Before he was the world's favorite weed-smoking uncle or Martha Stewart’s best friend, Calvin Broadus Jr. was just a skinny kid in Long Beach with a crazy-high IQ and a knack for getting into—and out of—trouble. Honestly, if you look at Snoop Dogg when he was young, you don't see a global icon. You see a kid nicknamed "Snoopy" by his mom because he had that specific, look-alike face.
He wasn't born into royalty. Far from it.
Growing up in the 1970s and 80s in the Eastside of Long Beach, specifically the 21st Street area, life was basically a coin toss between music and the streets. Calvin chose both. He played piano at the Golgotha Trinity Baptist Church. He was good. Like, really good. But the lure of the Rolling 20s Crips was right outside the church doors. Most people think Snoop just woke up one day, met Dr. Dre, and became a star. That's a total myth. The reality is way more gritty, featuring a lot of jail time, a side hustle selling candy, and a demo tape that almost never made it out of a bedroom.
The Long Beach Grind and the "Snoopy" Origin
The name didn't come from a gang. It came from his mother, Beverly Broadus Green. She saw him watching Peanuts and noticed he had that same inquisitive, slightly goofy expression as the cartoon beagle. It stuck. But the "Dogg" part? That came later, a self-inflicted brand of toughness to balance out the nickname.
When you track Snoop Dogg when he was young, you have to look at his time at Long Beach Polytechnic High School. It’s a legendary school, known for churning out NFL stars and rappers. Snoop wasn't the star athlete, though he played football. He was the guy in the hallways rapping. He’d participate in freestyle battles during lunch, leaning against the lockers, developing that lazy, melodic flow that would eventually change the entire sound of the West Coast.
It wasn't all rhymes and sunshine. After graduating in 1989, things got dark. He was arrested for possession of cocaine and spent the next three years in and out of the system. This wasn't some promotional "thug life" persona. It was his actual life. He spent time in Wayside Jail, and that's where the perspective shifted. He realized he didn't want to be another statistic in the Los Angeles County penal system.
The 213 Era: Before the Fame
A lot of people forget about 213.
Before the solo deals and the mansions, Snoop formed a group with his cousins and friends. We’re talking about Nate Dogg and Warren G. They called themselves 213, after the area code. They would spend hours in the back of V.I.P. Records in Long Beach. If you ever visit Long Beach, that store is a landmark. The owner, Kelvin Anderson, let them use a small back room to record.
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Think about that. Three of the most influential voices in hip-hop history were huddled in a cramped record store backroom, recording on cheap equipment. They weren't trying to change the world; they were just trying to hear themselves on a tape.
Warren G is the real hero of the Snoop Dogg origin story. He was the one who played a 213 demo for his half-brother. That half-brother happened to be Andre Young, better known as Dr. Dre. At the time, Dre was leaving N.W.A. and looking for a new sound. He heard Snoop’s voice—that silky, effortless delivery—and everything changed.
The "Deep Cover" Turning Point
When Dr. Dre called Snoop to come to the studio, Snoop actually thought it was a prank. He hung up. Luckily, he called back.
Their first collaboration wasn't on The Chronic. It was "Deep Cover," a track for a movie soundtrack in 1992. If you listen to that song today, Snoop sounds hungry. He’s thinner, his voice is a bit higher, but the swagger is fully formed. He introduced himself to the world with the line "Creep with me as I cruise through the ISO."
Suddenly, everyone wanted to know who the skinny kid from Long Beach was.
The Murder Was The Case: A Legal Shadow
You can't talk about Snoop Dogg when he was young without talking about the 1993 murder trial. Just as Doggystyle was about to drop—an album that would go on to sell over 800,000 copies in its first week—Snoop was charged with first-degree murder.
The incident involved the death of Philip Woldemariam, a member of a rival gang who was shot by Snoop's bodyguard, McKinley Lee. Snoop was the driver. For two years, Snoop lived under the threat of life in prison. He was performing on the MTV Video Music Awards while facing a murder rap.
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This period defined him. He grew up fast.
The trial was a media circus. Johnnie Cochran, fresh off the O.J. Simpson case, was part of the legal team. In 1996, Snoop was acquitted. The relief changed his music. You can hear the shift between the raw aggression of his early demos and the more celebratory, "Uncle Snoop" vibes that started to creep in during the late 90s. He realized he had a second chance that most of his friends from the 21st Street neighborhood never got.
Why the "Young Snoop" Aesthetic Still Rules
Look at old photos of Snoop from the early 90s. The oversized flannel shirts. The braided hair with the rubber bands. The Chuck Taylors. He wasn't wearing designer clothes because he couldn't afford them, but he made that street style look like high fashion.
Fashion historians often point to this era as the peak of "G-Funk" style. It wasn't just about the music; it was a visual language. He brought the Long Beach "LBC" culture to the suburbs of Ohio and the streets of London.
The Musical Complexity
Musically, young Snoop was a bit of an anomaly.
Most rappers at the time were shouting. Think about Public Enemy or Ice Cube—it was high energy, high volume. Snoop did the opposite. He whispered. He cooed. He used space and silence. That "lazy" flow was actually incredibly difficult to pull off technically. He stayed behind the beat, creating a sense of relaxation even when he was rapping about intense violence or police encounters.
What Most People Get Wrong About His Early Career
A huge misconception is that Snoop was just a puppet for Dr. Dre. While Dre’s production was the perfect canvas, Snoop wrote his own lyrics and brought a melodic sensibility that Dre hadn't used before. Snoop was obsessed with 70s funk—Parliament-Funkadelic, The Ohio Players, Rick James. He insisted on those samples and those grooves.
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He was also a businessman way earlier than people realize. He knew his brand was "Snoop Doggy Dogg" (he dropped the "Doggy" later due to a dispute with Death Row). He understood that his face and his voice were assets. Even when he was broke and living in an apartment with his wife, Shante Broadus (his high school sweetheart!), he was thinking about how to turn his neighborhood stories into a global franchise.
Key Takeaways from the Early Years
If you’re looking to understand the hustle of a young artist, Snoop’s early life offers some pretty heavy lessons.
- Location isn't a limitation: He turned a small record store in Long Beach into the launchpad for a multi-million dollar career.
- Authenticity over everything: He didn't try to sound like New York rappers. He leaned into his Southern California drawl and his local slang.
- The power of the pivot: When faced with a life sentence, he doubled down on his career and cleaned up his circle, eventually moving away from the gang lifestyle that almost ended him.
- Longevity starts with a signature: He found a "hook"—that melodic flow—and never let it go.
Final Steps to Exploring the Legend
To really get a feel for Snoop Dogg when he was young, you shouldn't just read about it. You need to hear it and see it.
Start by listening to the 213 unreleased demos if you can find them on YouTube; they show the raw, unpolished version of his talent. Then, watch the "Who Am I (What's My Name?)" music video. Pay attention to the setting—it’s filmed right there in Long Beach, featuring the people he actually grew up with.
Finally, check out the documentary The Defiant Ones. It gives a massive amount of behind-the-scenes footage of Snoop in the studio with Dre during the early 90s. It’s the best way to see the transition from a kid in a flannel shirt to the superstar who would eventually dominate the Super Bowl halftime stage.
If you want to understand modern celebrity, you have to understand how Calvin Broadus Jr. survived the 90s. He didn't just survive; he paved the way for every "rapper turned mogul" that followed.
The best way to respect the current version of Snoop is to remember the hungry, skinny kid from 21st Street who refused to be just another name in a police report. He took the sounds of his church and the realities of his streets and turned them into a soundtrack for the world.