My Voice: A Memoir (11 page)

After all of that sadness, Biggie was our future.

But on March 9, 1997, early on a Sunday morning, when I was asleep at my new apartment in Queens, I got a call that Biggie had been shot and killed.
My God. No.
I was shocked, overwhelmed, numb. And before any other thoughts could register, I knew where I needed to be. I just popped up and ran to the station.

It was supposed to be the calm after the storm. The sadness we’d felt as a culture after Pac died was supposed to be the worst of it. No one was prepared for more.

I can’t believe this happened. I can’t believe this is still happening
. At this point, it was just too much to process.

I arrived at the station barely able to process how I would get on the radio and talk to my listeners about the death of our hometown hero. This was different. This is New York and I would be talking to the people who knew B.I.G. best. Not just his fans, but his family, his neighbors, our peers in the music industry who knew him well. It was way more intimate.

We had all gotten to know Biggie. He was a really likable guy, the type that would walk into a room and make everyone feel good. He made everybody laugh, quick and witty. We knew what block he was from.
We partied together. We rooted for him. And as famous as he’d become, he was still very much ours. He was accessible. When I hosted events at local clubs, it wasn’t uncommon for him to show up. I’d be surprised every time and ask what he was doing there. His answer was always the same: “I came to show love.”

As I’m getting my thoughts together, my boss asked me to talk to the local news channel, NY1. He wanted a representative from Hot 97 to explain the impact of Biggie’s death on the hip-hop community. Most of what he said went right through me. I was in no condition or mind-set to do anything so formal, but I didn’t have the energy to argue. I went downstairs to be interviewed in front of the building, and when the camera rolled, I just lost it. I was so spent. And it was just so fucking sad.

I spent the whole week on air letting people call in and talk about their BIG experiences. Plenty of artists called in and showed up to the station as well. Everyone was taking it really hard.

I remember pulling up to the funeral home on the Upper East Side and seeing hundreds of people behind the barricades, many holding signs and many crying. Fans and followers reacted to his death like they had lost a member of their family.

During the open-casket service, I kept looking over at different faces—Junior M.A.F.I.A., Lil’ Cease, and everybody else I had enjoyed so many happy, fun relationships with. All of that was in contrast to this terrible moment of sorrow. Real, deep-down sorrow.

Biggie songs and lyrics kept coming to me that day. The thing about the Notorious B.I.G. was that you always knew it was him from the first word he spoke. Before he died he had only released one album, back in September 1994, and that was true of every song—from “Big Poppa” to my favorite, “Unbelievable.” It was painful to recall that the first album was titled
Ready to Die.

After the funeral service, there was going to be a big procession to accompany Biggie’s hearse and drive through his neighborhood of Brooklyn. As we were all walking out, I saw Mary J. Blige, Lil’ Kim, and a few others heading toward their car. One of them turned back to say, “Ang, come with us.”

So I followed them, not sure where we were going. As we were walking, Kim was crying, like crying from her gut.

They both got in the car, but I waited outside. I didn’t want to intrude on this moment. It was too real. And then I heard someone call, “Come in the car. Kim wants you to come in the car.” I remember sitting in that car with Kim and a couple of her girlfriends, and Mary was sitting next to her. I didn’t even know what to say or how to feel.

I had just watched the movie
Steel Magnolias
and loved that scene when the daughter dies and at the funeral one of them says to the mom, “I don’t know how you’re feeling on the inside, but you look amazing on the outside.” And really, looking at Kim, she did look beautiful. If I had to show up to a funeral for somebody I loved, I would probably be in a scrunchie and something that didn’t match. I mean, how do you pull yourself together at a time like that?

I could tell she was in pain, but she still looked good. So I just said
that
. I said, “Kim, I don’t know how you feel inside, but you look beautiful.”

And she stopped crying for a minute and looked at me, and she just laughed for a second like—
are you fucking kidding me?
Then Kim said, “That’s the weirdest thing to say, but thank you.”

Everything else about that funeral was a blur. That next day, in all the coverage about the send-off for Biggie, the newspaper featured a picture of Kim walking with Mary. You could see Kim’s pain in that picture.

For all of us, I think in a way it was the end of innocence. We had learned hard lessons. Everyone was changed.

•   •   •

F
ittingly, when the album Biggie had just finished before he died came out posthumously, it was called
Life After Death
. It went on to sell more than ten million copies, barely edging out Tupac’s posthumous album of
Greatest Hits
, which sold a little under ten million, and Pac’s
All Eyez on Me
, which is up at around nine million copies sold to date.

In the wake of their deaths, there was a sobering process that took hold across the industry and in the community. The whole battle between the two coasts faded in the rearview mirror of where hip-hop was headed next—to becoming really big business.

You could just feel it as we got into the later 1990s. Hip-hop was not being so niche anymore. It was definitely the time of the bigger money, the big multimillion-dollar production videos, and the crazy excesses that came along with going fast from nothing to everything. Biggie had warned everyone—“Mo Money, Mo Problems.”

It was an interesting time coming up. Because I had found my voice and my lane in radio and would start to be given other opportunities, the next challenge for me would be to find a way of keeping my focus without getting caught up in all of the craziness. The lessons I’d learned so far from Biggie and Pac would eventually help me stay grounded. But not right away. I’d have to make a few mistakes first.

It may sound strange—coming from someone like me who doesn’t look back at the past much—but I think of the lessons of this period all the time. Something that has kept them fresh comes from a discovery that a friend of mine made about three years ago. In an exhibit of Tupac memorabilia, one of the items preserved was a handwritten letter
on notebook paper that Tupac wrote to me all those years ago. It hangs on my kitchen wall today:

2 Angie Martinez

4 being true when false behavior was fashionable

4 never dirtying my name on the air

4 being what iz so hard 2 find . . . . . .

A real motherfuka

I O U 1

Collect whenever needed most

Sign: Tupac Shakur

There was irony in that I never received this letter and that he never received
mine.

VOICE OF NEW YORK

1997 TO
2001

ALMOST FAMOUS

A
s the clouds and haze of that heavy period lifted, my relationship with my listeners was stronger than ever. Like any relationship, when you go through something together, it brings you closer. You begin to have shared memories and you get to know each other on another level. I often talk about that with aspiring radio personalities because I think it’s the key to longevity. In developing a real relationship with your audience, you’re giving them a chance to get to know you and trust who you are. Knowing that helped me immensely because the answer to how to handle any challenge on-air became—just be honest. Just be yourself.

The summer of 1997 was a memorable time. Our Summer Jam concert that Hot 97 put on each year was shaping up to be bigger than ever. Twenty thousand people would show up to MetLife Stadium to see who was going to dis who, who was going to kill it, and who was going to get
booed. Legendary things happened at Summer Jam that everyone wanted to be there to witness. It always set the picture of what was happening in hip-hop, almost like a recap of everything that had happened in the year so far.

What I remember most from that year was a sense of wanting to come together to remember Biggie. As much as we were all trying to move forward, there wasn’t an artist that hit the stage that didn’t pay some sort of homage to Biggie. “Rest in Peace” shout-outs were the theme of the night.

As one of the deejays who got to welcome the crowd, this was the time every year that I got to come face-to-face with so many members of our core audience in one place. It was always overwhelming to see people I talked to every day on the radio looking back at me. They came from so many different backgrounds. Black, Latino, white, you name it. They were hard-core hip-hop heads. They’d come up and say they’re teachers who listen and try to engage their students in hip-hop. Others would say that they’d just gotten out of jail and the highlight of their day was listening to my show. They’d tell me their favorite Battle of the Beats or why they loved a certain interview.

I really started to notice a difference in how people were responding to me. More and more people were showing up at the parties I was hosting, and stopping me in the street to say hi. Ever since I’d been at Hot 97, taking part in the Puerto Rican Day Parade had become my favorite public event. I had been going since I was a little kid and never missed it. My grandma Petra used to take me, and we’d sit on the sidelines waving our flags with pride. My most vivid memory was of being eight years old and seeing Erik Estrada pass by on a float. He played Ponch in the TV show
CHiPs
. The show was a big hit that year, and Estrada was the breakout star. And he was Puerto Rican! My grandma
and I got so excited, you would have thought we’d just seen the pope! I was jumping up and down and all the girls around us were screaming. He looked right in our direction and smiled and waved.
Mannnnn
, I talked about it the whole way home. So, I loved this parade. I felt connected to it.

All of the years had been fun to be on the float with everybody from the station, and the crowd was always with me. But that summer of 1997, in particular, there was more attention than usual. People started to ask for pictures while we were setting up the float on one of the side streets. Of course, it was a big float that said Hot 97 all over it and we were blasting hip-hop before the parade even started, so it wasn’t weird that people would walk over and hang around and take pictures with all of us. What I did not see coming was that when it was our turn to hit the parade route, at the instant our float turned onto Fifth Avenue, I heard a monstrous roar. People’s flags went up and that roar of excitement came from the crowd and filled up my whole being. In the moment, you can’t really explain to anyone what is happening to you, so you just go with it! You roar back! I waved my flag with all my might and did my best to make eye contact with as many people as I could.

I saw groups of young girls that looked like they could be my sisters screaming my name from behind the barricade. “
Angie!!!! We love you, Angie!!”

Oh my God! This had never happened before. I felt so humbled and grateful that so many people who came from where I did felt such a connection to my success. It was theirs, too. I fought back tears for the next thirty-five blocks.

People were showing me love on a regular basis. And I know that may sound like no big deal to some, but I promise, it is a strange and amazing thing when you are not prepared for it. You want to give it
back to everyone, but as one person it’s challenging, and I’ve always felt almost guilty about it. I wanted to shout:
I’m a regular person. I’m not a celebrity.

Through highs and lows, I was always okay with keeping fame at arm’s length. I’ve always been fascinated by celebrity and how it affects people. And how most of the time it makes people act nuts! One thing I had going for me is that I’d been around radio for a long time, so I didn’t let any of it go to my head. My mother being in radio helped, too, because she had prepared me for the fact that even the most popular of radio personalities can be replaced; so I never got too comfortable or gassed. I was still just so grateful to be there. And it was my goal to stay there.

So while my ego was intact, I wasn’t completely in the clear; I did feel the pressure to step my game up. People around me were definitely cultivating the lifestyle that went along with that. Flex had jewelry and cars with big rims. I saw rappers who started with nothing rapidly become millionaires. The irony of starting to become sort of famous was that I was still not really making shit from the radio station. On the other hand, I was getting a paper bag full of cash every night from being in the clubs. So why wouldn’t I think I should buy a BMW? Why wouldn’t I think I should move into a luxury high-rise building? Why wouldn’t I want to live that life? G. and I had broken up and I felt like I needed a new start anyway.

As Nikki liked to point out over the years, every time I had a breakup, my next step was to pick up and move. She’s right. And I did.

I found the brand-new high-end building in Forest Hills, Queens, called the Pinnacle, with a valet, doormen, beautiful views, and a wraparound terrace. It was crazy! I took the first apartment I could find in the building and paid my deposit in cash. I was livin’ the life. Fancy
restaurants, new clothes, partying in VIP. The only problem was that I had no idea how to balance a checkbook! And it wasn’t even something I cared too much about.

My phone service would get shut off, and I’d just call and get it back on. My lights would get turned off, and I’d call the electric company, pay the money, and have them turned back on. I would run out of gas in my car on the road all the time. I had
no
order in my life and I’d never had money before, so once I got it, I spent it. And when late notices arrived, who had time for that? I was out of control, and then shit got crazy!

I came home late one night from hosting a party in the Bronx. I had been out of the house all day and I was exhausted, so I could not wait to get home. I valeted my car, and as I walked in the building, Hector, the doorman and an avid Hot 97 listener (as most of the guys in the building were), said, “Yo, Ang!”

“Hey, what up, Hector?”

“I think they locked you out of your crib,” he said.

“Huh??? What’re you talking about??”

“Yeah, the landlord came with the sheriff and put something on your door so you can’t get in.”

As fast as I could move, I flew into the elevator, rode it upstairs, and ran to my front door. Sure enough, as I stood there staring in shame, there was a padlock on the door and an oversized notice barring my entrance. I had been evicted! I was so EMBARRASSED. Everything I owned was inside the apartment. Standing there just looking at that notice, I was certain that everybody in the building probably knew by now. Mortified, I rode the elevator back down and had to walk back past the doorman again, this time with my head down. I could feel Hector judging me.

I drove to Brooklyn that night to sleep at Nikki’s new place on
Flatbush Avenue. And then a few days later, I found myself walking into the courthouse and entering that damn eviction office. I kept thinking about how half the people sitting in there were probably my listeners. Again I’m feeling the judgment! Hiding behind sunglasses, I felt that awkwardness of my public persona glaring back at me.

My God. How did I let this happen?

It took a couple of weeks, but eventually I paid all the fines, got my paperwork together, and got back into my place. And I vowed that this would never happen to me again.

•   •   •

W
hile I was zooming through the whirlwind working nights, Flex and I saw each other less. He seemed to have backed up from me a little bit, and our relationship felt strained. I didn’t really know why at first, but my label rep friends would tell me, “Yo, Flex says that if I bring my artist to your show first, he wouldn’t support them.” It was so weird being in that place with him. I loved Flex, and I respected him, but somehow we had become in competition with each other and I didn’t even know it.

Maybe I should have. It very well could have been my fault. I was so consumed with my own ambition. In hindsight, that could have been an issue. But why wouldn’t I be? Why wouldn’t I try to book the hottest parties, the best guests, or get exclusives for the Battle of the Beats?

You see, in my mind, Flex was always just so far ahead of me that it never occurred to me I may have been stepping on his toes. And our relationship wasn’t developed to the extent where he trusted me enough to know that my heart was good. I wasn’t trying to be an asshole. I just didn’t know any better. I confronted him about it a few times, but he just kinda brushed it off.

It was a weird time at Hot 97. Ed Lover and Dr. Dre had been doing
mornings now for a couple years, and the station was focused on branding them. Wendy Williams was on in the afternoon. Wendy had come in after Hot 97 bought adult R&B station KISS FM in December 1994, and there was almost an air of resentment from her toward the station and all of us. So I was cordial, but I kept my distance. And then Flex was on after me. I mean, we were all poppin’ in our own right. Ratings were like nothing anyone had ever seen, and there was really no outside competition. But because of that, I think we just started to compete with each other—which may have given me an incentive to say yes to opportunities I might not have otherwise.

I’m thinking of the night when I happened to be hosting a party at a club in Long Island and KRS-One was performing. Before he went onstage, I was on the mic, and afterward KRS says, “You know, you’re really good on the mic. You’ve got a good presence. Your voice is strong. Have you ever rhymed before?”

I laughed and said, “You know, just for fun, whatever, here and there. But no, I’m not a rapper.”

“You should come to the studio one night,” KRS says. “You’d probably sound really good on a record.”

Whaaaaat?? Me????
This is KRS-One—arguably one of the best emcees to ever grab a mic.
Is he out of his mind?! He must be
.

But there was no way in hell I would miss an opportunity to be in a studio and play rapper with one of the greats! So of course I went!

KRS told me he had a session with Showbiz at Chung King Studios in Midtown and that I should meet him there around ten o’clock. I showed up a little early, at nine forty-five, nervous and questioning my decision. No sooner had I entered the lobby than I heard that big iconic KRS voice. “Annnngieeee, you made it!!! Welcome! Welcome . . . Come in,” he said as he walked toward me and then stopped. “You by yourself?” He was surprised.

“Yeah, I’m alone.” If I was gonna play myself, I preferred to do it in front of the smallest amount of people possible. But I didn’t say that.

Instead, I followed him into a dark room. It was loud. It smelled like weed and incense and the beat playing was a sample of Treacherous Three’s “Feel the Heartbeat.” It was all dope and everything I had always imagined a KRS session should look like. And then I spotted Redman!

Redman’s
Muddy Waters
album had just been certified gold and there he was sitting in the corner, smoking a blunt without a care in the world.

“Annnng, what up?” he said from his position on the black leather couch, notebook in hand.

This is too much! KRS-One ANND Redman are here?! Why am I here?
This is fuckin nuts!

KRS said, “You don’t have to do anything. I’m gonna write a verse for you.”

Redman just laughed at this. I don’t think he knew why I was there either.

“Okay, but you sure? I—I’ve never done anything like this. I mean, I’ll try it. If it sounds terrible—”

“Just try it,” KRS encouraged. “Who cares? If it sounds good, I’m gonna keep it. I’m not gonna keep it if it’s wack.” So he wrote it down. I mean, he definitely wrote the verse. I went in the booth and I tried it.

It’s the butter pecan Rican speakin’ deletin’ other radio jocks that think they competin’ . . .

When I came out of the booth, Redman was sitting there, still smoking a blunt, and he said to me matter-of-factly, “Yo, you sound all right. I can’t even front. You sound all right on that.”

“I don’t know. That shit sounds weird to me.”

But KRS loved it! They wound up keeping it and putting the song out and calling it “Heartbeat.” And for the most part people liked it.
Sure, some people felt weird about it, like,
What is she doing? What are you doing with her on there? She’s not a rapper.
I wasn’t, but this was KRS-One and Redman . . . What was I supposed to do? Say no? No way!

Then came the video. KRS told me to come up to the video shoot on the roof of a theater by the radio station. This is how green I was. There was no stylist. There was no hair. There was no makeup. I’m in a squishy nylon sweat suit and some sneakers, like—
Okay, I’m here for the video
. That was it. And they just threw me in.

I’d never done a video before, and then all of a sudden I’m just doing a video. I was so in awe of being there with them. I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing there. Actually, that video never came out, but they wound up using a clip of it in KRS-One’s “A Friend” video. The clip was cute, and we really did have fun shooting it—KRS, Redman, and me boppin’ in unison on a rooftop. It was a B-girl’s dream come true.