Snoop Dogg

It’s a chilly Monday night in L.A., and as our red Cadillac cruises down Sunset Boulevard, what started as a fun night out with the artist once and forever known as Snoop takes a decidedly scary turn.

“I’ma switchblade your f—kin’ arse!” yells the driver. “Shut the f—k up!” His name is Joe Cool, and unfortunately

the guy he’s talking to is me. The guy sitting next to me is Snoop. That Snoop. The Snoop who was born Calvin Broadus Jr and has gone variously by “Doggy Dogg” (’90s), “Dogg” (naughts) and “Lion” (present day). Snoop seems to be enjoying the situation. Me? Not so much.

The night begins significantly less shabbily, as team MAXIM heads out into the SoCal night with Snoop, Snoop’s entourage, and $848 of MAXIM’s money for him to spend as he pleases. First on the agenda is a shopping spree. Where does a superstar rapper head to clothe himself? Rodeo Drive? A private showroom on Melrose? Think again.

Nestled in a strip mall between a Quiznos sandwich restaurant and a hair salon, T-Shirts Plus has all your favourite flea-market offerings, but in a 10th of the space. Snoop’s been coming here for years, and as he arrives – his 193cm frame bedecked in West Coast “Dogg” chic (checkered flannel shirt, baggy jeans) as well as his reggae-tinged “Lion” incarnation (white Rasta cap, jewel-encrusted lion medallion) – his fellow customers react as you’d expect: They freak the f—k out. Joe Cool steps in to keep the crowd in check, and Snoop gets to work. Singing Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together” to no-one but himself, he rifles through clothing racks until a black jacket catches his eye. “That’s what I need. That’s the shit.”