1. Notorious B.i.g. Death Age

LOS ANGELES – The mystery of who gunned down Notorious B.I.G. (search) — and why — has frustrated and fascinated the hip-hop world for eight years. With FBI and police investigations failing.

Today we commemorate the 20th anniversary of Christopher Wallace’s death with a review of his 1997 sophomore album Life After Death, released 16 days after he was murdered.

Life After Death, The Notorious B.I.G.'s second and final full-length studio album, which also serves as his first posthumous release, begins where its predecessor, 1994's Ready to Die left off: with the narrator dying from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. The blast comes courtesy of a large-bore cartridge from a high-powered revolver, while his best friend and confidante—played by label boss and possible svengali, Sean “Puff Daddy” Combs—listens in disbelief, possibly willing him back to life, possibly imagining an alternate reality where Christopher Wallace remains alive.

Ready to Die, Biggie’s previous album, also began with heart-pulling cinematic flourishes, featuring a decade-spanning montage that played as a mini saga telling the tale of a small-time street thug who was raised in a dysfunctional home and turned into a formidably successful rapper. But where the first album started with a feeling of hope arising from the muck and mire of urban poverty, Life After Death announces itself in much starker fashion.

The proper arrival of this album comes on “Somebody's Gotta Die,” a pure revenge tale. It begins sometime within the last record’s timeline, with Big “sittin' in the crib dreamin' about Learjets and coupes, the way Salt 'shoops', and how to sell records like Snoop,” when a fellow small-time drug dealer and jailmate informs him that a mutual friend has been shot for robbing a crack dealer in a most ruthless manner (“pistol whipped his kids and taped up his wife”). Big's reaction is immediate: “Is he in critical? Retaliation for this one won't be minimal ’cause I'm a criminal; way before the rap shit, bust the gat shit—Puff won't even know what happened.” We’re settling into a bloody noir, complete with well-developed minor characters harboring demented pathos and subtle foreshadowing—all this before any hints of a radio single.

This feat of storytelling is repeated two more times on the first disc of this double album alone. On “Niggas Bleed,” Big is a bagman sent to secure a large drug transaction, but his greed has him thinking about a double-cross: “I kill them all, I'll be set for life,” he imagines. He decides to call up his friend—a flashy and hard-hearted cutthroat from the Southwest who was once featured on America's Most Wanted—to partake in a heist that involves a female Puerto Rican hotel worker who used to be drug boss, and a Jamaican with long dreadlocks and a taste for Asian women. It’s a tour de force—a time-shifting tale that devotes a whole verse to the backstory of a murderous misfit straight from an Elmore Leonard short who substitutes kerosene for gasoline because “fuck it, it's flame-able.”

Notorious B.i.g. Death Age

But “I Got a Story to Tell,” the recount of an after-hours creep with an NBA player’s girlfriend that culminates in physical assault and robbery, may be the most absurd tale of the bunch, because it's reportedly true. “Story” highlights Biggie’s gifts as a raconteur. Inside his braggadocio, cars are colored with verve: a “cherry M3” BMW, a “marine blue 6 coupe” Mercedes, a “champagne Range” Rover. For his fictional tales, names and locales are doled out like characters in hardboiled pulp fictions: “Arizona Ron from Tuscon,” “Gloria from Astoria,” and “Darkskin Jermaine” who “nearly lost half his brain over two bricks of cocaine, getting his dick sucked by Crackhead Lorraine.” But, when it comes to the truth, he's shy on specifics. No names, no states, no boroughs, or other signifiers are mentioned. When pressed by his friends as to the identity of the cuckold, he brushes it off: “One of them 6' 5” niggas—I don't know.”

Double albums tend to be overblown, self-indulgent cash grabs, but Life After Death warranted the approach. Beginning with the 1994 Quad Studios shooting of Tupac Shakur in New York City, the Notorious B.I.G—along with Combs, Shakur, and Suge Knight—was at the center of a multifaceted rivalry. It was a struggle between N.Y.'s Bad Boy and L.A.'s Death Row records that surpassed label affiliation to become about coastal loyalty, arguments about commercialism vs. art that spread from the music industry to the public, whispers of motives and allegiances ran from the streets to the urban criminal underworld. Big easily had more than one album's worth of material to talk about.

Not only did he have more drawn on, he had more ways to talk about it than anyone else. More than anyone one else in rap ever, Big was able to break language and bend syntax to speak about things in ways that were unforeseen yet seemingly unavoidable in hindsight: “At last, a nigga rappin' 'bout blunts and broads, tits and bras, ménage à trois, sex in expensive cars, and still leave you on the pavement,” he rapped on the No. 1 radio single “Hypnotize.” He continued: “Condo paid for, no car payment. At my arraignment, note for the plaintiff, 'Your daughter's tied up in a Brooklyn basement.' Face it: not guilty—that's how I stay filthy.”

Big was a master of flow, sounding unforced and unlabored over a bevy of pristine, hi-fidelity maximalist beats that seemed to always bow to his intent. His voice was that of a gentle giant; a sumo ballerina who could deashi and pas de bourrée,henka and plie. Few terms in any tongue can capture the way Big was light on his words while heavy on thought. He made his slams look like pirouettes even over the most grating pop moves like “Mo Money Mo Problems,” which showcased Combs' predilection for turning ‘80s R&B hits into ‘90s rap tunes—a push and pull between producer and artist that remains unmatched in hip-hop to this day.

This infamous tug between Combs' pop predilections and Big’s gully tendencies is all over Life After Death: the way the sequencing goes from the Herb Alpert-sampling “Hypnotize” to DJ Premier's Screamin' Jay Hawkins chop on “Kick in the Door” to a boudoir ballad with the R. Kelly-assisted “Fuck You Tonight” to black glove tough talk with The Lox on “Last Day” to lavish ballerism on the René & Angela remake “I Love the Dough” with Jay Z. It's a wrenching of the ridiculous that Big wins at every turn by being on “that Brooklyn bullshit” on “Hypnotize”; by making “Fuck You Tonight” unprofitable without a heavily-edited radio version; by squeezing so many words and skillful mispronunciations and imagery like wearing precious stones “in beards and mustaches” into “I Love the Dough.”

Despite being 24 cuts deep, the album never wears on—the quick twists, deep moods, dark humor, and mastered artistry more than hold your attention. But, still: Like even a good movie, you're ready for it to end when it ends, and it climaxes with songs that deliver on the promise of the era of conflict (and death and rage and extremism) that surrounded Big in 1997. Due to his assassination 20 years ago on March 9th, the last three songs—“My Downfall,” “Long Kiss Goodnight,” and “You're Nobody (Til Somebody Kills You)”—were never enjoyed by the public at large while Big was alive. Today, it's almost impossible to hear them as anything other than war songs for the dead and those about to die. These numbers are both a declaration of intent and pauses for remorse; clarion-song and elegy alike, heavy instrumentation for the trenches and pews, all hymnals of well-earned paranoia and odes to a dawn of violence.

And, though the ending is undoubtedly full of salvos from a reluctant warrior, there's a glimmer of hope that says that the young heart of Christopher Wallace from Bed-Stuy—not the Notorious B.I.G. from Bad Boy—was still beating beneath all that armor. On “You're Nobody,” he's mingling with “thorough bitches” who rode around in a fruit-colored two-door Acura and—in a telling, but coded move—he hearkens back to the determined aspiration of his breakthrough hit “Juicy,” rapping his perceived future into existence: “As my pilot steers my Lear,” he drops seemingly apropos of nothing but rhyme and boast. But, looking deeper, further back, past the blood on his friend's sneaker from the opener, you recall how this all began:

He was sitting in the crib, envisioning Learjets, visualizing coupes, lusting the way Salt “shooped,” and wanting to sell records like Snoop Dogg. Big may not have been around to see it, but he saw it before it happened. He created an alternate reality and lived it until his death and after.