E-Mail This Article to a Friend A-plus The founders of Worcester’s A-Records have seen war’s evils from both sides — including in Iraq. Now, with their fledgling music label, they’re working to make good things happen. BY MIKE MILIARD

IN A VIDEO made for friends back in Worcester, Denoh Grear sits under a sweltering sun on some Sunni Triangle roadside, staring into the camera, sweat beading his brow. It’s the summer of 2003, and his gun truck is awaiting direction from higher-ups. From the vehicle’s battered speakers, the orphan girls’ chorus from Jay-Z’s "Hard Knock Life (Ghetto Anthem)" pierces the arid desert air. "It’s the right song for us right now," Grear says, folding a photo of his girlfriend back into his wallet. "You know how hot it is? We been here for two and a half hours on the side of the road, drinking hot water." He flips through a folder of CDs: Nas and Redman, some blues, Beenie Man and Beanie Sigel. He points to another disc. "That’s my label, back home, A-Records. City of Worcester ... we love you. We been here since the war started. They say the war’s ended, but it hasn’t. If you were out here, you’d wanna go home, too."

The story of the returning veteran, damaged, sometimes drug-dependent, is an old one. So is the story of the refugee who trades violence and strife in one country for poverty and despair in another. But although he fled civil war in West Africa as a child and fought a war in Iraq as a young adult, Denoh Grear isn’t either of those people. Instead of recoiling after seeing so much bad in the world, he returned from Iraq last year and redoubled his commitment to working for good.

Daniel Lincoln Bloh has also seen evil. He escaped the Liberian civil war that killed his father. He saw his teenage cousin raped. He walked dusty streets where child warriors dragged AK-47s too heavy to lift. Now he’s in America, and he too is working hard, very hard, to make good things happen.

As president and vice-president of Worcester’s A-Records, a small label run out of a tiny office, Bloh and Grear are living the American dream. A cliché, sure. But listen to them talk about the things they’ve seen, and their intense desire to make good on the opportunities afforded them by their immigrant parents, and you’ll find that’s really the only way to put it. With Ghana-born marketing executive Kwame Appiah and Liberia native A&R man Harrison Saydee, Bloh and Grear are mentoring a small stable of artists. One of them comes from Jamaica, another has roots in Haiti. Taken together, their backgrounds represent a sizable swathe of the African diaspora. It’s a modest operation, but, slowly and steadily, three-year-old A-Records is building buzz. And these twentysomethings do more than promote shows and produce their artists: they’re mentoring youth, hiring high schoolers as interns, and speaking in schools about violence and HIV.

After all, they insist, it’s their responsibility.

"All of us are kids of immigrants to the US," says Bloh. "That drive, for them to come strive for the American dream, makes us want that instead of just settling. We want to be in control of our own destiny, and we want to make an impact in our community. We’re making dreams happen."

ON THE FIFTH floor of a hulking edifice on Worcester’s Main Street is an office the size of a closet. It’s spare — just a desk and three chairs. On the desk is an American flag, folded into a triangle and encased in wood and glass. A tacked-on brass plaque denotes that it was presented to Grear "from the grateful people of this nation," for his service in the Army National Guard.

Above the desk are four black-and-white photos of the A-Records roster. There’s Pritty Boy, their marquee name. He moved to the States from his native Jamaica when he was six. Pritty Boy’s music, a potent mix of dance-hall reggae, hip-hop, and R&B, is starting to catch fire back home in the Caribbean; his single "Give it Up" is getting constant spins on radio stations such as the island’s Irie-FM. Then there’s Nynewest, a tough, sweet 19-year-old who sings and raps about modern relationships from a female perspective, her hip-hop-inflected R&B taking cues from Eve and Missy Elliott. Pharaoh Jean, son of Haitian immigrants, bounces between smooth slo-jams and nimble, beat-heavy braggadocio. And there’s Top Gun, a white kid, who deals in politically charged rhymes and the realities of growing up in lower-middle-class Worcester. (See "The A Team.")

They are A-Records’ only artists right now, but that doesn’t mean there might not someday be room for more. On a recent Monday morning at the label, there’s a meek knock on the door. Appiah, a slouching sentry in the corner, opens it.

"Hello," says a large middle-aged woman as she shuffles in. "This is a production-studio company right here, right? Am I interrupting something?"

"We’re having a meeting, but that’s okay," Bloh says. "Currently, right now, we’re recording stuff for our own artists, but we do have beats, instrumentals that we sell to the industry itself."

"I have five girls," the visitor says. "And I believe that they can sing. And I’m trying to see if I can get someone to take them up under their wings."

"I think the best thing to do is bring ’em by and have ’em audition," says Bloh, as the woman hands him an accordion of wallet photos of five little girls, ages six to 10.

"I would like to bring ’em in. They go to school here; they don’t get out till 3:30."

"How’d you hear about us?" Bloh asks.

"I was looking at the sign downstairs, and I said, ‘I’m just gonna go upstairs and see what this is all about.’ No one tells you until you investigate."

"Well, why don’t we hear them singing, and we’ll go from there," says Grear.

"My name is Sister White. I’m a Christian."

"What church you go to?" Bloh says, smiling.

"I go to Christ Tabernacle. As a matter of fact, why don’t I give you an invitation, and maybe y’all could come for Easter?"

"Do the girls sing gospel music?" asks Grear.

"They don’t sing nothin’ else, and they better not sing nothin’ else!" says White, igniting uproarious laughter. "As long as they’re under my wing, they gonna sing gospel. They sing it for the Lord, because it was God that gave them the voice. All right, then? I’ll see you Tuesday at 3:30."

"Have a good day," says Bloh.

"Thank you, and God bless all of y’all. Come on down, they got two services there. Come on in."

"Say your prayers for us," Grear says as White steps toward the door.

"Well, I can do that, right now! Want me do that right now?

"Please do."

"All right! Well, come around and hold my hand," White says. "We connectin’. We gotta connect here. This is, uh, what’s the name of it?"

"A-Records."

"A-Records," she repeats. And then, with three friends and two strangers holding hands and bowing heads, Sister White prays, passionately, loudly, and at length.