URL: http://www.rollingstone.com/news/coverstory/snoop_dogg_at_home_with_americas_most_lovable_pimp
>> EXCLUSIVE AUDIO: Hear the details on
Snoop's pimpin' days
and
his beef with Suge Knight
. And if you haven't already, catch
Snoop's
wisdom
on teaching pee-wee football. He's a complicated guy --
and this week's cover boy.
I
t's a cold November night in Pomona,
California, and Snoop Dogg's whole world has come to a virtual
standstill because his favorite team, the Steelers, is just days
away from the Super Bowl. He's put everything on hold -- he could
and probably should be out touring to promote his new album,
Tha Blue Carpet Treatment
-- but nothing matters like the
Steelers and winning that Super Bowl. "I had to tell management to
leave me alone, record label leave me alone," he says, zipping down
a desolate highway in his dark-blue Porsche Carrera, carefully
rolling a blunt with both hands as he steers with his knees. "I
don't wanna do no records, I don't wanna do no movies, I don't
wanna do shit but football. Until I win this Super Bowl, the buck
stops here. My business people always say it's a loss, because when
I'm in football mode I don't go out and make money, but when I'm
into these kids, it ain't about makin' money, it's about makin'
they dreams come true on some real shit."
Snoop is head coach of the Pomona Steelers, part of the Snoop
Youth Football League, a cherub-faced gang of nine- and
ten-year-olds that includes his middle child, Cordell, and Nate
Dogg's son Nigel. The league, now in its second season, has ten
teams and 2,000 players, and Snoop is at every Steelers game and
nearly every practice. The team works out from 6 to 8 p.m. on a
dusty baseball field behind a church, and on this Thursday night,
Snoop wears a black Steelers jacket and a yellow T-shirt, with a
whistle around his neck. He huddles with the boys after each play,
and as they rumble in from all parts of the field, few of them
taller than five feet, their spindly legs hiding behind thigh pads,
they seem to all yell at him at once.
"Coach Snoop, lemme get the ball this time!"
"Coach Snoop, can you believe I wore these pants last year?"
"Coach Snoop, I'm gonna watch
Ice Age
after
practice!"
"Good job," he says, patting one boy on the helmet. "Way to find
that inside hole." He leans over from the waist to be closer to
them and calls the play. "We goin' double tight left, full house
left. G-Man, you gon' be the quarterback."
The boys know he's a star, but they love him because they know
he cares about them. Aaron, a kid he coached last season, says, "He
make it fun. Other coaches just want to win. He want to win, but he
want you to have fun at the same time."
Snoop, government name Calvin Broadus, 35, loves these boys so
much that when they lose, he's crushed. "One time last year we lost
and I cried," he says. "I mean, I really cried at the end of the
game, tears in my eyes. I was that hurt." He loves them so much he
even quit smoking weed for them. For a little while. It was a few
years ago, when he first started coaching youth football in a
predominantly white league in Orange County. "I'd just gotten into
heavily coaching football," he says, "and I saw me comin' to
practice smellin' like weed, my vision half-blurred and me too
relaxed, and the parents lookin' at me like Snoop Dogg the
gangster. So instead of the parents checkin' me sayin', 'Hey,
Snoop, you smell like weed, why you comin' to practice high?,' I
took it out of my game so none of the parents would get at me foul,
and they'd let me coach. I did it for two, three months."
He says coaching has exponentialized the amount of time he
spends with his kids -- his son Corde, called Spanky, is twelve
(Snoop coached him to a Super Bowl win last year), his son Cordell,
called Lil Snoop or Rook, is nine, and his daughter Cori, called
Chocolate, is seven and a cheerleader. "I didn't never make time
for my kids," he says. "I seen them through gifts and money. Now,
through football, I spend time with them. Even if we sittin' in the
house watching USC, we bonding. I used to put in zero time, but now
I at least get moments with them." When Snoop was young he didn't
know his father very well, but now they have a relationship, and
Snoop, who bought his father a house in Atlanta, holds no grudge:
"I forgive and forget, and I try to show that it's important right
now, not what happened yesterday." He sees his football work
changing other father-son situations. "I'm breakin' the chain," he
says. "When I'm out there bonding with these kids, it makes their
fathers want to become part of their lives, if they're not. It's a
beautiful thing."
Snoop was a quarterback in high school, and he loves teaching
football minutiae, like how to properly sell a fake. But he was
also a Rollin' 20s Crip in Long Beach, so there's a much larger
mission going on. "I'm savin' lives," he says. Out here, boys get
sucked into gangbanging around nine or ten. The football league
gets a few kids off the street. "Imagine if I was the nigga who was
like, 'Hey, nigga, take this dope, go sell that, take this gun. If
some niggas ride up, shoot them motherfuckers,' " he says. "Imagine
that conversation. They at that age where that's what's happenin'.
Instead of me doin' that, I'm doin' this."
One of those who helped Snoop understand the importance of his
work with the kids was Stanley "Tookie" Williams, the notorious
co-founder of the Crips whom Snoop says he saw as the big brother
he never had. Snoop was inspired by Tookie's radical shift, how in
prison he became an anti-gang activist and wrote children's books.
"If you heard the stories of Tookie Williams as far as gangbanging
-- the gorilla, the viciousness -- to meet someone who's that
vicious and able to make a full 180-turn and get on the right side
and get his mental together, that turned me on, because I've always
had it in me to want to do that as well, but I never knew how. And
he gave me the way to be positive." On December 13th, 2005, when
Tookie was just hours from his lethal injection on death row at San
Quentin prison, Snoop was on the phone with him. "That was
emotional for me, man," he says, breathing deep and slow, affected
by the memory. "I cried my heart out. What the fuck could I say to
him? I was tryin' to keep his spirits high, but at a certain point
he was strong and I was weak, and I broke down and said, 'Just give
me the message man. What do I need to do, 'cause I'm weak right
now.' Tookie just told me to lock head on them kids. I said to him,
'I know my mission now.'"
T
ha Blue Carpet Treatment
is
Snoop Dogg's eighth solo album. All of his previous discs have gone
at least platinum, and here, once again, Snoop comes with gritty
gangsta records for the hood ("Vato," featuring B-Real, and
"Gangbangn 101," featuring the Game) and melodic, R&B-ish songs
that are pop-radio-friendly ("That's That Shit," featuring R.
Kelly, and "I Wanna Fuck You," featuring Akon). That duality --
sometimes gangsta, sometimes smooth, cuddly and pimpish -- defines
Snoop and has allowed him to have a long career in which he's loved
by both gangbangers and soccer moms. He's proud of his achievements
as a youth-football coach, but he also brags about his stint in
2003-04 as a real-life pimp.
He can come across as cute and harmless enough to, say, pose in
a Santa Claus suit, but he's still got the gangsta in him -- twice
this fall he was arrested at California airports: in September at
John Wayne Airport, for possession of an illegal twenty-one-inch
collapsible baton, and in October at the Bob Hope Airport in
Burbank, for possession of weed and a gun. (Snoop denies the
charges.) Where most thugs-turned-rappers have a hard time ever
losing their air of menace, Snoop is fluid enough to summon that
air or to present himself as laid-back with an easy smile, slitted
eyes and Shirley Templed hair, making him cool enough to be loved
in suburbia, where they may not pick up his coded gangsta messages.
In '92, when Ice-T was being attacked by politicians for "Cop
Killer," Snoop wasn't attacked for rhyming about a 1-8-7 on an
undercover cop, because most of the country didn't realize the
numbers were L.A. slang for murder. "I was slick about it," he
says. "I was like, I ain't gon' say, 'Fuck the police,' I'm-a say
1-8-7 on a motherfuckin' cop so nobody in the white world knew what
I was sayin'. But every real nigga in the hood knew exactly what I
was sayin'." Similarly, most of the country won't hear the words
"Blue Carpet Treatment" and think of the Crips, but the homies
will, and they'll appreciate him for it. "It's subliminal," he says
of the title. "It's secret, it's quiet, and it's hood at the same
time. My mom always used to say I was sneaky and sly."
Blue Carpet
includes three surprising guests: Stevie
Wonder sings on the funky "Conversations," a remake of his classic
"Have a Talk With God"; D'Angelo, who's been a recluse in recent
years, sings on "Imagine"; and Dr. Dre, whom Snoop hasn't worked
with since 2000's
Tha Last Meal
, produced three songs on
Blue Carpet
, but Snoop said there was no need for a
reconciliation. "We never was on bad terms," he says. "I was just
tired of puttin' an album out and motherfuckers sayin', 'Is Dre on
it?' But it wasn't about feelin' like I didn't need Dre, because I
always need Dre. Because that's a great guy to have in your
corner."
Snoop's career began at Dre's side in 1992, as he spat
incendiary verses on the classic "Deep Cover," but Snoop was a star
before he met Dre. "It's like I was a star in my own right," he
says. "I just didn't have no cameras, no money. Whether it was for
my rappin', my baggin' on a nigga, my persona getting at bitches,
bein' a gangster, hanging with the Insanes, bangin' 20 Crip, I was
always known no matter where I was."
In 1990, Snoop was convicted of cocaine possession and went to
jail, where the older Crips pushed him to become a rapper. When
Warren G, Snoop's friend and Dre's half-brother, brought Snoop to
the studio, Dre saw a rail-thin guy who could talk about street
life and gang wars with writerly detail, someone whose voice had
more tone than most MCs, a man who knew the meaning of vocal
restraint. Lots of rappers can make their voice sound menacing, but
Snoop made his voice sound cool while saying menacing things. "The
meaning is more vicious when it's calm," he says. "A man who holds
a gun on a man who ain't nervous makes the man holdin' the gun
nervous. So I was a soothing voice that wasn't on that regular West
Coast shit. I had my own niche -- supergangsta but cool and
laid-back. Not so aggressive. That aggression sometimes scares
niggas away. My shit was warm, it was welcoming."
He also attributes his success to being a Seventies baby. "Any
rapper who come from the Seventies got a little bit more flavor
than the Eighties babies. The music we listened to as a kid gave us
more melody. The Eighties was about a gold chain, a jheri curl --
it wasn't about flavor. Everything in the Seventies was flavor: the
basketball players, Redd Foxx, Al Green,
Soul Train
."
Dre also found that Snoop has tons of charisma, he's tough and
clearly not to be tested, but he's also fun to be around. He smiles
easily, is naturally funny and often breaks into rapping or singing
for no apparent reason. The afternoon before football practice, as
he waits to go onstage for a miniconcert sponsored by Power 106,
sitting in a locker room surrounded by blunt-smoking friends, from
Bishop Don Magic Juan to B-Real to his homeboy Soopafly, Snoop
eases a blunt from his mouth and calls out to everyone in the room
in a serious tone, "Don't do drugs!" Everyone looks up from their
fat blunts and big bags of weed and gives him quizzical looks. Then
he cracks a big smile. "I don't mean y'all, I just mean the kids."
He takes a toke, and everyone laughs and goes back to doing drugs.
A moment later, he suddenly begins crooning that Fifties classic,
"Under the boardwalk/Got my first piece of head/Under the
boardwalk/I was late for school. . . ." His cell phone rings, and
he snaps into business mode.
"How much am I getting?" he says. He pauses, then says,
incredulous, "$10,000 and one PlayStation 3?" He turns the cell to
his face so he can talk right into the mouthpiece without having to
hear. "Tell that nigga," he snarls, "I want three PlayStation 3s
and $15,000, or fuck off." He angrily snaps the phone shut. But
Snoop's mood changes quickly when a man comes in with a beautiful
brunette on each arm. "Snoop," he says, "I want you to meet these
two fifteen-year-old girls." Snoop immediately breaks into song. "I
don't see nuttin' wrong," he sings like R. Kelly, "with a little
bump n' grind . . ." and everyone laughs again.
Snoop wasn't supposed to be the star of 1992's
The
Chronic
. It was Dr. Dre's album. But Snoop was so charismatic
and his style was so fresh (in the hip-hop sense and the dictionary
meaning), he became an instant national celebrity. In 1993, his
first solo album,
Doggystyle
, debuted at Number One and
sold more than 5 million copies, and Snoop became the face of Death
Row Records, then the most infamous label in the industry. It was
helmed by Suge Knight, a muscled mountain of machismo who was the
most feared man in the record business, whispered to have bullied
other rivals by dangling them upside down off balconies. That same
year, Snoop was charged with homicide in the shooting death of a
gangbanger. After a well-publicized trial he was found not guilty,
but Death Row soon fell apart. In late 1995, Tupac was signed, then
he was murdered a year later in Las Vegas. (Asked if he thinks Suge
had 'Pac killed, Snoop wouldn't say yes or no. "I can't even speak
on that 'cause it was an ugly situation in general," he says. "I'm
just thankful I wasn't there, 'cause if I was, I probably woulda
been in the car with them.") The next year, Suge was handed a
nine-year prison sentence for probation violation, and few were sad
to see him go away. "When you get that kinda power, you gotta treat
people right so when you get in a down situation, it'll be more
favorable for you," Snoop says about Suge's fall. "It's like the
minute he got locked up, everyone was like, 'Damn, I'm glad he got
locked up.' If you got the power, why not try to make some of these
people your friends? As opposed to makin' everybody really scared
of you. When you like that -- when you go down -- ain't nobody gon'
be there for that call."
Shortly after Suge was incarcerated, Dr. Dre left Death Row to
start his own label, Aftermath, angering Suge. Then Snoop moved on
to Master P's No Limit Records, and Suge was angered again. "The
nigga threatened my life when he was in jail," Snoop says. "Niggas
tried to get at me at concerts; they put my address on a tape. He
was gonna give a nigga a Benz if a nigga cut my hair -- all kinda
fuckin' with me." In 2001, when Suge was released from jail after
serving nearly five years, Snoop turned the tables. "I had to let
him know I didn't give a fuck about none of that fake-ass power
shit you was supposed to be on, and all this money and all these
Bloods you hidin' behind," he says, his voice low and cold and
angry. "I felt like challenging him would either expose his hole
card or I would have to kill the nigga. And I was ready to do it.
That's where I was with it. So when he got out of jail, I'm fuckin'
with him." He wrote a song called "Pimp Slapp'd" -- "This nigga's a
bitch like his wife/Suge Knight's a bitch, and that's on my life."
And then he took aim directly at Suge: "I'm bringin' all my
gangster homeboys in your motherfuckin' mix and doin' the shit you
normally do, how you step to niggas and make niggas scared," he
snarls. "I stepped to him [four years ago] at the BET Awards with
my niggas, and he was more scared than a motherfucker. That was the
scenario when niggas knew the balance had shifted. That's when
everybody felt like the floodgates was open on Suge. Snoop dissed
him in public, and he didn't do nothing."
"You weren't afraid that -- "
He cuts me off. "Fuck, nah." He lets the words sink in. "Never
was afraid of him. I was afraid I was gonna have to kill him.
That's what I was afraid of."
Snoop says his friend the Bishop Don Magic Juan, the legendary
Chicago pimp-turned-religious man, was crucial in keeping the beef
from turning homicidal. "Bishop kept saying, 'I don't like that
situation. Y'all need to talk.' I was like, 'Fuck talking. Fuck
that nigga.' But after hearin' him say it so many times, it got to
the point where I was on peace, like, 'OK, I ain't tryin to fuck
cuz up.' A lot of niggas put fuel to the fire. Bishop put water. It
takes a grown man to do that."
In 1998, while Snoop was in Master P's No Limit crew, he acted
in some straight-to-video flicks made by Master P and quickly
realized acting was a good way to make money and something he
wasn't bad at so long as he was playing characters close to his own
life. He's now working on
Coach Snoop
, a film about a
famous entertainer who comes home to coach a local youth-football
team.
S
noop pulls into a driveway and says,
"This is my house." It's a nice, large, two-level ranch house with
a white fence in a gated community in the hills of Diamond Bar,
California. It's not a rapper's mansion, and nothing of the
exterior says "Rap Star Lives Here," except maybe the two huge
niggas sitting out front in an SUV. It's a big family home where
each kid gets his own large room. In his oldest son's room, there's
a Snoop Dogg doll on the mantle and limited-edition De La
Soul-designed Nike high tops in the middle of the floor. There's
lots of art on the walls, including all sorts of dogs in graceful
poses and various images of Snoop. His daughter is in the
downstairs living room doing homework with her tutor (Snoop says,
"She like the brains of the house"); his sons frolic with their
friends in the upstairs living room, in a corner of which is a
recording console. Snoop says this room used to be his home studio,
but he's lost the room; the kids have taken it over. "The kids was
always in here, so I said fuck it." So he made a little
soundproofed mike booth in a room off to the side that's smaller
than a cell. There's a mike, a slouchy couch, a little TV, a
T-shirt with Tookie's picture on it hanging on the wall and a
little pocket thesaurus, dictionary and vocabulary builder.
Out back, by the two pools, there's a small guest house that
he's turned into a clubhouse for himself with a big TV, a fridge
filled with Miller Genuine Draft, an Xbox and on the wall, an
oversize photo of him at his thirtieth birthday party wearing a
brown fur hat and matching coat, standing beside Puffy and his
wife's father, Cecil "Doc" Fuller, who he says was a pimp in Long
Beach in the Seventies. Snoop puts in a DVD of his Steelers from
earlier this season playing against the team they'll face in the
Super Bowl on Sunday and starts rolling a blunt.
One of the more memorable and bizarre moments in Snoop's career
came in 2003 when he walked the red carpet at the MTV Awards with
two women on leashes who had looks of deference that suggested they
were real prostitutes. Lots of rappers throw around the word
"pimp," but there's no way a top rapper would take up pimping as a
hobby midcareer with a wife and three kids at home. So what was the
deal with the girls -- named Delicious and Cream -- on leashes?
"I was flexin' my pimp muscle and lettin' people see how real
pimps do it," he says. "If you really a pimp, you should be able to
get two bitches to walk on a leash with you down the red carpet and
be yo ho's for the night. And when I did it, it really was
pimpin'." I had thought it was all for show, metaphorical pimpin',
but Snoop says it really was pimpin' with so much feeling, I can't
help but think that he was a professional pimp. Indeed, for two
years, he was.
"I wouldn't even say a real pimp," he says. "I'd just say I had
it like that. See, that shit was my natural calling and once I got
involved with it, it became fun. It was like shootin' layups for
me. I was makin' 'em every time. 'Cause pimpin' ain't a job, it's a
sport. I had a bitch on every exit from the 10 freeway to the 101
freeway, 'cause bitches would recruit for me. I had barracudas --
seven or eight of 'em. When a bitch recruits for you, she goes out
into the club or the environment and brings back other bitches and
makes 'em my ho's. That's pimpin'."
He says that Max Julien, who played Goldie in
The Mack
,
the zenith of movies about pimping, is like a father to him and
helped teach him some of the rules of pimping, but Snoop says he
was a natural. In the tenth grade, he and a friend won the school's
Halloween contest by dressing like pimps. The following year, again
they dressed as pimps, only to have a girl volunteer to be their
ho. "We was, like, fuck it," he says. "So we put the bitch on a
leash and walks the whole stage. We pimpin', she's the ho, and we
won back to back." When he got to the pros, Snoop knew exactly how
to run his operation: "I made sure my bitch would never talk shit
to me. She always got all the money upfront, she never looked in
another pimp's eyes, she kept her head down. But I wasn't a gorilla
pimp where I was beatin' the girls up. I was more finesse with it,
just givin' you a comfort zone and providing you with opportunity
'cause I know so many motherfuckers who like buyin' it, so if you
come fuck with me, it's not as much of a risk as bein' with a
gorilla pimp. He gon' be hard on you and rush you, as opposed to a
nigga like me who's gonna relax and let you go get it. And if you
don't go get it you just gon' be replaced."
Snoop met the Bishop Don Magic Juan -- a pimp for more than
three decades until he retired in 1985 -- in Chicago, and years
later when they became friends, the Bishop led Snoop into the world
of pimping and away from Cripping. "Niggas would try to bang on
me," Snoop says, "and I wasn't havin' it. I'm not gonna say I was
putting in work, but I was into a lot of gangbang stupid shit. I
would go do shit. And a lot of times, Bishop would say, 'Let's go
to the Players Ball [a pimp convention].' 'Let's go get your hair
did.' 'Let's go to Chicago to do this pimp thing.' Shit that I had
never seen before but was always an infatuation of mine. So it
actually got me out of the G [gangsta] and into the P [playa].
Which may have saved my life."
Bishop says, "I encouraged him to be more of a man. More
conscious about who he was and that he was a playa so he could step
up his playa game. And the change is apparent. Then you seen him
dressing with mink coats to the floor and the pimp music he was
makin'."
Snoop says his wife, Shante Broadus, at first tolerated his
pimping. "She went along with it 'cause she know and understand
that was an infatuation of mine, a childhood dream, to be a pimp.
Look at her daddy," he says, pointing to the oversize picture of
his father-in-law in a red suit beside Snoop and Puff, saying
without saying it that her dad's pimping enabled Snoop's. "She
wasn't accepting; she was just lookin' the other way 'cause I never
did it in her face. I was never bringin' bitches to the house. It
was just in an entertainment light, where it looked like
entertainment. It's easier to accept when it looks like part of
your job, as opposed to me bringin' it home with me." But, of
course, pimping soon contributed to the dissolution of his
marriage. "She'd act like it didn't happen," he says, "but she knew
it was happenin' 'cause the pimps would come over, get dressed, and
then go to the Players Balls."
In May 2004, Snoop filed for divorce and got further into the
life that had been his childhood dream. "When I stepped away,
that's when the pimpin' was really heavy," he says. "I was goin' to
all the Players Balls." Eventually, he says, he took twelve women
with him to one Players Ball and, at a ball in Detroit, won the
Bishop Don Magic Juan Lifetime Achievement Award. But in late 2004,
he said, some of the pimps told him to go back home to his wife.
They reconciled and ended divorce proceedings, though it meant
Snoop had to accept a different relationship. "Before, I would
never listen to her," he says. "Everything I say is law. But on the
comeback, I'm more of an ear instead of a mouth, instead of a hand.
Sometimes it irritates me to hear her talk shit to me, but when
it's right, that's the way it supposed to feel."
He admits he's far from a perfect husband, but he's left pimping
behind because he cares about his family and because, well, been
there, done that. "If you dream of riding the Colossus at Magic
Mountain and you get a chance to ride it, you gonna get on it," he
says. "But I had enough. That pimping shit was cool 'cause I needed
to do it -- it's in me; but I'm into the family, I'm into this
now."
He's retired from pimping, but don't expect Snoop to pull a
Jay-Z. He doesn't believe in retiring from music. "Look at the
forefathers who did it before me," he says. "Stevie, Marvin,
Curtis, Teddy. In groups in the Sixties, solo in the Seventies,
hits in the Eighties. C'mon, cuz! Talk to me! Only way they retire
is through death. That's how I'm-a retire. Through death, nigga. I
ain't fittin' to quit." And why should he retire? He survived
Cripping in the wild streets of L.A. and survived Death Row. He
outlived the gangsta-rap era and morphed into the most lovable
gangsta in the country, an MC so popular people love him and his
style and his cool more than his music. So he can be with Crips and
Tookie and the Bishop and still make a lighthearted Hollywood
comedy with Owen Wilson and go on tour whenever he chooses, whether
or not he's got a hit on the radio. "I can go get $1 million in
fifteen days anytime I want," he says.
Snoop also has more to say on the mike. He's working on a new
group that will satisfy some of his pimpish urges. "A group called
the Nine Inch Dicks," he says. "We basically a male-chauvinist
group, and all we do is R&B songs with a twist. I had a song
called 'Bitch, I'm Gone, I'm Through With You.' I got another: 'Can
You Control Your Ho?' The name of the record is
Coming
Soon
, and you can believe me, we coming soon."
[From Issue 1015 — December 14, 2006]