Saturday, December 18, 2004



the last mr. bigg caught two bullets in the back of the head walking through his neighborhood in mobile, alabama. sounds like he got ran up on from behind and the shooter dropped him, snatched his chain and ran his pockets for the cash. are you picturing this? facedown on the grey sidewalk, leaking thick black blood out of jagged exit wounds, mouth gaping, old lady running out of house because she heard the shots go off, runs back in and dials 9-1-1, the dude lying out there until emt truck screeches up. and right now lying in a coma in a hospital bed with spearmint green sheets, flanked by mother, sisters, cousins, friends.

he does that old man, old fashioned pimp and gangsta shit, talking about cadillacs and selling soft white in 1986 and getting put up on crack and putting a downpayment on his third house and giving his baby sister a benz to drive to highschool graduation.

just like you ft. paul wall and chamillionaire - just like you -- bigg flying into houston for one of those soft, shiny beats and thirty two from the two hottest in the city. it's paul and cham spitting their strictly metaphorical pimping for the purposes of wordplay and bigg spitting gruff about taking a bitch life and getting his nails done, and softly crooning the hook, letting his voice quaver and crack.

trial time -- this is his anthem, the track that got him blowing up on out of state mixtapes and selling him a lot of records. he's working that filthy voice on this, sort of a half and half mix between bill cosby and old master p, talking about take it trial because he's not talking, "getcha twelve white folks and take that shit to trial, bitch."

get well soon.

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