The Legend Of The Biggie Belt

Twenty-three years ago, The Notorious B.I.G. left his 52-inch belt at ‘The Source’ magazine weeks before he died. Nine Keepers of the Belt kept it safe and secret. Why was this accessory so important?

I feel silly telling this story. I mean, it’s just a belt. But it matters to me.

The story begins in 1997 at The Source magazine.

And it starts with Rigo “Riggs” Morales.

Last week, Riggs was named senior VP, A&R and artist development at Atlantic Records. Over the past 20 years, Riggs has signed and guided dozens of platinum-selling acts, from Eminem to Wiz Khalifa and Janelle Monae.

He is an accomplished executive, respected by his peers and musicians. But 23 years ago, he was a writer and editor at The Source magazine. And he was over it.

Rigo “Riggs” Morales

After a few years at the red-hot center of hip-hop journalism, he felt like he wasn’t getting the right support. Or the right promotions. Months later with a new title — associate music editor — he made it clear that he wanted to be the music editor, which was the number two job at the magazine. Instead, he was given yet another new title: senior associate music editor. “You know what that stands for right,” he said to a coworker. “It spells out S.A.M.E. New title. Same responsibilities.”

Riggs was ready to go. He was close to everyone in the office and had started his career as an intern at the magazine. But he still knew he had gone as far as he was willing to go. The announcement was made that he was leaving, and some of his fellow writers were stunned. Riggs was an institution. He shrugged when people asked questions. “It’s just time,” he would say.

Riggs had an actual office, a rarity for most of The Source employees. When you walked in, there was a left turn to the subdued advertising and marketing side of the office, where the publisher, Dave Mays, held court in a quiet back lair. Make a right turn instead, and there was a cacophonous bullpen. There were a few dozen writers, editors, and assistants all blaring music, from Wu-Tang to Buju Banton, some from cushy window offices facing Park Avenue South, some facing the back of a co-worker’s head in a cubicle dump. There was no peace and no privacy. And you would think headphones had not yet been invented.

The cubicles were affectionately known as The Projects, a nod to their cramped space. The offices lining the walls that led to the editor-in-chief’s office were known as The Condos. The fire escape, known as The Porch, was used for midday vices, including shots of Hennessy and smoking blunts. The other tenants in 215 Park Avenue South did not appreciate it and complained often.

The Source, born nine years earlier in a Harvard University dorm room, had moved from Cambridge to New York City, first to a scrappy space with hardwood floors on Broadway, then to the Projects and Condos corporate building off Union Square Park. By 1999, Jann Wenner, owner of Rolling Stone, had offered to buy the title after seeing its astronomical double-digit growth on newsstands and subscriptions in less than a decade. The publisher, Mays, declined.

Riggs’ condo was piled high with hip-hop memorabilia, submissions for the magazine’s Unsigned Hype column, dolls, cassettes, magazines, and posters. Over the course of a week, he slowly and methodically packed up his office, parceling out some goodies to random co-workers and boxing up the rest.

When he was done, there was only one item left in the office. Something he could neither give away nor take himself.

Riggs asked around to find out who would be moving into his office after he left. He called and said to come by his office when they had a chance. He had an extremely important message for the new associate music editor. He waited.

That new editor? That was me.

Aliya S. King

Ending up at The Source magazine was nothing short of a miracle. I have the background — born and raised in East Orange, New Jersey, adjacent to Newark, home to groups like Naughty by Nature and Redman. I’m hip-hop by osmosis. I was too young to ever have made it to clubs like The Zanzibar and Club 88 at their height. But I was steeped in hip-hop, all the way back to finding the smooth grooves on the blacktop of my street so my six-year-old self could roller skate to “Rapper’s Delight.” It would feel like a rink — not just a random pothole-filled street on the good side of the ’hood.

The year 1988, a banner year for hip-hop, did not move me. I bopped to Big Daddy Kane’s Long Live the Kane debut but crushed on him more than his music. As a child of the NOI, I respected Public Enemy but didn’t buy It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back with my meager allowance. I mean, come on, Bobby Brown’s Don’t Be Cruel had just dropped too!

Truth be told, my life changed forever when Mariah Carey released Vision of Love during my senior year.

I opted not to mention that during my interview at The Source in the summer of 1999. I know now that my boss, Selwyn Seyfu Hinds, was not looking for me to be a hip-hop head. He had plenty of those. After a decade of having writers who were fiercely loyal to the culture, he wanted to expand. The music department — all male for years — needed some feminine energy. And it wouldn’t be the end of the world if her first love was R&B.

Some of my future co-workers weren’t so sure about that.

I came in as a staff writer, and I kept my head down and wrote my ass off. Riggs was one of the first to officially acknowledge me. I was headed to the bathroom. He sped past me on a scooter and yelled out something that sounded like, “That story was dope, yo.” He was gone, back in his office, before I could respond. But he’d cleared the air. If Riggs was acknowledging my existence, it was okay for the other writers and editors to do the same. I started to get a “hey, what’s up” from a few folks. Occasionally.

A few months later, I went undercover as a high school student for a story on a young rapper named Lady Luck who was signed to Def Jam while still in high school. Her label would not let me go to school with her, so it was decided that I would dress down and sneak into school to get color for my story.

At this point, Big was the biggest rapper on the planet. The idea that he would be walking around with a fake leather belt that was falling apart was perplexing and hilarious.

I bought a pair of overalls, a red Jansport backpack, and a crisp pair of white Air Force 1s, the first I’d ever owned. I changed in the bathroom and made a point to walk by Riggs to see if he would notice. He didn’t say a word and kept walking. Finally, I called out to him, and he did a double take. He circled me, nodding approvingly. He gave me a single warning: not to get a speck of dirt on my sneakers before the first day. No self-respecting high school kid would show up on the first day of school with dirt on their sneakers.

I listened to Riggs’ advice, not for the last time, and all was well.

The next time — and last time — I listened to Riggs, he was calling me into his office, the one I was moving into, on his last day.

Riggs was a jovial guy. He was hip-hop down to a cellular level — but he didn’t take himself or the culture too seriously. He smiled. Which was rare in late ’90s hip-hop. The scowl was the rule, not the exception. I had learned to keep my normally chipper personality a bit muted.

When I stepped into his office, I was immediately thrown off. He wasn’t smiling. He was packing up last-minute things and not making eye contact.

“Hey, close the door. And have a seat.”

All I could think was: Did they tell him to fire me when I thought I had his job?

“Look at the door,” he said.

On the back of the door was a peeling pleather belt. The belt was so long that although the buckle was nearly at the top of the door, the end of the belt was almost to the floor. I looked back at Riggs for an explanation.

“It’s Biggie’s belt.”

I looked closer and shook my head in disbelief.

“No way.”

“Yeah, it is. Look at the notch. That’s where he had to close it.”

I took the belt off the hook. It wrapped around my waist several times, and I saw the well-worn notch that had been punched in with a sharp edge. Whoever that belt belonged to was huge.

“This is really B.I.G.’s belt?” I asked Riggs. “How did it get here?”

And then Riggs told me “The Legend of the Biggie Belt.”