Jeff Pearlman, acclaimed sports and music biographer, returns with a deep dive into the life of one of hip-hop’s most iconic figures. In his new book, No One Can Judge Me: The Many Lives of Tupac Shakur, Pearlman traces the complexities, contradictions, and enduring legacy of the rapper, actor, and activist whose influence continues decades after his death.
In this interview, Pearlman discusses the importance of going beyond headlines to reveal the human being behind the legend.
What first motivated you to write Only God Can Judge Me, and how did your perspective on Tupac Shakur evolve during your research?
I’m a sportswriter. I’m not a hip-hop or music writer, though I’ve written a little about hip-hop through the years. I’ve done ten books, all sports-related, and I was itching to try something different. You get pigeonholed after a while—people say, “Oh, he’s a sportswriter.” I’ve always been fascinated by Tupac—his life and legacy. I was a big hip-hop fan as a kid, and while there have been good Tupac books and great documentaries, there was never the book I wanted: the one where the author tracks down every classmate, every collaborator—hundreds of people—and tells his story from the ground up.
So that’s what I set out to do. I interviewed around 650 people. And as I dug in, I developed a lot more empathy for Tupac than I’d had before—understanding the trauma he carried, being raised by a mother addicted to crack, living in poverty, even being homeless. His background shaped every part of who he became as a person and an artist.
Your book explores the many sides of Tupac—artist, activist, actor. Which version of him was the most complex to portray?
The Tupac at the Baltimore School for the Arts. That version of him was fascinating. He was this confident but lonely kid—bad teeth, thrift store clothes, same outfit every day, not popular with girls—but he threw himself into acting and performing. He’d go from performing A Raisin in the Sun at school to going home, where the heat didn’t work, where his mom was strung out, where there was no food. That contrast makes that part of his life the most complex and revealing to me.
His story has been told through film, music, and journalism. How does your book differ?
The depth of reporting. I wanted this to be the most thoroughly researched Tupac book ever. I traveled to Baltimore, Marin City, and New York. I visited every address he had lived in, except one, in Atlanta. I even worked with a genealogist, tracked down every yearbook, and called classmates. I wanted a level of detail and truth that hadn’t been done before.
In your reporting, what did you uncover about Tupac’s relationships with those closest to him that surprised you?
He didn’t have as many truly close people as you’d think. After someone dies young, everyone claims to have been their best friend. But most of his real connections were with older women—people like Yaasmyn Fula, his godmother and manager, and Layla Steinberg, his mentor. On movie sets, he bonded with older women who offered the nurturing he didn’t get from his mother. His closest relationships were with people who cared for him in that way, not other rappers or celebrities.
Having written about sports and pop culture figures, what unique challenges came with writing about someone as layered and polarizing as Tupac?
This was by far the hardest book I’ve ever worked on. With someone like Bo Jackson, you’ve got a clear schedule—you can track his games, his teams. With Tupac, there’s no roadmap. You have to reconstruct his life day by day. And the hip-hop world is wild—early recordings funded by drug money, faded memories, lots of weed smoke, and Hennessy. Tracking down people willing to talk wasn’t easy, but it was also incredibly fun. It’s a world fueled by creativity and chaos.
Tupac’s political consciousness was central to his identity. How has that side of him been overlooked or misunderstood?
His mother, Afeni Shakur, was a member of the Black Panthers and represented herself in the Panther 21 trial while pregnant with him. She taught him about empowerment and resilience. You hear that clearly in his early music, especially 2Pacalypse Now. As he became more famous, especially after joining Death Row, he didn’t lose his beliefs, but he stopped expressing them as much. It was easier to sell records rapping about money, cars, and enemies than about Huey Newton or Marcus Garvey. I think he still believed in those ideals, but commercial success muted that voice.
As you researched, how did you interpret the shift between Tupac’s image and his artistry?
His image and artistry actually evolved together. When Suge Knight bailed him out of prison and signed him to Death Row, Tupac fully embraced the Thug Life persona. All Eyez on Me is a masterpiece, but it also reflects that shift. A lot of people from Death Row told me they were heartbroken looking back. They felt Suge sold Tupac a dangerous lifestyle and image, and Tupac dove in completely. He was smarter and more talented than Suge, but that buy-in ultimately led to his death.
Some early reviewers said your outsider perspective helped you tell Tupac’s story more honestly, without cultural bias. How do you feel about that?
I grew up in a small, mostly white town in New York. I didn’t enter this project with any loyalty or agenda. I wasn’t trying to prove Tupac was a saint or a villain—I just wanted the truth. When I went to Marin City and sat with former dealers who’d known his mother, I told them straight up: “I’m a white guy from rural New York. This isn’t my world. But you won’t meet anyone more interested in your story than me.” That honesty opened doors.
And I don’t see my role as telling you who Tupac was. My job was to curate the voices of more than 650 people who knew him. Their words tell the story.
What do you hope readers take away from the book?
Empathy. Behind the Thug Life image was a kid who overcame trauma, poverty, and instability. He truly wanted to lift up Black men and women, even though his flaws sometimes obscured that mission. He was complicated, but his intent was real. I hope readers come away seeing the full human being—not just the image.
What did your research reveal about his relationship with Biggie Smalls and the events that led to their falling out?
It was incredibly frustrating to research because Tupac blamed Biggie for things he didn’t do. Everyone I spoke to said there was zero chance Biggie had anything to do with the Quad Studios shooting.
Biggie tried to visit him in the hospital and later in prison, and Tupac turned him away. He became obsessed with the idea that Biggie was responsible. Even the song “Who Shot Ya?”—Tupac thought it was proof, but Biggie recorded it before the shooting ever happened. It was tragic. Tupac built Biggie up as a villain, and that paranoia cost them both.
Thank you for taking on such a challenging subject. Writing about someone held in such high regard culturally must come with pressure.
It does, but I think it’s important. We learn the most when we step outside our comfort zones. A Black writer should write about Elvis. An Asian writer should write about Kurt Cobain. It’s how we understand each other’s worlds.
I loved diving into Tupac’s story. For me, coming from a small, mostly white town, learning about the Black Panthers, about poverty in Baltimore, about the roots of hip-hop—it was a gift.
That perspective shows in your work.
Thanks, man. I just wanted to write honestly. I love Tupac’s legacy, and I think the best way to honor him is to tell the truth—just as I did with Bo Jackson, Walter Payton, and Brett Favre. We don’t need to glorify these figures; we need to understand them.
Be’n Original | Header Photo Credit: Al Pereira
