In the ever-expanding mythology of hip-hop producers, Prince Paul’s name doesn’t ring as loudly as some of his peers—but that’s by design. While others built empires, Paul built systems, quietly instilling self-sufficiency in the artists he believed in. Nowhere is that more evident than in his early work with De La Soul.
Appearing on The DJ Kenny Parker Show, Paul peeled back the layers of Three Feet High and Rising, revealing not just the creative mechanics, but the intention behind the collaboration. “I told these guys, ‘I’mma do this album, I’mma teach you whatever I know, and then the next record you could do yourself,’” he said. It wasn’t a flippant remark—it was the framework for De La’s future.
By the time the group stepped into the studio to cut their debut, Paul was already operating like a one-man workshop. “Back in the days you had two tape decks and you just dub things,” he said. “That was the only multitrack recording I had at the time.” He flipped VHS recorders into stereo samplers and dubbed edits in real time. When Maseo brought him the early demo of “Plug Tunin’,” Paul didn’t just hear potential—he heard a shift.
“I was like, ‘Yo, bring them by the house,’” he recalled. “I was like, ‘I’m going to take this tape and I’m going to work on it.’” That willingness to experiment—no budget, no polish—resulted in a sound that cracked open the genre. While mainstream rap in 1988 was dominated by James Brown loops and East Coast drum breaks, Paul and De La were pulling from French instructional records and dusty soul cuts. “I think we found each other at the right time,” Paul said. “I wouldn’t have been able to do that with any other group.”
But Three Feet High wasn’t just a sonic outlier. It was a conceptual leap. Paul didn’t just help produce the music—he embedded a narrative framework throughout, using game show skits to give each member their own identity. “I was like, ‘Let’s do a game show,’” Paul said, describing the group’s now-iconic running theme. “So [the audience] can hear your voice, know what you’re into.”
By the time De La Soul Is Dead came around, things had shifted. The group was older. More cynical. Paul was still experimenting—still pushing. But the chemistry was changing. “We were bickering over little things,” he admitted. “That means there’s a bigger issue.” So he stepped away—not in bitterness, but out of respect. “I wasn’t supposed to do all these records anyway. Maybe it’s time for you guys to work on this by yourself.”
Even in parting, Paul protected the dynamic. “We’re still cool,” he told Kenny Parker. “I didn’t want our friendship to end because of this.” The records—Stakes Is High, AOI, The Grind Date—they speak for themselves. De La never needed another producer again. That was the plan all along.
“It made me learn how to establish myself as an individual,” Paul reflected. But more than that, it proved his real skill wasn’t just in beats. It was in building artists who could outgrow him.
