Crooklyn’s Finest
Notorious B.I.G. and 50 Grand. Image credit: NY Times
A quarter century is a long time.
On March 9th, 1997, I was a fifteen-year-old knucklehead, obsessed with hip-hop and skateboarding. As we sat down for our family dinner that Sunday evening, we were interrupted by a phone call. It was my friend, Luke. With shock resonating in his voice, he told me that Biggie had been shot and killed.
“What?”
“Yeah, man. In L.A..”
We often ate dinner with the TV on in the background, and my mom liked to watch Extra. Right there on the broadcast, as if on queue with what I’d just been told, the news story on Biggie’s murder came on.
“No. Fucking. Way.”
A few days ago in our band class, Luke and I were chopping it up about Biggie’s upcoming double-album, Life After Death. Biggie was our favorite rapper, and this new album was supposed to be incredible.
“This can’t be real.”
It was. The tears were, too.
This unbelievable tragedy for his Biggie’s family and friends came at a time when hip-hop fans were still processing Tupac’s murder. Biggie and Tupac, star-crossed figureheads of the East Coast/West Coast beef, helped revolutionize hip-hop with their style and ushered in the final act of the Golden Era, which ended with a violent crescendo when these titans of the culture were both murdered six months apart.
25 years ago.
Christopher Wallace would have turned 50 this May, and would have joined Tupac in the half-century club if they were both still alive. They spoke a different version of the same language—the language of the streets—and they had a wisdom beyond their years, the perspective of young men forced to grow up in harsh realities, stripped of their childhood out of a necessity to survive. They were also artists of the purest form, depicting characterized versions of themselves and somehow also relating to millions of fans around the world, who still debate who was better between these two and whether either of them is the greatest emcee to ever rock a mic.
My vote goes to Biggie. His skills are undeniable. There’s no debate that he could switch up his style and rap on any beat. He could spit a freestyle battle rap or deliver a 32-bar narrative, with a cast of characters involved in the action. His albums were a master class of beats and rhymes, and his impact on the game and the culture is still felt today, a quarter century after he was killed.
At fifteen, it was impossible for me to understand the totality of such a loss without actually living through the last two and a half decades, going through my own trials and tribulations. All of that experience created a schism between my take on the world in 1997 and my take on it today. Which one of us is the same person after 25 years, especially if those years drop between 15 and 40? I’m not, and I doubt Biggie would have been either.
We’ll never get to hear him continue to evolve his music. We’ll never get his version of Watch the Throne or 4:44, but we’ve got the fantastic music he gave us, and we’ll always love Big Poppa.
Favorite Biggie Songs
For his brief recording career, Biggie dropped un-skippable verses on pretty much every track he made. Choosing my three favorites out of his pristine catalogue was tough. I didn’t include any featured spots he did (e.g. “Brooklyn’s Finest”) or features he had (e.g. “Notorious Thugs”) because I wanted to choose three tracks that only showcased Biggie.
“Brooklyn’s Finest” and “Notorious Thugs” are molten lava, though.
“I’ve Got a Story to Tell”
My 112 CD blast. I was past. She came twice. I came last. Roll the grass.
Biggie was a master of the personal narrative rhyme. He told stories on his verses, often depicting Mafioso tales, but he switched it up on this track.
Setting it up as a conversation among friends about a recent tryst, Biggie skillfully puts together a humorous story that could play out on any screen, and it actually happened!
“Who Shot Ya?”
Finish it, stop, when I foil the plot. Neighbors called the cops. Said they heard mad shots.
Biggie claimed this song is about rival drug dealers, but folks widely considered it to be about Tupac, mocking the Quad Studios shooting that started the beef between them.
Biggie is a menace on this track, launching a calculated verbal assault against his rivals with the sick-with-it style that he had.
“Juicy”
Thinkin’ back on my one-room shack. Now my mom pimps an Ac’, with minks on her back.
One of my favorite songs in general is a classic rags-to-riches tale, an anthem for corner boys stacking paper to get out of the ‘hood and all the others in the struggle.
Biggie illustrated the path he took from missing out on Christmases and birthdays because money was tight to sipping champagne as a thirst quencher. Everything about this track—the verses, the hook, the beat—is iconic.
