Bill Operin was a big guy. At least six and a half feet tall, posessed of girth that’d make a pro wrestler think twice. Bill could shout from the back of a club, music blasting, and be heard backstage. He practically invented living large, apologies to Heavy D.

In 1994, Bill, or “Bigga B” as he was more popularly known, walked into this hip hop spot Project Blowed, at 43rd Place and Leimert in LA. Now, as your average hip hop head was maybe 5’7” and possibly 160lbs, this guy comes in like the ocean parting for Leviathan. I worked the door at the time, and as a rule had a “fuck everybody” rule -- I asked Bushwick Bill and Chuck D to pay, as I figgered they could afford it. Bill spoke to me in a calm voice, promising reciprocity at his door as he just wanted to trade off love and work together. He and promoter Orlando ran Unity, the longest running underground concert series I ever heard of, so it sounded cool. I am so glad I didn’t trip.

Over the next few years, Bigga hit us up almost weekly. A promoter for Loud, he was always hustlin’ -- brought Wu Tang to LA for $10 a ticket, and we got to see Method stagedive into hard floor in a display too funny to recreate. Bigga and I would chat on the phone, him asking me which underground heads I knew, should he include on his guest lists. We never got personal or no shit, but we had a great working relationship and he was an honest sword who wouldn’t bullshit. Back when nobody took me seriously as a journalist, he did, and gave me some of my first wristbands, first little industry love. I saw a ton of great shows, and the two of us continued the underground work that people who don’t wanna be MCs do.

Bigga was a true underground evangelist, to borrow a page from the Artifacts. He was the A&R who brought the world Xzibit, one of my personal favorite lyricists, the resurrection of Likwidation. He gave love to all kinds of acts -- Heltah Skeltah, OC, Dilated People, Gravediggas, Blak Forest, Visionaries or a host of other people, put into jam packed rooms fulla heads lovin’ them. No radio commercials. No web sites. Just fliers and energy and hard work. That was Bill.

It seems that Sunday, May 2, 1999, while in Arizona working with Bad Azz, Bigga B left the mortal coil, a victim of a heart attack. 33 years old. Okay, he was this huge frickin’ guy, but by no means did he deserve to die. Hip hop lost a great deal when he left us.

At his West Angeles COGIC funeral, hardcore fools in suits and sneakers or heads in stocking caps and black jeans cried like schoolgirls. The Poetess, the Alkoholiks, and a host of other luminaries were on hand to say goodbye. Dammit, Bill, you wasn’t supposed to die.

In that I’ve already taken a vacation from journalism in using the word “I,” it just needed to be said. Bill Operin needs to be honored and remembered as an integral part of hip hop. We need to take care of ourselves, but more importantly, appreciate the people around us. I’d been planning to take Bill to lunch for six or seven months. Now I never will. I regret that, even thought he’d have probably ate me into the poorhouse.

On a final note, some people have complained that Damage Control has been less harsh since I found happiness with a sister. Get over it -- the reign of terror returns next month, with an in depth analysis of why fucking Madonna ruins your life.

R.I.P. Bigga B.