Super Producer Scott Storch at one time had the biggest records topping Billboard like Cry Me A River, Baby Boy & Lean Back. “Ma, this is my image. This is what’s separating me from other producers,” he once told his concerned mother. But Scott had an even bigger issue that he couldn’t separate from that plummeted his career leaving him broke and losing his “lavish lifestyle” – COCAINE.
Check out a piece Bossip posted about Scott Storch written by Miami New Times:
For her and her gifted son, nothing has turned out the way it should have. She watched Scott blow his fortune in spectacular, infamous fashion, giving millions of dollars in diamonds and cars to his girlfriends, which included America’s holy trinity of floozydom: Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, and Kim Kardashian.
In the meantime, Yolanda, who cares full-time for her partially blind father, waited in this $81,000 house for her son to remember her. Instead, Scott descended into a cocaine binge that crashed his career, propelled him into massive financial litigation and bankruptcy, and sent him to rehab.
The neglect gnaws at her. She can’t help but bring it up — to complain about the holes in her “36-year-old carpet” and her decaying patio furniture and medical expenses that eat right through her father’s social security checks. “Scott always told me he had plans to do certain things for the family,” she says. “But then I guess things got bad before he got around to it. I read about all these other rappers’ mothers — P. Diddy’s mother, Kanye West’s mother, Jay-Z’s mother. Their sons all took care of them.”
Then Yolanda worries, “If he reads this, he would be very angry at me. He’s not going to ever give me anything.”
So, exactly what would she like to see in print? She thinks and begins again: “I think that maybe you should make sure your mother has her retirement taken care of before you buy another $2 million necklace for some hotel heiress. You don’t just have a miracle from God like that and then take all that money and throw it in the garbage pail.”
Yolanda once read that her son returned to South Florida to spend more time with her. That’s not the way things turned out. He’d send for her and his grandfather two or three times a year, shuttling them by limo to Café Avanti or Smith & Wollensky in Miami Beach, where he’d sit with a silk shirt undone to his abdomen, shades blocking his eyes, and a new girl by his side. “There were always bodyguards at the table, and they’d listen to the conversations,” Yolanda recalls. “Ninety percent of the time, he was in a hurry to get done with dinner because he would say so-and-so was waiting for him at the studio.”
Once his spending began to get out of control, she tried to persuade him to slow down a bit, to maybe buy a Burger King or two. He didn’t listen. “Ma, this is my image. This is what’s separating me from other producers,” she remembers him replying. “They expect this from me.”
Nowadays, Scott is in Los Angeles, attempting to make a comeback on Dr. Dre’s upcoming album, Detox. Asked to handicap his grandson’s shot at regaining fame, Julius doesn’t hesitate: “I think his chances are very good. Perhaps if he stays away from those jerky broads, like Paris Hilton or Lindsay —”
“Daddy, don’t say that!” Yolanda screams, suddenly emerging from the bedroom.
“Lindsay Lohan is a jerky broad!” he continues, undeterred. “She’s a lesbian and —”
His daughter clasps a hand over his mouth. “Don’t say that! Scott’s going to get angry! He’s going to disown us! Just say, ‘I hope Scott gets his career together and becomes the world’s top producer again.’”
Storch discovered the ego fertilizer known as cocaine. Soon he was snorting every day, Jackson says. “It started out light, and then it just escalated.” More than once, manager Jackson showed up at Villa Ferrari to coax Storch into getting clean. The inside of the mansion resembled a crack house, strewn with garbage and paraphernalia. Storch was surrounded by “takers” — fellow addicts, gold diggers, and bumbling handlers. Constantly snorting bumps of coke, he now paired his jewelry with shirts stained from “blood that would just gush out of his nose at any given time.” Storch seemed to Jackson like an animal, capable of viciousness but not reason: “Scott didn’t give a f*ck. You can’t be humiliated while you’re high. You’re not conscious of the destruction you’re wreaking on the lives of people around you. You feel nothing, you see nothing, but the drug.”
Derek Jackson remembers the phone call that told him Storch had finally hit rock bottom. “Listen, man, I messed up bad,” the producer pleaded. “I apologize. Come fix this. Come save my life.”
Over his wife’s protests, Jackson flew to South Florida to meet Storch as he emerged from rehab in May 2009. The producer was doughy and listless from his two-month stint. Twenty-six days later, he declared bankruptcy.
Wow. That’s pretty crazy. What’s even crazier is the “Editor’s note” from the article…peep it below:
Editor’s note: New Times reporter Gus Garcia-Roberts flew to Los Angeles to interview Scott Storch, but the meeting was cancelled when this publication refused to excise references to his mother.
The night of the thwarted interview, Yolanda Storch says, Scott called her in a rage. He accused her of trying to revive her cobwebbed singing prospects. “I told you never to talk to the press,” he seethed. “You’re going to ruin my career, and you’re thinking only about furthering your own.”
“You’ve made me sick to my stomach,” she kvetched. “I won’t be able to eat my dinner.”
Scott shot back, “I won’t be able to eat my dinner until the article comes out.”