Cozy up in Tokyo's 'Midnight Diner' for the TV version of comfort food

TONYA MOSLEY, HOST:

This is FRESH AIR. I'm Tonya Mosley. And this month we've been commemorating the 50th anniversary of hip-hop. As any hip-hop fan will tell you, we can't talk about the genre without including one of rap music's pioneers, the late Christopher Wallace, better known as Biggie Smalls.

(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "JUICY")

THE NOTORIOUS BIG: (Rapping) It was all a dream. I used to read Word Up magazine. Salt-n-Pepa and Heavy D up in the limousine. Hanging pictures on my wall. Every Saturday, Rap Attack, Mr. Magic, Marley Marl. I let my tape rock...

MOSLEY: Wallace's album "Ready To Die" was an instant hit when it came out in 1994. Rolling Stone recently named it the greatest hip-hop album of all time. Biggie recorded it when he was just 22 years old, and it was his only album released during his lifetime. Biggie was murdered 16 days before the release of his second album, "Life After Death."

Joining us today to talk about the life and legacy of the Notorious B.I.G. is journalist Justin Tinsley. He's the author of the book "It Was All A Dream: Biggie And The World That Made Him." In the book, Tinsley explores Biggie's life in the context of not only rap, but the wider cultural and political forces that shaped him, including immigration, Reagan-era politics, the war on drugs and mass incarceration. Justin Tinsley is a senior sports and culture reporter for ESPN's Andscape. Justin, welcome to FRESH AIR.

JUSTIN TINSLEY: Thank you so much for having me, Tonya. Thank you.

MOSLEY: Thank you for being here. You know, taking a look at the cultural and political forces at play during Biggie's life is such an interesting way to explore his impact. So the first album came out on September 13, 1994. That's "Ready To Die." That was the same day as the '94 crime bill was passed. When you put those two dates together and relistened to that album with that knowledge in mind, what did you hear?

TINSLEY: Let me tell you, Tonya, when I first found out that both of those things happened on the same day, I was like, wow. Like, that is - that's a form of serendipity that I wasn't expecting to encounter, you know, during my research process. So when you take the '94 crime bill and you understand the discussion and the discourse that went around that bill and listen to the album again, to me it sounds like a rebuttal to that actual crime bill. Basically saying, like, OK, we understand how Washington and Congress and, you know, so many other levels of government view these inner city kids. But I'm going to give you the perspective of being an inner city kid.

This is what we have to survive. This is what happiness looks like. This is what fear looks like. This is what paranoia looks like - that you can't find in the actual verbiage of the '94 crime bill. Like, this is - these are the things you're trying to curb. And when you're listening to the album, like, these are the things we're trying to survive. Like, it's so bad out here that we're telling anybody who'll listen, that, like, I am ready to die to escape the circumstances that I've been given.

MOSLEY: Let's explore a little bit more what you mean by that. So the first song on this debut album of Biggie's "Ready To Die" - it starts first off with Biggie being born. So it's kind of like an interlude. Growing up with so much potential, then getting caught up, then going to jail - that's the interlude. And then there is the first song, "Things Done Changed." It picks up, and the character, Notorious B.I.G., gets out of jail, returns home and is reminded of this violent misery and racist contempt of the crack era. Let's listen.

(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "THINGS DONE CHANGED")

THE NOTORIOUS BIG: (Rapping) If I wasn't in the rap game, I'd probably have a key knee-deep in the crack game. Because the streets is a short stop. Either you're slinging crack rock or you got a wicked jump shot. S***, it's hard being young from the slums, eating 5 cent gums, not knowing where your meal's coming from. And now this s***'s getting crazier and major. Kids younger than me - they got the Skygrand pagers. Going out of town, blowing up. Six months later, all the dead bodies showing up. It make me want to grab the 9 and the shotty, but I got to go identify the body. Damn, what happened to the summertime cookouts? Every time I turn around, a n**** getting took out. S***, my mama got cancer in the breast. Don't ask me why I'm motherf***ing stressed. Things done changed.

MOSLEY: Like what that truly means - Biggie really was of the streets.

TINSLEY: Yeah, absolutely. Like, this is - if you're from Brooklyn, if you're from New York in the early '90s, and you were outside at that point in time, you knew who Biggie was, especially if you grew up in Brooklyn. And so Brooklyn is - it's such an important city in terms of the history of hip-hop. And Biggie represents so much of that history in, like, one body. Because his story wasn't fabricated. His story wasn't made up in terms of what he experienced in the streets.

And so when you have that type of reflection and that type of introspection, and if you grew up in that time - you don't even have to be from Brooklyn. If you remember what it was like being a young Black person growing up in the early '90s and living in the inner city, you saw a lot of the same things that Biggie was talking about. Like, there was an authenticity to it because you knew what he was saying he actually survived. Thankfully, at that point in time, he survived because, you know so many casualties that won't be able to tell this story because they're either dead or in jail now.

MOSLEY: Biggie was born in 1972. His parents had immigrated from the Caribbean. And I thought it was really interesting the way you separate the persona from the person. So the persona we know is Biggie Smalls. And as you write, that persona had only been around for about five years. But the man behind the persona, Christopher Wallace, had a pretty full life before fame. What were some of the things that really surprised you about a young Christopher Wallace when he was in those single digits and preteen adolescent years?

TINSLEY: So when you listen to Biggie rap - right? - you're listening, like, OK, this guy is special. He was put on this Earth for a lot of reasons, but one of the most important was to make music. You haven't heard too many people quite like him. And when he's younger, he has this photographic memory, that he can remember things and just recite them almost on cue. So, like, when I'm speaking to people that he grew up with, they were like, oh, yeah, he never really studied when he was in school because he always knew the coursework. Like, school was very, very easy for him. And with school being so easy, that's why he got bored so easily as well.

So, like, this guy - he had notebooks, and he would just write rap lyrics down all day, and not necessarily his because he was, like, 9, 10, 11 years old. But he would write the lyrics to, you know, "Rapper's Delight" or Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five's music or whatever the case may be. And he had a wide range of musical tastes. Like, one of the funniest quotes from the book was when Biggie was in elementary school. He would tell his friends like, yeah, man, I can't go to sleep without my country music. And everybody would be like, huh?

MOSLEY: This was such an interesting detail.

TINSLEY: Because his mother was such a country fan.

MOSLEY: Right. This was such an interesting detail about his love for country music. And it doesn't - it's not so farfetched because I think as you were about to say, his mother was a Jamaican immigrant, and she loved country music, too.

TINSLEY: Yeah. And it makes sense when you listen to his music. Biggie is seen as one of the all-time great musical storytellers. Like, he called himself the Black Alfred Hitchcock. Like, he loved storytelling. And when you listen to country music, so much of country music is based around the art of storytelling. So, like, when you start to piece together those little things, like, his life becomes even more colorful than it already was.

MOSLEY: Right. And the side note there is that country music is pretty popular in some Jamaican communities. It was just a detail that...

TINSLEY: Absolutely.

MOSLEY: Yeah, that was really interesting. His mother, Voletta - she was a single mom. She raised him, as you said, in Brooklyn. When he was a toddler, the city of New York, as you write, was almost bankrupt. So the city's troubles were very real. It was a very real backdrop to his life growing up. But his mother didn't play around. She was very strict. It wasn't enough to keep Biggie from being lured to the street life, though.

TINSLEY: No.

MOSLEY: I guess like many kids who grew up poor, he wanted money, and the '80s was a very materialistic era. I mean, I just know that was hard for her.

TINSLEY: There was a love there between them two that not even death could break - you know? - because Voletta looked at it like he's all I have here. Like, I'm not moving back to Jamaica. Obviously, my son and his father are not going to have a relationship. So I have to double, triple and quadruple down on the love and, honestly, the discipline that I have to put on him because I'm the only one that's going to be able to do all this. And she's a single mother. She's a schoolteacher. So she's giving her son the best life that he can. But as you said, the '80s was a very materialistic time. And, I mean, not much has changed, of course, but, like, when you cut on the TV and you see things like "Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous," and you look out your window and you see the guys that are really making money, they're standing on the block all day.

And so Biggie was never going to go to McDonald's and flip burgers for minimum wage when he knew that real money was just outside of his door. Now, I don't know if he truly understood it, at least at the beginning, the perils that would come with it, because at first, when you got a lot of money in your pocket, that's all you really care about. But it's like, OK, I have to look over my shoulder from, you know, enemies in the street. I have to look over my shoulder from the police, you know, friends turning their back on me. And this is stuff that Voletta could not protect her son from, because once you walk out that door, you're the world's property. And it was only a matter of time before he jumped off that stoop. But there was so much that happened in his life while - even before he got to the streets that really influenced the artist that he would become.

MOSLEY: You referenced the stoop, and that is, you know, his - where he would sit - his stoop of his apartment. I'm just curious what his reputation was like as a drug dealer. He was really good at selling drugs. How good?

TINSLEY: So, like, he was a businessman. One thing - once he really got to the street, his main motivation was making as much money as possible. So from what I determined and people who I spoke to and the research that I did, I mean, he was a pretty astute drug dealer. He understood. He knew who people were. He knew who the customers were. He knew what they liked. He was never the guy that was loud and boisterous on the block because he didn't need to be. He always stood out. He was like 6'3", 6'4", almost 300 pounds. Like, you didn't have to look long and hard for Big. He was always out there. So that type of, quote-unquote, "customer service" always had people coming back to him. I don't want anybody thinking that I'm glorifying the act of selling drugs, but there - it's not just let me stand on the corner and people will come up to me and buy drugs off me. Like, no, this is just like any other business. Like, you have to know your clientele to be successful.

MOSLEY: Justin, let's take a short break. If you're just joining us, my guest today is Justin Tinsley. He's a sports and culture reporter for Andscape and the author of the book "It Was All A Dream: Biggie And The World That Made Him." We'll continue our conversation after a short break. This is FRESH AIR.

(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "NOTORIOUS B.I.G.")

UNIDENTIFIED MUSICAL ARTIST: (Singing) Notorious.

MOSLEY: This is FRESH AIR, and today we're talking to Justin Tinsley, author of the book "It Was All A Dream: Biggie And The World That Made Him." Tinsley is a sports and culture reporter for Andscape. He's a regular panelist for ESPN's "Around The Horn" and creator and host of "The King Of Crenshaw," a 30 For 30 podcast on Nipsey Hussle.

Justin, the way that Biggie got into rap was through drug dealing. As you write, he started traveling from New York to the Carolinas to sell, and he'd rap in the car to instrumentals. And you talked to friends who were astonished by his skill. And just to put this into context, like, everybody was rapping around that time. So it wasn't unusual to be rapping to an instrumental tape, but he was pretty exceptional in his talent.

TINSLEY: No, absolutely. So, like you said, everybody was rapping. Like, rap was still, I guess you could say, at that point in time, an infant genre. Like, the turn of the '80s into the '90s, everybody was rapping from the neighborhood. But in a lot of cases, it was really just to pass time. Because here's the thing about drug dealing. It's not like you go on the corner at 7 a.m. and then you have constant business from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. or whenever you clock out. But you have a lot of downtime. So, like, rapping was, you know, a means to pass time. But, like, when people heard him, it's like, OK, I'm just rapping for fun. This guy has something special. But the thing about Biggie was he never promoted himself. Like, he always - like, yo, Big, you're nice. And he was like, all right, cool. Whatever you say. I want to get your music in front of people. Is that cool? Yeah, whatever you do. But Biggie never actually handed a demo tape to anybody.

MOSLEY: Why - you wrote...

TINSLEY: People...

MOSLEY: ...Like, yeah, he was - he exuded this air of confidence, but you write that he was pretty fearful of rejection.

TINSLEY: Yeah. He did not want to be told no. He didn't want to be told no. And that's a - that's as human of a quality as there is, right? Nobody likes to be rejected, and nobody wants to be told that what they believe as their art isn't good enough. So Biggie was just like, I'm not even going to put myself in that position. But if you, Tonya, feel like I'm - you know, I got some talent and you know some people, yeah. You put it in front of them and we'll see where it goes. But he never actually did that himself.

MOSLEY: So Biggie has this demo tape. It somehow gets to this young producer - P. Diddy.

TINSLEY: Yeah. So Biggie's demo tape had become kind of like an urban legend because so many people heard it and so many people wanted other people to hear it. And it ultimately got to Puffy at Uptown. And he heard that demo tape. Man, he was like, there's no way this dude is that great at rapping. This has to be heavily edited. So one thing leads to another, and at one point in the sitdown, Puffy was like, hey, I want to hear you rap. And Biggie raps and he blows Puffy's mind away. Like, yo, somehow, the demo tape undersold this guy's talent, and I love the demo tape.

So he tells Biggie right there, I can get you a record out by the summer. And Biggie's like, yeah, sure, whatever, but until that moment comes where you offer me a contract and I actually see real money, I have to go down to North Carolina. I have to go back to the block. I have to go back to Brooklyn and basically sell until you come through with your word. So the crazy story is Biggie is down in Raleigh, N.C., because that's where he went to hustle when he went down South. He's in his house, and Puffy calls him. And Puffy is mad. I told you not to go back down there. I told you I was going to get the contract right. I told you I was going to get your money. I'm looking at the check right now. Please come back to New York and sign this contract. Big toyed with the idea of staying in Raleigh. But he ultimately decided to get on the bus and head back to New York. And I lie to you not, Tonya. I lie to you not. Four or five hours later, the police raided the house - the trap house that Biggie lived - in and arrested everybody and took them to jail. And they all did prison time. So that's how close we were to never hearing the Notorious B.I.G. or the name Biggie Smalls, the rapper.

MOSLEY: Bad Boy was the record label that Puff Daddy started. Biggie was something new for him. He really wanted to get a grounding in hip-hop.

TINSLEY: Yeah, yeah. And in '94 "Flava In Ya Ear" is, like, the biggest hip-hop song in the country. Then the remix comes out. And if you remember the remix, Biggie is the first verse on there, and, you know, he has so many classic lines on that verse from don't be mad, UPS is hiring, more butt than ashtrays. Like, it's so many, like - and then the shift starts to happen around the summer of 1994 because Biggie wanted "Ready To Die" - he wanted the album to originally be called "Teflon Don" as a homage to John Gotti in the Mafia.

But Puffy wanted to go a different route, a more commercial route. I don't know how "Ready To Die" is considered a commercial title, but you know, it stuck. And two of the last songs recorded for that album were two songs that Biggie honestly did not want to do, and that's "Juicy" and "Big Poppa" - obviously two of his biggest songs ever - because Biggie wanted to rap as hard, as vicious, as gritty as possible.

So when you hear songs like "Things Done Changed" or "Suicidal Thoughts" or the title track, "Ready To Die," there was an understanding between them, and people like Mister Cee had to be in Biggie's ear basically saying like, look, Puffy is going to let you say whatever the hell you want to say for about 85- to 90% of the album. And he has no problem doing that because he knows who he signed. He knows the talent that you are. But you also have to understand that Puffy is also talented. He also understands marketing and publicity and advertising. And you got to give the people some records that, you know, they can party to, they can, like, live with.

MOSLEY: Can party...

TINSLEY: You can't always...

MOSLEY: ...To, can be on the radio. And "Juicy"...

TINSLEY: Def, so...

MOSLEY: ...Definitely was one of those songs.

TINSLEY: Yeah. So when "Juicy" comes out in the summer of 1994, it's an instant heat-seeking missile because you recognize the sample. The story that Biggie is telling is basically a socio-nomic (ph) rags-to-riches anthem.

MOSLEY: And it almost word for word is autobiographical. Can we - let's listen...

TINSLEY: Yeah.

MOSLEY: ...To a little bit of it.

(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "JUICY")

THE NOTORIOUS BIG: Yeah. This album is dedicated to all the teachers that told me I'll never amount to nothin', to all the people that lived above the buildings that I was hustlin' in front of and called the police on me when I was just trying to make some money to feed my daughter. And to my peoples in the struggle, you know what I'm saying? It's all good, baby, baby. (Rapping) It was all a dream. I used to read Word Up! magazine, Salt-N-Pepa and Heavy D up in the limousine, hangin' pictures on my wall, every Saturday, "Rap Attack" Mr. Magic, Marley Marl. I let my tape rock 'til my tape popped, smoking weed in bamboo, sipping on Private Stock, way back, when I had the red-and-black lumberjack with the hat to match. Remember Rappin' Duke? Duh-ha, duh-ha. You never thought that hip-hop would take it this far. Now I'm in the limelight 'cause I rhyme tight. Time to get paid, blow up like the World Trade. Born sinner, the opposite of a winner. Remember when I used to eat sardines for dinner? Peace to Ron G, Brucie B, Kid Capri, Funkmaster Flex, Lovebug Starski. I'm blowin' up like you thought I would. Call the crib, same number, same hood. It's all good. And if you don't know, now you know.

MOSLEY: Justin, the lyrics.

TINSLEY: Yeah.

MOSLEY: The lyrics.

TINSLEY: Yeah.

MOSLEY: I just want to say, like, they're every Black little kid from the ghetto's dream. I mean, that lyric...

TINSLEY: Yeah.

MOSLEY: ...A young Black male misunderstood, and it's still all good. I mean, that's - that is my favorite.

TINSLEY: It is - that's a timeless record, period. When we talk about the history of music in America, that song has to be somewhere near the front of that conversation because it's so, as you said, autobiographical, and it's so relatable in a sense. You know, in the years since, I've seen lists that say that "Juicy" is greatest rap song of all time. And there's a lot of credence to that.

MOSLEY: If you're just joining us, our guest today is journalist Justin Tinsley. He wrote the book "It Was All A Dream: Biggie And The World That Made Him." We'll be right back after this break. I'm Tonya Mosley, and this is FRESH AIR.

(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "HYPNOTIZE")

THE NOTORIOUS BIG: (Singing) Biggie, Biggie, Biggie, can't you see? Sometimes your words just hypnotize me. And I just love your flashy ways. Guess that's why they’re broke and you're so paid. Biggie, Biggie, Biggie, can't you see? Sometimes your words just hypnotize me. And I just love your flashy ways. Guess that's why they’re broke and you're so paid.

(Rapping) I put [explicit] in NY onto DKNY. Miami, D.C. prefer Versace. All Philly [explicit] go with Moschino. Every cutie with a booty bought a Coogi. Now who's the real dookie? Meaning, who's really the [explicit]? Them [explicit] ride [explicit]. Frank White push the six or the Lexus, LX, four and a half, bulletproof glass, tints if I want some [explicit]. Gonna blast, squeeze first, ask questions last. That's how most of these so-called gangsters pass. At last, a [explicit] rappin' about blunts and broads, [explicit] and bras, menage a trois…

(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "KICK IN THE DOOR")

THE NOTORIOUS BIG: Biggie. Biggie. Biggie. Biggie.

MOSLEY: This is FRESH AIR. I'm Tonya Mosley. And if you're just joining us, we're talking with Justin Tinsley, sports and culture reporter for Andscape and the author of the book, "It Was All A Dream: Biggie And The World That Made Him." One of the things we're learning so much about now, especially thanks to journalists like you, is just how deep Tupac and Biggie's relationship was. You actually say it's unfair to talk about the friction between the two without talking about their friendship, which is - it was a substantial one. This wasn't just a show at events or for the cameras.

TINSLEY: No, no. I knew when I started this book that I think for the last, you know, quarter century at this point, quarter century-plus, when people talk about Tupac and Biggie, we remember the negativity. And of course, like, that is absolutely part of the story. We remember the fallout. We remember the diss records, and we remember the very tragic ways both of those young men lost their lives. And again, that's part of the story. I have to talk about that in my book because it actually happened. But you know what else actually happened? They were really good friends. I would venture to say, like, damn near brothers in a sense. Now, it wasn't a long friendship because when they met in 1993, I think the falling out really started after Tupac's shooting at Quad Studios in November 1994. So when you think about it, their friendship maybe was only 16, 17 months old, but it was so vibrant.

So the anecdote - I think it's a beautiful one for this. Biggie's first single actually wasn't "Juicy." It was actually a song called "Party And BS." It was on the song for the "Who's The Man?" soundtrack in the spring of 1993 - otherwise, you know, pretty forgettable movie and soundtrack, but the soundtrack is always going to be remembered because it was Biggie Smalls' first actual solo single. And it was Tupac's favorite song. You know, the late John Singleton spoke about a story of - they were in Atlanta for Black College Weekend, aka Freaknik, and they were promoting "Poetic Justice." And in their Sprinter van or limousine, whatever the case may be, Tupac played "Party And BS" on repeat like, yo, this is my favorite song. Like, who is Biggie Smalls? I actually have to meet him.

And they actually met in 1993 'cause Biggie was in LA. Puffy - this was a Bad Boy promotional trip because Bad Boy was really just trying to introduce himself basically to the music industry. So there was a ton of promo events out there. And eventually Tupac heard this, and he met up with Biggie, and he took Biggie over to his house, and they, like, freestyled for, like, 20, 30 minutes, just back and forth. They were just, you know, eating, drinking and smoking, and, like, Tupac would egg Biggie on. He was like, yo, I'm about to spit, but you got to come just as hard if not harder than I did. And Biggie would gas him up like, come on, Pac, what you got? And they would just freestyle back and forth. And, like, Tupac would run into the kitchen and cook food for everybody, and, like, they would really just kick it and hang out.

MOSLEY: It just makes me think about how much of our energy was wrapped up in their rivalry and...

TINSLEY: Yeah.

MOSLEY: ...If we had known that story, what difference that might have made in our collective consciousness and just understanding of them as artists, which in turn is a reflection of ourselves and our understanding of ourselves. But one of the biggest things that contributed to the unraveling of their relationship - you mentioned it, but it's this misconception that Biggie set up Tupac to get shot during a studio session in New York in 1994, and Tupac was shot but wasn't killed. Biggie always denied this. And you actually talked to several people who also denied this, that Biggie had nothing to do with this. Tupac was murdered in Las Vegas a couple of years later. And his murder, as we know, has never been solved. But what did you learn about the way that Biggie took Tupac's murder?

TINSLEY: He was hurt. He was deeply, deeply hurt. This is a dude he once saw as a brother. This is a dude that he admitted himself was very instrumental in the early part of his career. But by the time Tupac was murdered, he was also the guy that said some really, really ugly, ugly things, not just about him, but his marriage to Faith Evans, his friends, in the form of the record "Hit Em Up" and even in magazines and interviews. And he really tried to assassinate Biggie's character in a lot of ways. So he was confused about that. But at the end of the day, he was sad because he lost a friend. He lost somebody who was very important to him in his life.

So he took it hard. He cried. Faith Evans has gone on the record before in previous interviews saying that, oh, like, he called her. And this is important to note because Biggie and Faith weren't really in a great head space at that point together. And it's largely because of Biggie's own infidelity at that point. But Biggie called Faith, and she could tell that he had been crying. She could hear it in his voice, one, because he lost a friend, and two, he was scared 'cause he was like, yo, like, if they killed Tupac, they can get anybody. And obviously he didn't know he would be next, but he took it very hard because it was very few people in hip-hop at that point in time who could understand that level of celebrity that they both had, but also the drama that came with the names Biggie and Tupac. There was very few people who could understand that, and now one of them is dead.

And keep in mind, at this point, he was only 24 years old. That's what's lost in a lot of these discussions. It's like, OK, we see Tupac and Biggie. They're these larger-than-life figures in hip-hop, and their stories are basically folk tales now. They're folk heroes. They're as much a part of the history of this country as anything else. And what we forget is Tupac was 25 when he died. He had just turned 25. Biggie was two months away from his own 25th birthday when he passed. We think they were much older, but they were still babies. They were still - their brains hadn't even really fully finished developing yet. And that's what's really lost in a lot of these discussions about those two.

MOSLEY: Yeah, Tupac was murdered in 1996. A year later, Biggie was killed in Los Angeles. Both of their murders have not been solved. It fueled a lot of conspiracy theories because Tupac had just been murdered a short time before. Can you briefly share what happened the night in Los Angeles when Biggie was killed and why he was there?

TINSLEY: Yeah. So Biggie was promoting "Life After Death." But also, Biggie loved Los Angeles. Los Angeles was one of his favorite cities.

MOSLEY: Which is surprising because there was that...

TINSLEY: Yeah.

MOSLEY: ...East Coast-West Coast beef, and he was clearly...

TINSLEY: Yeah.

MOSLEY: ...An East Coast rapper.

TINSLEY: Yeah. And he hated the fact that, like, the East Coast-West Coast rap war had alienated two coasts from each other because he loved LA. He loved the vibe. He loved the weather. He loved the marijuana. He loved the women. He loved everything about Los Angeles. He talked about it in his music. So - but he knew to promote his album, he had to go to LA. And a lot of people saw him being in LA as kind of like a taunt. But Biggie saw it as, like, this is a missionary. Like, I'm on a mission, like, to show people that, like, I'm not afraid of LA. I love LA. I had nothing to do with Tupac being murdered. I love y'all. I love this city. Like, let's party. I got a new album coming out. It's going to be crazy. And that's what he saw it as.

And the crazy thing about this - Biggie was murdered March 9. On March 8, he was supposed to be on a flight from LAX to London to do international promotion for the album. But he was having so much fun in LA, and he wanted to party. He wanted to go to the party at the Petersen Automotive Museum the next night or that very same night, and he just delayed his flight. And people like his manager, Mark Pitts, were very, very upset. His mother didn't understand why he didn't go to London. She wasn't really comfortable with him being in LA because she understood the temperature. She wasn't, like, a huge rap fan, but, like, everybody knew what was going on around that time.

And the last hours of his life, I think Biggie was very, very happy. He had a new album that was coming out. He now had two kids - of course, his daughter, T'yanna, who was born in 1993, but his son, C.J., who he had with Faith Evans, you know, his estranged wife at that point. He had done a lot of soul-searching when he was in rehab. He had just gotten his first tattoo in LA later that week that was a biblical scripture. And he was kind of, like, having that quarter-life awakening that so many people had that he knew where he wanted to take his life. And that party that night at the Petersen Automotive Museum, they debuted basically "Hypnotize" there, which was the first single from the album, and they played it 20 to 25 times, just, like, on loop. And the only reason that the party got shut down is because it became overcrowded, and the fire marshal shut it down. And Biggie's getting in the car. D-Roc is behind him. Lil' Cease is behind him in the back seat. Biggie is sitting in the passenger seat. D-Roc mushes his head, basically saying, you did it, baby. You're back on top. The new album's coming. The new album is bomb. Like, you getting love out here in LA. And literally seconds later, and he was shot, and he died.

MOSLEY: Biggie's funeral procession with all of the people lining the streets of Brooklyn - I still get chills whenever I see that video, especially - I think someone in the crowd puts on the song "Hypnotize," and the entire street just erupts. I don't think I've ever seen a more powerful one, I think...

TINSLEY: Yeah.

MOSLEY: ...Aside from Aretha Franklin's procession. Where were you?

TINSLEY: I was watching on TV, probably watching on MTV, and I saw the footage. And as the years have gone by and I've really come to understand basically the play-by-play of that day, it's just an even more powerful moment because Brooklyn woke up on the morning of March 9 to that news, like, the news that you didn't even think was possible. Like, yo, Biggie Smalls - Notorious B.I.G. murdered in Los Angeles. Like, that is a part of Brooklyn's soul and spirit that it will never get back because he meant that much to that community. Like, he took Brooklyn everywhere with him, everywhere with him.

And so that community that day of the funeral procession, they gave Big one of his last wishes because he says on the song "Can't Stop The Reign" that he recorded with Shaquille O'Neal, one of his really good friends who was actually supposed to be at the party that night - he rapped on the song, I rely on Bed-Stuy to put it down if I die. And Bed-Stuy and Brooklyn and Clinton Hill, they took that personally. And so when he - when the hearse is, you know, going throughout Brooklyn, it turns into a party because that was Biggie's wish. Like, he - I don't want you to be sad for me.

MOSLEY: Justin, let's take a short break.

If you're just joining us, my guest today is Justin Tinsley. He's a sports and culture reporter for Andscape and the author of the book "It Was All A Dream: Biggie And The World That Made Him." We'll continue our conversation after a short break. This is FRESH AIR.

(SOUNDBITE OF BR1X3R SONG, "PARTY AND BULL**** (REMASTER)")

MOSLEY: This is FRESH AIR. And today, we're talking to Justin Tinsley, author of the book "It Was All A Dream: Biggie And The World That Made Him." Tinsley is a sports and culture reporter for Andscape. He's a regular panelist for ESPN's "Around The Horn" and creator and host of "The King Of Crenshaw," a 30 for 30 podcast on Nipsey Hussle.

Can we talk about homophobia in the context of Biggie? 'Cause it was, and still is, a - to a certain extent, such a big part of hip-hop, and Biggie...

TINSLEY: Yeah.

MOSLEY: ...Had some questionable lyrics. How do you square that when thinking about his legacy?

TINSLEY: You know, I thought about that a lot. I thought about the lyrics that - obviously he said them in 1994, 1995. I look at it as if - it's not forgiving him for anything, but it's also understanding the time frame and understanding the conversations or lack of conversations that were being had at that point. We talk a lot about mental health awareness right now. Nobody was talking about that in hip-hop in the '90s. So when I hear, like, the homophobic lyrics, when I have to address the situations of Biggie's, like, tumultuous, passionate and ultimately violent relationship with Lil' Kim, it's not excusing him for anything, but you would hope that with 25 years of hindsight, had he lived, he was like, you know what? I shouldn't have said that. I shouldn't have done this.

And I spoke to people who knew Big, and I asked them about these situations, and it was like Biggie was the type of guy that - he wouldn't run from any question. And he was also a very thoughtful person when he needed to be. And I would like to believe that, you know, 25 years later, that he would be far more sympathetic and far more empathetic to these conversations around homophobia and hip-hop, you know, violence in, you know, personal relationships, because these are things that - these are conversations that have evolved so much in the 25 years that - 25, 26 years since he's been gone. So you just hope that a person would evolve.

MOSLEY: Do you think we're there when it comes to women too? The same thing that you're talking about regarding homophobia, we're having the same discussion around misogyny.

TINSLEY: Yeah.

MOSLEY: Biggie's lyrics around women were somewhat violent, definitely sexual.

TINSLEY: Yeah.

MOSLEY: In real life, he had complex relationships with women. But how do you reconcile Biggie's misogynistic lyrics? Do you see it in the same way?

TINSLEY: When I spoke to Cheo Hodari Coker - he is a legendary hip-hop journalist, and he also wrote the original Biggie biography, "Unbelievable." It came out in 2003. And he's actually a great mentor and friend of mine. But I asked him about this very same topic in terms of Biggie and the lyrics and some of the situations he found himself in with women - in particular, something like Lil' Kim and, you know, their at times violent relationship. And I asked him, like, how do we discuss that in 2023 while still being, like, fans of his music and of his life? And he was like, look, one thing I know for sure, that is not the man his mother raised him to be. Like, Voletta would have never condoned, you know, violence against women or anything like that.

And Biggie was also the type of person to - like, yo, if I was wrong - let's say Biggie lives to be 45 years old, not 24, and you ask him about these very same questions. Cheo was like the Biggie that I knew was also very empathetic and very remorseful when he needed to be. And I think with the gift of life and the gift of experiences and the gift of actually evolving and maturing, hopefully he would have talked about that because it's something that we see nowadays. You can't escape these conversations, and you should have to answer for your own actions. So I think when I look at Biggie and I think of the misogynistic lyrics, I think that was just - you know, nobody was there to check him on that. That's not only how he rapped, but that's how a lot of people talked back then, better or worse.

MOSLEY: We're commemorating this 50 years in hip-hop this month, which still is astounding to me every time I say it. But what role do you think Biggie will continue to play in our understanding of the genre?

TINSLEY: Oh, he's going to play a major role, the same way Marvin Gaye is in soul music, R&B, the same way, like, James Brown in rock 'n' roll and Elvis and things like that. Like, you can't talk about the story of hip-hop without mentioning the name Biggie Smalls. One, because, yes, he is so talented. He made so much great music in such a short amount of time. But he's also a reminder of what this genre has survived. Like, this genre lost two of its - arguably the two greatest rappers it's ever seen, or the two most important rappers it's ever seen, in six months. And it still found a way to survive, but we'll never forget it. And, like, there will never be a point in time when Biggie is irrelevant. I see kids wearing Tupac and Biggie shirts, and they weren't even alive when Tupac and Biggie were alive. Hell, they weren't even - they were born in, like, 2007, like 10 years after Biggie died. So, like, when you have that type of cultural currency, you'll never go bankrupt.

MOSLEY: Justin Tinsley, thank you so much for this conversation.

TINSLEY: Thank you so much for having me. It's a true pleasure.

MOSLEY: Justin Tinsley is the author of "It Was All A Dream: Biggie And The World That Made Him." Let's end by listening to a little bit of P. Diddy's tribute to Biggie. The song is called "I'll Be Missing You."

(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "I'LL BE MISSING YOU")

DIDDY: (Rapping) In the future, can't wait to see if you open up the gates for me. Reminisce sometimes, the night they took my friend. Try to black it out, but it plays again. When it's real, feelings hard to conceal. Can't imagine all the pain I feel. Give anything to hear half your breath. I know you're still living your life after death.

FAITH EVANS: (Singing) Every step I take, every move I make, every single day, every time I pray, I'll be missing you.

MOSLEY: Coming up, John Powers reviews the Japanese TV series "Midnight Diner." This is FRESH AIR.

(SOUNDBITE OF HORACE SILVER'S "OPUS DE FUNK")

TONYA MOSLEY, HOST:

This is FRESH AIR. "Midnight Diner" is a Japanese TV series about a diner located on a quiet side street in one of Tokyo's busiest districts. Although the show has been running on Netflix for several years, our critic-at-large, John Powers, keeps rewatching old episodes. He says the show creates a mood that keeps calling the viewer back.

JOHN POWERS, BYLINE: Ever since the strikes began in Hollywood, the usual torrent of new shows has slowed to a trickle, and people keep asking me what older shows they should watch. Was there anything great that they might have missed along the way? You know, something they would love as much as they love "The Bear." I always recommend "Midnight Diner," the strangely addictive Japanese series whose 24-minute episodes unfold with the lazy looseness of happy hour. Now, the show is anything but hot or zeitgeisty. It first appeared on Netflix seven years ago and hung around for so long that a few months back, the streamer stopped showing the first three seasons, leaving its huge loyal fan base bereft. You see, part of "Midnight Diner's" appeal is that it's one of those timeless shows that's always there for you. Suddenly it wasn't. Happily, the show is now back on Netflix in its entirety. And like millions of others, I haven't been able to resist rewatching. I'm blissed out from the moment I hear the opening theme.

(SOUNDBITE OF SONG, "OMOIDE")

TSUNEKICHI SUZUKI: (Singing in Japanese).

POWERS: The show's setting is a dimly lit alleyway in the teeming Tokyo neighborhood of Shinjuku. There you find the Midnight Diner, a small all-night joint run by the chef known only as Master. That's quietly charismatic Kobayashi Kaoru, whose stony countenance is broken by flickers of amusement and compassion. His counter is filled with regulars, including an exotic dancer named Marylin, the cheery old boozer who's her biggest fan, a besuited salaryman who moves like a bird, three high-spirited bachelorette office workers and a self-styled monk who utters nonsensical aphorisms. The episodes have the simplicity of folk tales or dinner party anecdotes. In each, we meet new characters - cartoonists, con women, cops, yakuza, old married couples and lovestruck youngsters - who ask the Master to cook them a particular off-the-menu dish - wieners cut in the shape of octopi, say, or potato salad like their mom's. Although modest, each dish means something big to the person who orders it, and these meals anchor the action as we, like Master and his regulars, follow the newcomer's fortunes - failed careers and overnight successes, romances found and lost, old wounds opened and transcended.

The original "Midnight Diner" was a purely Japanese concoction that ran for three seasons, starting in 2009. By American standards, those episodes were shambling, low-budget and un-cynical. That changed a bit when Netflix started producing the series in 2016, changing the name to "Midnight Diner: Tokyo Stories" and making it a bit more like our homegrown TV with slicker storylines and less reticence from the Master. Still, the show never lost what makes it irresistible. Goofy and gently sad, "Midnight Diner" liberates you from angry politics, trashy reality stars and dramas about serial killers. It lands you in a universe where even if bad things happen, the world is manageable and essentially benevolent. It creates a kindly move that even a hard-bitten critic like me wants to enter. Starting with one of the most seductive opening credit sequences of all time. Taxis gliding through Tokyo neon, that dreamy theme by Suzuki Tsunekichi, and in a calm voiceover, the Master telling us about his diner. I never, ever skip these credits.

Even as the show is funny and attuned to Japanese obsessions, it taps into something deep and universal - a modern spiritual homesickness. Not only is Master a mysterious loner with no history, his customers are loners, too - either regulars, for whom the diner's clientele become a de facto family, or troubled souls drawn to his counter in the wee hours. If anything links the characters, it's nostalgia for family, for high school, for a lost love or old-time pop idol. And as Proust taught us a century ago, nothing triggers memories better than food. It's one of the comical sides of this show that 95% of the customers declare the Master's downhome cooking delicious, a success rate that would make him the envy of the world's greatest chefs. Yet we grasp that what they're really tasting is the feeling unleashed by his dishes. And "Midnight Diner" pleases us in a similar way. It's the TV version of comfort food.

MOSLEY: John Powers reviewed "Midnight Diner" on Netflix. Tomorrow on FRESH AIR, Pulitzer Prize-winning writer Ronan Farrow joins us to talk about his latest expose for The New Yorker on the power of Elon Musk, titled "Elon Musk's Shadow Rule." It's about Musk's rising influence in government relations. I hope you can join us. To keep up with what's on the show and to get highlights of our interviews, follow us on Instagram @nprfreshair.

(SOUNDBITE OF MILES DAVIS' "BLUE IN GREEN")

MOSLEY: FRESH AIR's executive producer is Danny Miller. Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham. Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Amy Salit, Phyllis Myers, Sam Briger, Lauren Krenzel, Heidi Saman, Ann Marie Baldonado, Therese Madden, Thea Chaloner, Seth Kelley and Susan Nyakundi. Our digital media producer is Molly Seavy-Nesper. Roberta Shorrock directs the show. For Terry Gross, I'm Tonya Mosley.

(SOUNDBITE OF MILES DAVIS' "BLUE IN GREEN")

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