My Voice: A Memoir (8 page)

•   •   •

A
fter a period Q-Tip and I had gotten pretty close, but it didn’t really seem to be going anywhere. Neither one of us had the time. My schedule was definitely keeping me busy. Since I got off the air at ten at night, that was when I’d go chill with Flex for a while when he went on the air or maybe go out to eat and then hit the clubs! On top of that routine, I started getting booked to host parties around the city. And getting paid for it. The first few times I thought it was a fluke. But no, the offers kept coming.

Five hundred bucks to show up somewhere for fifteen minutes or a half hour? And I’m twenty-four years old? YES!
Sometimes this would happen multiple times in a night.

So I was going to parties where I liked being anyway, and making extra cash. Not bad. For all intents and purposes, I was living a charmed life, going out on the town nightly at a time when the New York club scene was poppin’ like never before. As just a fan, it was crazy. You’d go up in the club and see all your favorite artists, live and in person. When you went to the Tunnel on a Sunday, you would see Busta Rhymes, Redman, Wu-Tang, everybody. And then the next day I’d get on the radio and talk about where I’d been and who’d been seen at the club the night before.

This was back in the day when if something happened in the club, people wouldn’t know because it wasn’t on Twitter. It wasn’t on Instagram. There was no social media. Actually, we were the social media. We
were
Where Hip Hop Lives
. So if you wanted to know what went down you’d have to wait to hear it on the radio the next day—who was there and what happened. And everyone wanted to know.

My career was on the rise, the station was killin’ it, and not long after Tip and I slowed down, I started dating Girard, who was cute in a way that reminded me of my high school boyfriend Derek. He was brown-skinned, heavily into hip hop, clothes, and was always up on the new trends, which probably went along with his job in marketing at Loud Records. Between work and staying over a lot at G.’s apartment on East Twenty-First Street in Manhattan, I barely ever had time to go home to my shitty apartment in Astoria—which, unbeknownst to me, had become infested with mice.

Yes—mice!
Horrifying!

Funny thing about that was one of my neighbors used to always mention the rodent problem in the building. All that time, because I’d never seen anything, I just thought she was crazy. How could I see anything if I was never there?

Those mice must have been chillin’ in my apartment for months before I noticed. That is, until the day I walked in by myself and saw a big mouse run across the living room. Oh my God! I froze. I then proceeded to backward walk right the hell outta there. I called Nikki, who came right over and helped me lay down some glue traps. That night I stayed at Nikki’s. When we went back the next day, not only did we catch that fucker, but we caught about fifteen of his friends, too.

Oh, helllllll nooooooo!

We were outta there!!! We grabbed my valuables and threw a bunch of my clothes in some Hefty bags and I never went back. It was time to step it up anyway. I was starting to make a little more money, my career was thriving, and it felt like I’d begun to carve a real niche for myself on radio.

•   •   •

I
n January 1996 the station decided to go all out and throw me a twenty-fifth birthday party at the Palladium on East Fourteenth Street, one of the most iconic hip-hop clubs. Before heading out to the party, I had to take an extra-deep breath as I checked my white leather outfit one last time in the mirror.

All day long I had been stressed about the turnout. More than once I had said to Salaam, “I hope people come.” A lot of artists were invited, and it was important that they showed. But the real question was whether our listeners would come out in the middle of winter to get into the club—especially after we made such a big deal promoting it.

Even today I never count on turnout for big events because in my mind everybody’s got their own stuff to do. Whatever it is, I never think anybody’s gonna come.

On my way to the Palladium, I get a call from Salaam. “Yo, fam,” he says, “there is a line of fucking people wrapped around the block! And there are helicopters flying over!”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. It’s crazy! This is the longest line at the Palladium I’ve ever seen!”

As soon as I get there, I see the line is all the way around the block, down Fourteenth Street, back to, like, Third Avenue. In winter! And up above there are helicopters circling outside!

Whenever I’d go to the Palladium there would be a line, sure, but this—
unbelievable
!

That was the night when Biggie thought it would be better not to get onstage because he and Faith weren’t in the best place, and I understood why. But, man, if he had, the place would have gone bananas. Still, it was a night to remember.

G. was there, and wasn’t all the way thrilled when Jay Z and Dame Dash gave me another bottle of Cristal, which we popped open right there on the side of the stage. I tried to include him in the moment, but by the look on his face, I could tell he was uncomfortable. This was a tension that I would become all too familiar with in this relationship and ones to come. But otherwise the night was spectacular. The celebration was less about me and more about a coming of age for the station; for me it was more about the love, my relationship with hip-hop, my relationship with the artists, and my relationship with the city. That night was the first time I felt they were all in a position to give it back to me, for me to see a real reflection of our connection.

It was overwhelming. My life was changing. That night was a definite turning point. I left feeling that my show was starting to really matter.

CALIFORNIA LOVE

I
t was winter 1996 and the whole city was upside down. Tupac and Biggie had been going at it and Pac was always in the news, at the center of what people were now starting to call an East Coast–West Coast beef. The previous year, I’d been at the Source Awards at Madison Square Garden when Suge Knight went off on his infamous public rant against Puffy and Bad Boy Records. The reason Tupac wasn’t at the Source Awards that night was that he was in jail after being sentenced for sexual abuse, just three months after he was shot five times at Quad Recording Studios. Suge had posted Tupac’s bail of $1.4 million and Pac immediately signed with Death Row Records. While no one was held responsible for the shooting, Pac seemed to be holding Bad Boy responsible for the attempt on his life, fueling this beef. From there everything progressed quickly.

In December, my friend and coworker Monie Love, a pioneer for women in hip-hop, made a cameo in the Dogg Pound video “New York,
New York.” In the video, Snoop Dogg and his West Coast crew were shown crushing buildings in New York City, Godzilla style. The video was shot in Brooklyn, Biggie’s hometown. The Dogg Pound said the video was misunderstood, that it was intended to be a tribute to New York. But personally I questioned why they would choose to shoot something that could be taken the wrong way at such a sensitive time. And in fact, it was taken the wrong way. Gunshots were fired on the set. Nobody was injured or ever arrested. But the event heightened the East Coast–West Coast beef even further. Poor Monie. She only went there to support Snoop, but people gave her so much shit for it, calling her a traitor and questioning her allegiance. She’s such a sweet girl, and I felt bad that she got so beaten up for it, but it was a hostile time. We were all so young and so invested and it seemed so real.

I didn’t know what to make of it all, but I knew it felt dark and I knew it felt scary. So imagine how I felt when I got a call from a record exec at Interscope saying that Tupac wanted me to appear in his “I Ain’t Mad at Cha” video.
Oh, hell no! I don’t want to be any part of this
. I relayed that message to the record exec, who called again a couple days later and said, “I spoke to Pac and he wants to talk to you himself.” So before I know it, the hotline is blinking and Tupac is on the other line.

I really had no idea what to expect. I didn’t know if Pac was this bad guy people were making him out to be. I didn’t know if he was trying to set me up. I had an image of this crazy, aggressive guy. He was a troublemaker. I had that notion of who he was in my mind, but I would do my best to suspend judgment.

I was surprised at how polite he sounded on the phone.
This is definitely not what I anticipated
. Not that I expected him to be screaming “Thug Life!” on the phone, but he was nice, humble even.

All I knew was that he was involved in this thing and now he was on the phone wanting to talk to me.
What do I say to this man in the
middle of this war that’s going on?
I’d never met Pac and I didn’t know what to think . . . other than maybe he was someone to avoid.

“I can’t be in your video,” I explained, clarifying from the start of the conversation. “I can’t show up to work tomorrow if I’m in your video. I’ve got to walk around in these streets. I can’t stand next to that right now.” And that’s when Pac started explaining himself. He said that when he was in jail he felt like everybody, especially in New York, was shitting on him and making up stories. He explained that it wasn’t a coastal thing; it was a media thing.

“You were one of the only people that reported what was happening without a negative spin on it. You didn’t put any extra dirt on my name. I appreciated that,” he said. “You know, this East Coast–West Coast thing is really not that. It’s not a whole coast. How could I be mad at a whole coast?”

“Yeah, but nobody’s heard you say that,” I said. “It’s the first I’m hearing it. Why don’t you come up to the show and we’ll do an interview?”

“I would love to, but I’m shooting this movie right now in LA. I can’t leave. But if you want to come here, I’ll send you a ticket for a flight,” he offered. “Forget about the video; don’t even worry about it. You’re not comfortable. I understand. I’ll send you a ticket. Come out here. We’ll do the interview out here.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Aight, I’m going to have somebody call you to set it up.”

I knew that I had to go. I just knew. With everybody going so crazy, it was getting bad. I honestly thought I could help. If I could get Pac on tape saying that the war was
not
between all of the East Coast versus all of the West Coast but rather between a specific group of rappers, that could be helpful. That could be the beginning of making peace.

Could I do that? I was twenty-five years old and had so much to learn. But I had to try. That’s all I knew.

I was excited. I was nervous; I was all of that. Tupac was flying me to LA for what could be the most important interview in the entire country. This was hands down the biggest opportunity of my career.

After work I headed to my boyfriend G.’s apartment. I couldn’t wait to tell him the news, but his reaction completely threw me off.

All he had to say was, “What’re you going to go see that nigga for? You’re gonna be out there with a bunch of dudes. How do you think that looks?”

There were no words to express how this type of mentality from men irritated me. How could I not feel resentful of that reaction? I’m not sure how I responded, but I know what I was thinking:

That means all you do is see me as a girl going to hang out with a bunch of dudes. That’s not how I see myself. I’m not some chick that’s going to go running up there in, like, a tube top and short shorts, trying to fuck Tupac. That’s not what this is.
If that’s what you think, you don’t respect me, you don’t respect what I’m trying to do, and you don’t understand my intention, my goal. The fact that you would even jump to that is offensive to me.

I may not have been able to articulate it that clearly, but I knew he had offended me. And I knew that it didn’t matter. I was going.

Looking back, I have to say that G. wasn’t a bad guy in all this. He was twenty-three at the time, young and way more image conscious than me. And because he was in the business—where guys often worry too much about what other guys might say about their girl—that was where his mind went. All shit that had nothing to do with me but, sorry to say, was something that I’d confront a lot.

Now, back at the station when I announced that Pac was going to fly me out to Los Angeles, there was another concern. Some of my colleagues were adamant, saying, “What? You can’t go out there. It’s not safe.” After what happened at the Dogg Pound video, nobody was
ignoring how dangerous the East Coast–West Coast issue had become. Then Ed Lover—a host of the
Morning Show with Ed
at Hot, who three years earlier had come over with Dr. Dre after they’d made a name for themselves on
Yo! MTV Raps
—had a suggestion about a friend of his from LA, Big Spesh. Ed advised, “You should take him with you because he knows LA. He knows what’s safe.”

We made a plan for Big Spesh—short for “specialist”—to fly out separately and be around to make sure I was okay.

I’d barely traveled and had never been to Los Angeles. I had no luggage, so I borrowed a suitcase from a friend. Having never had to pack for a trip like this, my solution was to throw my regular work clothes into the borrowed bag and be done with it. These days that would not work. Radio has changed so much from then to now, and media in general, especially for women. Now when I go places, especially with social media, there’s always this pressure of how you look. Of course, I care about looking nice, but it’s annoying to have to be overly concerned about hair, makeup, and wardrobe when that’s not really what I’m here for. Although I can’t front; looking back, it would have been nice to wear something better than the Nautica T-shirt I’d chosen to throw on.

The magnitude of what was happening didn’t quite hit me until I boarded the airplane. I’d never flown first class before, and now I’m sitting in this big seat in the front of the plane in my squishy Windbreaker sweats, reading through a stack of hip-hop magazines. Preparing for the interview, I was just trying to wrap my brain around everything that had happened up to that point. According to the articles, Pac had accused Biggie and Bad Boy Records CEO Sean “Puffy” Combs of being somehow involved in an incident where Pac was robbed and shot five times in the lobby of Quad Recording Studios in NYC in November 1994. That I knew. I also knew that Suge Knight had gotten shot at a party in
Atlanta and there was speculation that Puffy was involved. I knew people were taking sides. In his first release postprison, Pac had delivered a video for his new single “California Love” featuring Dr. Dre and it was dope, so well-done and over-the-top. As a New Yorker, I couldn’t help but feel a little salty, watching Pac throw up westside “W’s” with his fingers, in an aggressive, big-budget, national way.

When I first heard the song and for months after, it irritated the hell out of me, because I took it as a dis to my city.
California knows how to party . . .
Please understand that today, as a grown-up, I realize how nuts that sounds. But in the moment it felt very real.

The truth is “California Love” wasn’t a dis record at all. But there was no confusion four months later when Pac released the real dis song “Hit ’Em Up.”
First off, fuck your bitch and the clique you claim / Westside when we ride come equipped with game . . .

Like I said—shit was crazy.

Before I know it, I’m landing at LAX and being greeted by Tupac’s assistant, Mindy, a cute, thin, blond-haired girl. Not exactly what I expected. Later I learned that Pac actually had a lot of women around him that handled his day-to-day. That surprised me. Mindy was sweet, organized, and super-efficient, and let me know as soon as I landed that he was busy just then on the set of a movie he was shooting.

“He said for me to take you to the hotel, for you to get settled, and then I’ll come back and pick you up tomorrow,” Mindy explained as soon as I buckled my seat belt. “He’s trying to knock out everything and move things around so he can block out the day for you tomorrow and have a lot of time. He’s really excited to talk to you. He keeps asking, ‘Did Angie get in? Is she here?’”

As I’m hearing her say this, again I’m reminded of the magnitude of this interview.

Blue skies, bright sunshine, palm trees everywhere. We pulled up to
the Hotel Nikko on La Cienega Boulevard, and it looked imposing—beautiful, huge, all very impressive. I felt way out of my element.

And just then I can’t help but hear “California Love” in my head . . . That irritating song started to get the better of me and became the sound track in my head the entire time I was out there . . .
California knows how to party / In the citaaay  . . . city of Compton . . .

Now I had the night to see the city. Ed Lover’s friend Big Spesh came to get me and took me to the hood where his family lived, to a fried-chicken spot in Crenshaw. He was older, respectful, protective, just a nice guy. I got to see regular LA, not Beverly Hills. I definitely felt more comfortable there, more at ease. Later that night he dropped me off at the hotel and planned to come with me to the interview the next day.

And so the following day at the appointed hour Spesh and I are picked up by Mindy and driven to a glamorous high-rise doorman building. As Pac’s home was in Malibu, Mindy explains, this apartment was where he stayed while he was working. Mindy walks me into the living room and all of the Outlawz and Pac’s entourage are there hanging out. Big Spesh moves to the background as I take a seat alone on a brown leather couch.

“Sit tight. I’ll be right back. He’s almost ready,” Mindy says.

She disappears as Spesh fades farther into the back of the living room somewhere.

There is a picture of Janet Jackson and Pac from
Poetic Justice
on the table behind the couch and lots of photos all over the place. A big neon sign is lit up on the wall in the dining room:
Thug Mansion
. And there I am in my Nautica T-shirt holding my little microphone—me and the Outlawz in the living room. Minutes pass. They give me a head nod or two and a “Whassup,” but there isn’t very much conversation happening. It’s a little awkward and quiet sitting there.

Then in walks Pac and the room immediately lights up. He’s
laughing, giving his friends pounds and hugs. He comes over and gives me a big hug. “You made it!” he says. “How was your flight?” Immediately, everyone in the room feels more at ease with him there. “So, you good? You hungry? I had my peoples go to this spot and get you some pizza.” He shows me the box and it says
NY
P
IZZA
. “I wanted to make you feel comfortable,” he says. “I want you to feel at home. I know people be saying bad shit about me. I’m a good guy.”

I laugh and nod, making sure I’m ready to go when he is, checking the batteries on my handheld recorder with a microphone attached to it. I didn’t have a video camera, sound equipment, or anything fancy. It was just this tiny little recorder with a microphone and my list of notes from the plane.

Pac isn’t in a hurry, though. Soon we’re eating pizza. Somebody lights a blunt, and now the room is starting to feel comfortable. Pac’s smoking Newports, people are passing the blunt, and there is a lot of smoke in the room. He plops down on the couch next to me and says, “All right, you ready to do this?”

I fumbled with the tape, hit record, and so it began.

ANGIE:
I’m sitting with Tupac in his crib right now . . . If we get anything positive out of this then it’s more than worth it. First thing I think we need to talk about is the East Coast–West Coast thing . . . That’s really what’s on people’s minds in New York right now in terms of you. A lot of people feel like you kinda flipped on them.

TUPAC:
I dunno why people could feel like I’m flippin’ on ’em. ’Cause I’m trying to give it up to where I’m from . . .