EDITOR’S NOTE: Today in the Bergen County Courthouse rapper Charly “Max B” Wingate was found guilty of murder conspiracy and robbery charges stemming from a 2006 heist that left one man dead. His sentencing is scheduled for July 31. He faces life in prison. Max’s attorney Gerald Saluti, who continues to claim his client innocence and will pursue an appeal, said, “Quite frankly he was not expecting the jury to convict him. Max and I are very disappointed in the jury’s verdict. Max had a couple choice things to say but over all I am really proud of him, he really acted like a gentleman.” Max’s long-time publicist Karen Civil said, "Max B has always been a diligent artist and great to work with and unfortunately I hope the verdict doesn't overshadow that. I will continue to support Max B with all future endeavors."
In our April issue, VIBE writer Ben Detrick chronicled the charismatic but troubled former Dipset affiliate’s rise and potential fall in the most detailed account of his career. This is his story.
Floating in a haze, Max B rides the wave in search of stardom and redemption.
Due to a fondness for brown liquor and marijuana, Max Biggavelli, 30, is most coherent before 5 p.m. Once that threshold has been crossed—and Max is now two hours beyond it—a scene like this unfolds: On a January evening, the rapper is lying face down on the floor of his Bronx, N.Y., studio, shirtless and barefoot, pajama bottoms sagging well past his Calvin Kleins. With a Stooge-like “nyuk-nyuk-nyuk” chortle, he shows off a treasury of porn DVDs stashed inside a leather ottoman and attempts to mash out a Newport stump into a Corona cap embedded in the brown shag carpet. He rises, demands his handlers and hangers-on remove their shoes, and then sniffs at his own armpits. “I don’t think I smell,” he says. “That’s sour diesel.”
Charly Wingate (his given name) may be fragrant, but he’s rarely dull. The charismatic Harlemite cloaks his clever raps in a languorous slur and shows an effortless knack for composing sing-song hooks. He has served seven years in prison for robbery and currently faces charges for a murder/robbery, but he still somehow manages to have a whimsical sense of humor and a knack for clever turns of phrase. He coined the complimentary adjective “wavy” to describe his flow, his apartment, and most frequently, himself. Max’s fame has grown on the Web, where some are fascinated more by the self-appointed Wavy Crocket’s chutzpah than his rhymes. He’s mostly known for his mixtapes and his work with mentor-turned-rival Jim Jones. Max wrote the hook for Jones’ 2006 breakthrough hit, “We Fly High,” and contributed material to both 2005’s Harlem: Diary of a Summer (Koch) and 2006’s Hustler’s P.O.M.E. (Product of My Environment) (Koch). And as his chosen surname indicates—a conglomeration of Biggie, Jigga, and Makaveli—he’s far from shy when it comes to advertising his credentials.
“There’s six billion motherfuckers out here, and you can’t name a nigga hotter than me,” he says, eyelids at half-mast behind caramel-tinted shades. “I’m all the great ones, rolled up in one ball. Me! You see all these waves I’m putting out that got these niggas going freakish? Like freakish fucking demons. I’ll show you I’m the best that ever hit this rap game.”
Bluster notwithstanding, Max B’s path to immortality is less a sturdy walkway than
a rope bridge swaying over a chasm. He’s accused of masterminding a September 22, 2006 murder/robbery in Fort Lee, N.J. with a plot that reads like an Elmore Leonard novel: a seedy hotel, women posing as prostitutes, competing teams of stick-up artists, $30,000 in cash. Max, Kelvin Leerdam, and the rapper’s then girlfriend, Gina Conway, reportedly robbed Allan Plowden and his partner David Taylor, two Florida men who were conducting business in New York. Allegedly, Plowden and Taylor were engaged with two prostitutes when Leerdam and Conway entered Plowden’s room. According to reports, Leerdam called Taylor into Plowden’s room and shot Taylor in the head, killing him. Leerdam and Conway reportedly made off with $800 and a watch, but did not find $30,000 in cash that the men had hidden in one of the rooms. Conway was charged with felony murder, murder, and robbery. Leerdam was charged with felony murder, murder, robbery, and two counts of illegal weapons possession. According to reports, Wingate did not participate in the robbery, but was charged with felony murder, robbery, and conspiracy to commit robbery. The trial is scheduled to begin in April. Max wouldn’t comment on the case, but in a YouTube clip posted in January, his lawyer, Gerald M. Saluti, insisted he’s going to beat the rap at trial. It won’t be easy: former girlfriend Conway pleaded guilty to manslaughter and robbery, and as of press time was awaiting sentencing. She also agreed to testify against Max. “Gina Conway better get herself prepared for hell,” Saluti told VIBE, “because that’s what I’m going to give her. Max B is innocent, and so too will say the jury.”
Besides jeopardizing his freedom, the legal entanglement jacked up his finances. After spending nine months in jail, he sold the rights to his publishing—profits from all songs written by Max—to Jim Jones as well as owing the Dipset Capo six more records. All this for $90,000 in bail money, a maneuver Jones derided on [WQHT-FM] Hot 97 last December as “the stupidest move I’ve ever heard anybody ever make.” Max’s fractured relationship with Jones does present a substantial stumbling block. Things soured in early 2008, when Max, who is signed to Asylum Records through the Byrd Gang imprint, posted a blog on MySpace accusing Jones of stealing songs and flaking on compensation. So prospects of reconciliation seem slim. In December 2008 a video was released of Max B and his Gain Greene crew in what appeared to be a confrontation with Jones outside a New York City studio. Jones rebutted by calling Max “a slave” in the aforementioned radio interview. While Max has been in talks with NBA player Ron Artest’s Truwarier Records, he plans to release his debut with Amalgam Digital. So Biggavelli needs the cooperation of Jones, a man he has repeatedly insulted and antagonized, to get his business affairs in order. “All you gotta do is make this shit easy for me and sign the piece of paper,” Max says of Jones, who’s currently experiencing success without his former running mate’s help.
While discussing Jones, Max leans so close to the tape recorder that ink from a pad leaves blue lines on his bare chest. “I make you eat your words,” he says, seething. “I make you eat your own dick. I shut these niggas down single-handedly. You don’t hear about these niggas no more. You don’t hear no Byrd Gang, no Jim Jones shit. None of that Juelz shit. I’m the fucking king of New York. Boss Don Biggavellzi, the Silver Surfer Don.”
That’s a lot of pomp, considering the circumstances. His charisma is undeniable, but if Max fails to extricate himself from the cloud that threatens to eclipse his career, all of those fantastic titles will be little more than comic delusion. The task at hand: keep the personality, lose the propensity for self-destruction. “Max is like a walking reality show,” says Artest, a forward for the Houston Rockets, who boldly predicts Biggavelli will sell between 700,000 and 1.5 million copies of his debut. “Not many artists are capable of what he is about to do.”
Back at his apartment overlooking the ebony Harlem River and headlight-speckled Major Deegan Expressway, Max is still woozy. He lights a tightly spooled blunt off his stove-top gas burner. Then, absentmindedly, he wanders out of the kitchen. The open flame on the burner remains flickering, unattended.
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