican families — the intimidating, patriarchal man who stops by the birthday party for a few minutes, speaks impatiently, remains quiet and leaves. The man of the house is here.
Johnny Boy helps make introductions. I quickly run out of things to say and resort to the fail-safe stored in my head. “I play pingpong.” “Wanna play?” And so I take off my sweater jacket and fold it in a corner. I had wanted to talk to him more, to actually form a loose social bond before engaging in a physical activity. And we had been waiting to see Dang for so long that I play with a nervous energy. Dang is a skilled player, his game fast and precise and filled with wily moves — drop shots, trick serves, unexpected kills. I’m sloppy and awkward, but I warm up and begin to understand Dang’s rhythm. He mutters to himself in frustration after a few unforced errors. I attempt a kill, my first show of aggression.
Dang moves to deflect, but the ball ricochets off to the side, touching the net on my end of the table first. His point. I can’t return many of his serves, which are full of side spin and deep angles. I try a kill again. The ball bounces on Dang’s side this time. It flies toward the couch on the corner of the patio, where the DJ is watching us play. Dang whips out a ball from his pocket and serves right away, catching me off guard.
The patio is a good size for competitive play, with plenty of room for spectators. The crowd is entertained, but the attention given to me is uncomfortable because I feel like I haven’t earned it. The voice inside me is screaming, “Everyone’s looking at you! Be charming!” I play silently, though I’m desperately trying to come up with witty banter.
Without warning, Dang stops the game. “OK,” he says, walking briskly away from the table. We’re both sweating a bit. I stand there, confused, and I wonder if the kills were too much, if my play style was disrespectful. Meeklow whispers to me that I did well, that Dang normally counts the score out loud but this time he didn’t. “Next time, he’ll remember you,” he says.
Dang chooses to pay attention to the DJ, who shakes the jeweler’s hand and begins talking and talking and talking, in that fast, low, quiet voice of his. He mentions Diplo. He talks about growing up loving Paul Wall and Mike Jones. “What makes Diplo big?” Dang asks. “You know, it’s the dancing, the sound, people going crazy apeshit and twerking, the culture, the music, the character,” the DJ says. I wonder if he is rambling.
I get my answer. Dang nods, then without saying anything else he turns to me, then looks back to the DJ and asks us if we need anything else. This was not a question we were prepared for, and we both politely say no, and thank you so much, and so on. His posse seems trained to know when Dang makes an exit. Dang walks back into the store, and it feels like the sun escaping the solar system, leaving the planets to figure out whom to revolve around. Meeklow gives me a glance that says, “Well, it looks like we’re done here.”
I spend the rest of the afternoon sitting in D. Will and Meeklow’s office, upset that somehow Dang lumped me in with the DJ, thinking that perhaps if it weren’t for his demeanor, I would have made a better impression. Sitting at D. Will’s desk, I could see past the hallway out onto the patio. Johnny Dang comes back out, this time in the company of two or three men — rappers, according to Meeklow — who talk and chat and play a game or two of pingpong.
Dang does not come into his assistants’ room that afternoon (D. Will, a veteran of Dang’s “Diamond Boys,” later corrects me on his status, saying he is a longtime collaborator of Dang). Then Meeklow says if I want to hang around, Snoop Dogg, in Houston for his role in the play “Redemption of a Dogg,” is coming around later. There’s mention of a barbecue after hours.
Meeklow returns about an hour later and says, “Oh, you’re still here?” I tell him I’m about to go; my phone is going to die. On the way out, I see the DJ wandering the first floor of the shop, his hands in his pockets, pretending to look at jewelry. I run into him on the way down the stairs, as Johnny Boy is walking me to the front door. The DJ asks Johnny Boy if he has dinner plans, and Johnny Boy says something about everyone probably just going home and not really doing dinner at this moment, sorry. “But what about that barbecue?” was the burning question I did not ask. I did ask for an invite to an upcoming, exclusive private party, and Johnny Boy says he’ll make sure I get a personal invitation.
I smile, knowing that the afternoon was not completely squandered, though I would not get to meet Snoop. On the way out, I look at the twin set of golden chandeliers, the photos of Dang with Beyoncé and Jay-Z, the purple velvet cushions of the seats by the entrance, all the accoutrements of this palace of gold and silver and purple built by and for Houston’s King of Bling, a Vietnamese immigrant with an accent who is revered in the hip-hop community — where a dream of wealth and fame is promised to everyone but granted only to a select few.