The Kickdrums may be hip-hop’s next big beatmakers. And they work out of a closet in Avon

"I was really kind of holding my breath," he says. "Ray was sitting on the couch, and when I played that part for him, he started flipping out."

"I think that's growth," explains Cash, a Billy Joel and Elton John fan who prides himself on his own eclectic tastes. "That epitomizes their whole swag, the difference between the Kickdrums and everybody else . . . You wanna give people the shit that's gonna have them hitting the rewind button — that different shit."

The experimentation stems from their tastes, which extend far beyond rap. "We listen to that all day at work," says Fitts, who's most into indie-rock. Penttila prefers fast-paced electronic dance. And while they recognize rap as their ticket to music stardom, neither plans on doing hip-hop production forever.

"I'm not saying I'm getting bored," Fitts says. "I just wish we could branch out with it."

It's a desire reflected in their latest project, which features a razor-witted white dude named Verbal rapping over groove-heavy beats made from samples of unconventional stuff like the Cure. Basically, it's dance music set to a hip-hop drumbeat — "kind of our Gnarls Barkley," says Penttila. For an upcoming tour, which will likely kick off at the Grog Shop, Penttila and Fitts will take the stage with the gangly Verbal, who quit a construction job for the chance.

"I never meant for it to be dance music, but I don't mind," says the affable Verbal. "I just do what they tell me."

“Stay on My Grind” by Young Wazzie (Produced by the Kickdrums):

The trouble with being an aspiring rap producer is that you can't do it without rappers. And the trouble with rappers starts and ends with ego. They're often chronically late, because they know there's no project without them. And they travel with posses of yes-men that encourage them in shortsighted or selfish decisions.

The Kickdrums have been stung their share of times. First there was Chip tha Rippa, a roly-poly East Clevelander who can pull off cheery or intimidating with equal aplomb in his raps. He can't even be trusted to show up for a studio session, but he's still a hot prospect in Ohio. "Chip's the next Biggie Smalls, I swear," says Cincinnati producer Hi-Tek.

When the Kickdrums met Chip, he was handing out albums on Superior Avenue. His hype started building as he worked with the producers, and it peaked with their club anthem, "Get It Girl," which featured Chip and Al Fatz rapping over a Kickdrums' beat anchored by a stuttering acoustic-guitar loop.

That's when an executive from Dreamlife, LeBron James' fledgling record label, called Chip and asked him to lunch. The next thing the Kickdrums knew, Chip was signed to Atlantic Records (through Dreamlife), and the producers had lost their artist.

"We had talked about this maybe happening with Chip. He was always like, 'Nah, I'm ridin' with you,'" says Penttila. "But when you put even a small amount of money, like $20,000, on the table, all that goes out the window."

Once at Dreamlife, Chip learned it wasn't him the record company was after at all. It was "Get It Girl," which they stripped from his planned album and gave to labelmate Al Fatz. Soon enough, Chip was dropped from Atlantic.

The next year, the Kickdrums hooked up with Cleveland rapper Corey Bapes. His career was a product of the "cap rapping" trend, in which juvenile rappers spit simple rhymes about material riches they probably don't have. With a cubic-zirconia grill and lyrics like "I'm fly like Batman/I get a lot of pussy; you can call me cat man," the 17-year-old Central Catholic student was an artist cut from the Soulja Boy mold — a predestined one-hit wonder. But the Kickdrums lost him before that one hit.

They produced every song on Bapes' In a Class of My Own and planned a summer '07 record-release party at Peabody's. The show garnered so much hype, it turned into a near riot, with 150 partyers, most of them high-school girls, left clamoring outside the packed concert. The Kickdrums produced a video and even oversaw the CD's iced-out packaging. "We even had foil on Corey's grill, man," says Penttila.

But on Bapes' 18th birthday, he defected to Defient, a Miami record label started by an online-reality-show winner named Greg Calloway. "We made a whole new set of mistakes," Penttila says. "Never underestimate people's greed."

Bapes sooned learned that online reality shows don't breed the most polished CEOs. The Miami label has apparently folded. Bapes is now said to be living in Bowling Green, Ohio.

"Fucker fell off," says Cincinnati DJ Bigg Eddie Bauer, with more exasperation than anger. "He made the wrong play."

Cleveland's hip-hop scene is notorious for this sort of backstabbing and betrayal. While the entire music industry is plagued by snakelike maneuvering, Cleveland stands out because it has little success to show for it: Cleveland hip-hop hasn't penetrated the national psyche since Bone Thugs in the mid-'90s.