“When I die, fuck it I wanna go to hell,
Cuz I’m a piece of shit, it ain’t hard to fucking tell,
Don’t make sense going to Heaven with the goodie-goodies
Dressed in white, I like Black Tims and Black Hoodies”
Christopher Wallace, the transcendent poet and cultural icon, became the posthumous face of the golden age of Hip Hop. Rappers from his era gush over the fallen emcee’s talent and influence, trading stories of their experiences with the legend. The memory of Wallace has taken on an Sinatra-esque mystic. His grip on the art form of rap is ever present twenty one years removed from his tragic assassination. As is the case with most writers, Wallace’s view on the life was at the center of his art. Insecurities that festered as a juvenile fortified his foundation as a writer, fostering an obsession with death and unworthiness.
Much can be said about Wallace’s rhyming style. His nuance for complicated story telling set him a part from his colleagues. Wallace had a way of fitting his deceptively witty verses on any kind of record. The mid-ninties were saturated with jaw dropping features from the Brooklyn emcee. His rhyming style shaped a sound rappers would try to emulate for decades. His peers at the time were not lacking in talent themselves; competing with the likes of Nas, Tupac, Snoop Dogg, Raekwon Da Chef, Method Man, Jay- Z, he emerged as the first rapper to go platinum from New York City Ever. He turned Hip-Hop into a billion dollar industry with introspective rhymes that left a lasting impression on anyone who would take the time to sit down and listen. But what goes unsaid about Wallace was his general feelings about life and the rappers obsession with death.
His first LP, Ready to Die, gushes with irony. Every record was an edgy illustration of a man who grew up with nothing to suddenly find the world at his finger tips. Wallace’s obsession with death went past innuendo. Every song on the album talks about his life with a reflective narrative. He acknowledges his short lived success but often questions how long he was going to be able to enjoy it. He laments past deeds, openly acknowledging his self destructive tendencies and how he lives his life around their consequences.
People who misunderstand Wallace are quick to paint his tales of womanizing as misogyny without applying the proper context. He talks about most of these encounters with a twinge of regret, including them in the self depredation of his personal life. His albums turn his life into a tragic string of comedic events. Even his stories of violence are structured around tragically flawed characters who are on a downward spiral, too far gone for redemption.
“Let’s get this money baby
They get shady, we get shady,
Dress up like ladies and burn em with dirty 380’s
Then they come to kill our babies
That’s all out, shit
I got gats that blow the wall out
Clear the mall out
Fuck a Fallout”
Wallace’s fixation on death was specifically about the idea of him being murdered. Even if the clues in his music were not enough evidence, Wallace spoke about this candidly during interviews as well.
One could speculate whether or not this is an example of life imitating art. The tragic end of Wallace’s life no doubt emulates his most imminent fear. Whether he brought that on himself, or sought this ending subconsciously, there leaves no doubt that this idea was his driving creative force.
Which now leaves the question, why did this message of hopelessness resonate with so many people at that time? Wallace’s legacy endures through his music. His personal life is sullied by controversy and turmoil, but his words will live on forever. What is it about his pain that was so transcendent? The question courts a rather droll answer; depression is prevalent in our youth. Cases of depression among teenagers has been on the rise over the last few decades.
For a musical art form that is closer to poetry than any other, nullifying the basis of expression in favor of a self destructive persona places the creator in a false reality, one that requires exaggerated actions to keep up appearances.
Wallace’s mask of volatility was broadcast like an aged scarecrow hoisted in a field ready to be harvested. His mafioso persona no doubt played a hand in selling records, but it was also the consummate idea of what a ‘tough guy’ is perceived to be. Rappers are not tough guys; rappers are poets and poets are writers.
Writers (or at least the ones worth remembering) draw from a wealth of life experience. Some of them may be positive, but a good amount of writers draw from the negative spectrum of their emotions. They address the feelings and experiences that they fear. Wallace was no exception.
The draw is always going to be pain. The fascination of talented men in emotional crisis is nothing new. But Wallace, at the age of twenty four, was a spectacle of self wallowing. Fans bought into his exuberant lifestyle as opposed to buying into the not-so-glamorous truth behind his message. Biggie Smalls was a product of deep despair.
“I don’t wanna live no mo’
sometimes I hear death knocking on my front do’
I’m livin everyday like a hustle
another drug juggle
another day, another struggle”
Wallace was assassinated March 9th, 1997, sixteen days before the release of his second album titled Life After Death. As fate would have it, the word smith known for thought provoking double entendres would offer his most painstaking one yet. Wallace was at the height of his career. He was expecting his second child, his first with estranged wife, R&B singer Faith Evans. Riding the wave of commercial success that came after the critical acclaim of his first album, the world was more than ready for his sophomore effort.
Everything was bigger. A car accident shatter his right leg forcing him to walk with a cane. Wallace turned this setback into a symbol. His cane blended right in with his mafioso image. His Junior Mafia crew was bubbling and the success of his mistress/protege Lil’ Kim was at an all time high. His now infamous beef with Death Row Records artist Tupac Shakur became media fodder and as a result his profile was bigger than ever before. Biggie Smalls became the pulse of Hip Hop.
None of this success changed Wallace’s outlook on life. The argument could be made being in the spotlight made him fall deeper into despair. The writing on his second album fixated on Wallace’s fear of death. On the song My Downfall a skit about Wallace receiving death threats from anonymous callers echoed a reality that Wallace had become used to.
Nothing about this poets life was conventional. Wallace came from nothing to emerge as a voice for an entire generation. The pseudo American dream. Not white picket fences, but gold chains and Q-45’s. It is important to note, depression does not take in to account how successful you are. It does not matter how young you are. Does not matter how talented you are. Being stuck in a cycle of hopelessness effects everyone the exact same way.
“There’s gonna be a lot of slow singin’
And flower bringing
if my burglar alarm starts ringin'”
The finals moments of Christopher Wallace’s life have been immortalized. We all know how his story ended. I often think about what his finals thoughts would have been. Were they on his family? Maybe they were on his career? He died at the scene of the shooting. As his life faded away, I imagine the kind of terror that gripped him, knowing that his fears of death were not paranoia but intuition. His unborn baby son was to grow up without a father. His infant daughter was to never see her father again. His unresolved issues with his wife and mistress were left to linger in the realm of ‘what if’. All while his legacy was being cemented. Wallace is misrepresented in pop culture as a ‘gangsta rapper’. As he said himself, “Stereotypes of a black male misunderstood, but it’s still all good.” Wallace was the King of New York. But he should be remembered more as a poet who made it socially acceptable to write about feelings no one ever wanted to talk about.
Despair is real. Depression is real. To honor this man’s legacy we should all commit to understanding what he was really trying to tell us. Twenty one years after his assassination and his words still provide a voice for those who do not have one. He explained his case to the world. He shared his point of view and trusted us with his darkest fears. R.I.P to the late King, may your words and spirit reign forever.
saintsboro 