My Infamous Life: The audio book of Prodigy's memoir might be the best rap album of the year.

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July 27 2011 7:25 AM

My Infamous Life

The audiobook of Prodigy's memoir might be the best rap album of the year.

My Infamous Life: The Autobiography of Mobb Deep's Prodigy.

Rappers are rarely as economical in conversation as they are in song. A good rap song thrills in its precision, its measured sentences overstuffed with images and ideas, delivered with a kind of gusto that you simply can't teach. But to hear a rapper ramble on about sundry topics, such as the time Lindsay Lohan nearly gave up the goods, or the survival instincts that will be required once the apocalypse comes: This is absorbing in a different way.

Albert "Prodigy" Johnson is best known for being one-half of Mobb Deep, Queens rap legends whose hellish classics still inspire fierce devotion. Which is to say that Prodigy is beloved and carefully studied by many, though he is not Jay-Z or Biggie or 2Pac, figures so adored that books and biopics, authorized and otherwise, were inevitable. Prodigy has enjoyed a steady run of gold records, but he's hardly in the strata of Keith Richards or Patti Smith, who've taken sabbaticals longer than Mobb Deep's classic stretch in the mid-1990s. Johnson thus makes for an unlikely memoirist, but his recently released My Infamous Life: The Autobiography of Mobb Deep's Prodigy, which he mapped out while in prison for a gun possession charge, is a surprising triumph, both as an archive of 1990s New York hip-hop folk tales and for its stirring sketches of a man who, on many occasions, could have made his life a lot easier on himself. The best way to experience Johnson's epic, if meandering, journey: his audio book, which is among the most riveting recordings any rapper will release this year, or any year.

Over the course of seven albums, Johnson and his partner, Kejuan "Havoc" Muchita, perfected a style that was the very definition of gutter. Their songs oozed with desperation; they felt dank, fantastical, and consumed with a maddening paranoia—blame weed or the debilitating fevers and pain of Prodigy's sickle cell anemia for that. My Infamous Life, like Prodigy's music, fixes on the bruising minutiae of life in and around Queensbridge Houses. But where Mobb Deep's music was cold, heartless, and in-control, Prodigy's story allows for despair, defeat, and wandering reflection. Turning points in his career occupy mere minutes of the audio book, while a careful description of his high-school cafeteria or the history of his grandmother's legendary Queens dance studio unspool at a contemplative pace. Instead of infamy, there is life.


There is a faint stiffness to Prodigy's reading, as he tries to sound casual reciting the book's lines. But that stiffness occasionally gives way to a stirring earnestness, when, for example, he describes his grandmother's fried chicken wings as "the best in black history." He can seem bemused by his own life story, all the fights he escaped unscathed and the various cases he's dodged along the way. Even though you're not entirely sure he wrote all of these words himself—journalist Laura Checkoway is credited as a contributor—you begin to notice shifts in tone and emphasis over the course of the book, and it's clear which moments Johnson still feels. He'll end a gripping story about a Queensbridge melee with an awestruck "Wow," or seethe as he soldiers through passages concerning archenemy Jay-Z, who many believe derailed Mobb Deep's career by circulating a cred-killing photo of a prepubescent Prodigy preening at his grandmother's dance studio. When Prodigy catches word that fellow Queens native Nas has been dissing him around the neighborhood, he tries to take it in stride. His voice, though, betrays a quiver of disappointment that his loyalty to Nas has been in vain.

My Infamous Life is most compelling in its descriptions of Prodigy's younger years, before he begins to comprehend fame or learn the dimensions of cruelty. It's not just the innocent sense of discovery that is so winning; it's his refusal to cloud his childhood memories with weary, retrospective profundities or latter-day judgment. Even when it is clear that someone is going to disappoint or take advantage of him, he stays in the moment, coming off as the trusting, prideful kid he no doubt was. His great-great grandfather founded Morehouse College, his grandfather and uncle were famous jazz musicians, and his mother briefly sang in the Crystals. He grew up in an artistic household, where it was not uncommon for stars like Diana Ross or, memorably, Emmanuel Lewis of the television show Webster, to visit. "Yo Webster's coming to my house!" Johnson exclaims, conjuring the excitement of his younger self. After Lewis demonstrates some fancy footwork—"Oh shit! Webster can breakdance!"—Johnson needles him about his weird friendship with Michael Jackson.

These are the details you notice when your world is still small and manageable: the "goldmine of dimes"—pretty girls—on the first day of high school, discovering the new lands of Astoria's Steinway Street, preparing for a brawl by punching mom's couch pillows. But his world will eventually change, as crack colonizes his streets and his father's behavior grows increasingly erratic.


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