In the annals of hip-hop, few prophecies have aged with such chilling accuracy as the warnings issued by Eric “Eazy-E” Wright about Calvin “Snoop Dogg” Broadus Jr. Before his untimely death in 1995, the Godfather of Gangster Rap waged a relentless campaign, not just against his former N.W.A. brother Dr. Dre, but against the lanky, charismatic Crip from Long Beach who had become Death Row Records’ new chosen one. Eazy painted Snoop as a “studio gangster,” an “anorexic rapper” who was merely playing a role. But his most potent and lasting accusation was simpler, and far more venomous: he called Snoop a snake. For decades, this was dismissed as the bitter sour grapes of a fallen king. Today, however, as we look back on Snoop Dogg’s long and winding career, filled with puzzling alliances, questionable loyalties, and startling hypocrisy, it’s becoming terrifyingly clear that Eazy-E wasn’t just dissing a rival. He was issuing a warning.
The feud that would define the West Coast for a generation was born from the ashes of N.W.A. When Dr. Dre, feeling cheated by manager Jerry Heller and Eazy-E, defected to form Death Row Records with the notoriously intimidating Suge Knight, he didn’t just start a rival company; he declared war. And Snoop Dogg was his primary weapon. With the release of Dre’s 1992 masterpiece, The Chronic, the duo launched a full-scale assault on Eazy-E, most famously on the track “Fuck wit Dre Day (And Everybody’s Celebratin’).” They mocked him, belittled him, and attempted to rewrite him as a caricature.
Eazy’s response was swift and brutal. His 1993 diss track, “Real Muthaphuckkin G’s,” was not just a clapback; it was a meticulously researched character assassination. He famously exposed Dre’s past in the flamboyant, make-up-wearing World Class Wreckin’ Cru, but his jabs at Snoop were designed to cut just as deep. He dismissed him as a lightweight, a 60-pound pretender who was faking the funk. More importantly, Eazy established a narrative that would follow Snoop for the rest of his career: that he was an opportunist, a man whose persona was for sale. Eazy saw through the smoke-filled, laid-back image to the core of the man, and he didn’t like what he saw.
For years, the world saw Snoop as the victim of Eazy’s bitterness. But then came Tupac Shakur. When Tupac joined Death Row in 1995, he didn’t just become the label’s biggest star; he eclipsed everyone, including Snoop. The dynamic shifted overnight. Suddenly, Snoop, the golden boy of gangster rap, was playing second fiddle to Tupac’s revolutionary fire and raw charisma. According to many insiders, this ignited a secret jealousy in Snoop. He had been the king of the castle, and now a new, more powerful monarch had arrived.
This alleged jealousy provides a dark context for the events of September 7, 1996—the night Tupac was fatally shot in Las Vegas. Snoop was notably absent. According to Snoop’s friend Warren G, Snoop was supposed to be in Vegas for the Mike Tyson fight but was convinced to stay behind in Los Angeles at the last minute. This, in itself, is not suspicious. What is deeply strange, as Suge Knight later pointed out, is that Snoop was allegedly carrying a walkie-talkie that night, receiving real-time updates from Vegas. Why would a man who decided to skip the trip need a direct line to the security detail? It was a question that hinted at a disturbing level of awareness, suggesting that perhaps Snoop knew to stay away because he knew something was going to happen.
Snoop’s behavior after the shooting only deepened the suspicion. According to Suge Knight, Snoop never once visited Tupac in the hospital during the six days he fought for his life. Then, almost immediately after Tupac’s death and Suge’s incarceration, Snoop appeared on television with Sean “Diddy” Combs, the head of Death Row’s East Coast rival, Bad Boy Records, publicly squashing the beef. For many, the timing was appalling. With his friend and labelmate dead, Snoop’s first move was to make peace with the enemy. It looked less like diplomacy and more like a calculated act of self-preservation and opportunism—the very traits Eazy-E had warned about.
This pattern of shifting allegiances for personal gain has become a hallmark of Snoop’s career. His strange feud with Eminem is a prime example. For years, Snoop and Eminem were colleagues and collaborators under the Dr. Dre umbrella. But after Eminem dissed Diddy on the track “Killshot,” implicating him in Tupac’s murder, Snoop suddenly had a change of heart about the Detroit rapper’s legacy, publicly declaring that Eminem wasn’t even in his top 10 rappers of all time. It was a bizarre and seemingly unprovoked attack that many interpreted as Snoop doing Diddy’s bidding, defending his new ally against his old one.
Perhaps the most glaring example of Snoop’s hypocrisy came with his political flip-flopping. In 2017, he was one of Donald Trump’s most vocal critics. He released a music video in which he mock-assassinated a Trump-like clown character and publicly shamed any Black artist who would consider performing at his inauguration, calling them “Uncle Toms.” Yet, just a few months later, when the check was right, Snoop was performing at an inaugural event, the Crypto Ball, celebrating Trump. He didn’t post about it, didn’t promote it. He just took the money.
From his early days as Eazy-E’s nemesis to his current status as a corporate pitchman who will seemingly endorse anything for a price, Snoop Dogg has built a career on a foundation of cool, but that foundation appears to be built on sand. Eazy-E’s warning echoes through the decades. He saw a man who lacked a core, whose loyalties were fluid, and whose character was secondary to his ambition. The world saw a charming rapper from Long Beach. Eazy-E saw a serpent in the smoke. And after 30 years of evidence, it’s hard to argue that he was wrong.
