It was a cold Milwaukee morning on November 26th, 2021 when the quiet broke apart like glass. Inside a small house on Buffam Street, a 19-year-old rapper lay bleeding on his bedroom floor while his mother screamed for help. Neighbors ran outside, but no one saw who pulled the trigger.
Within hours, news outlets started calling him Milwaukeee’s youngest drug boss. The city went silent again, but this time from confusion. Some said he was a menace. Others said he was misunderstood. His name was Big Juan. And before that morning, he was just Dwan Turner Jr. To know how that story ended, you got to first understand where it began.
Milwaukee is one of those cities that never hides its struggle because the streets tell the story for it. You drive through the north side and you’ll see what I mean. Places like Hyram, Tutonia Avenue, Buffam, and My Necki don’t need fancy descriptions. The cracked sidewalks, half empty blocks, and boarded windows already paint the picture clear enough.
This is a city where factories closed decades ago and nobody came back to replace the jobs. The old machine shops turned into shells and the noise that replaced the metal clanging came from police sirens echoing through the night. Kids in those neighborhoods grow up learning the rules early because money moves the same way as fear.
Some sell candy at corner stores and some hustle weed behind them. You can tell the difference between survival and crime in Milwaukee only by how long someone stays lucky. Mothers pray, teachers fight burnout, and the streets keep teaching lessons nobody asked for. Milwaukee raised a lot of dreamers, but it also raised hustlers who couldn’t wait for the system to care.
The ‘9s and early 2000s were rough years for the north side because the jobs left, but the drugs stayed. Heroin and crack had already done their damage, but fentinel made everything colder. When the big money addicts popped up around 2015, they changed how hustling worked in the city. The BMA wasn’t just a gang. They were business-minded in their own twisted way.
They drove stolen cars with tinted windows, carried guns with long magazines, and turned cell phones into delivery hotlines. All you had to do was call a number, and someone pulled up like it was takeout service. That’s how advanced street enterprise had become. It wasn’t chaos anymore. It was organized desperation. Law enforcement eventually cracked down hard on them, but that didn’t erase the blueprint.
Other crews picked it up, adapted it, and started building their own small networks. That’s how the buff of My Nikki Boys would rise later on using the same hustle mentality, the same corners, the same energy that Milwaukee had been brewing for decades. You can’t understand Big Juan’s story without knowing that background because he grew up watching this entire system move around him like a living thing.
But Milwaukee wasn’t just about drugs and poverty. It also had rhythm, pride, and a voice that refused to stay quiet. In the same neighborhoods where kids got caught selling dope, others were turning those same experiences into lyrics. Rap became another way out, another kind of hustle. By the late 2010s, the Milwaukee rap scene had its own heartbeat.
The sound was slower than Chicago’s drill, darker and more personal. It wasn’t just music about bodies and beefs. It was stories about survival, pain, and humor twisted together like a wire. Producers like Richie with the hits and mellow dropping 30 crafted beats that sounded like late night rides through freezing streets.
Heavy drums, haunting piano loops, and basselines that felt like engine rumbles became the signature Milwaukee sound. Rappers didn’t fake their lyrics. They talked how they lived. Every line felt like a conversation at a corner store or a backseat confession between friends. See, Milwaukey’s rap scene was built from broken things, broken buildings, broken systems, broken hearts.
But the artist turned all that into a sound nobody could copy. It was a mix of pain and pride, something you could feel in your chest even if you didn’t know the city. Most of the local rappers were still teenagers recording in bedrooms, stacking mattresses against walls for soundproofing, uploading songs to Soundcloud before heading to class the next morning.
And yet, that DIY energy made Milwaukee special. Everyone helped everyone, even if they didn’t have much to give. Videographers shot music videos for 20 bucks. Producers traded beats for favors. And local DJs like DJ Jerry used their podcast to showcase whoever had next. The city wasn’t rich, but it was creative in every sense.
For every hustler pushing drugs, there was another kid pushing tracks. Both were chasing fast money and recognition, but one chased it with microphones instead of guns. The line separating them was paper thin, though. The same blocks that made rappers also made dealers, and sometimes they were the same people just trying to survive.
That’s what made the Milwaukee story complicated. When you stand on Buffam Street long enough, you can hear the echoes of that mix. The laughter from a porch fades into the rumble of a passing car. And behind it, the distant crack of a gun reminds you that nothing stays peaceful for long. This city gave the world its brightest and darkest moments all at once.
Milwaukee didn’t just raise hustlers. It raised storytellers. Kids who watched their neighborhoods burn and decided to make music about the smoke. That’s the world Dawan Turner Jr. was born into. a city that could turn a quiet boy into a rapper and a rapper into a legend before he even got the chance to grow up. Dawan E. Turner Jr.
was born on January 24th, 2002, right in the middle of Milwaukee’s north side grind. His family called him Juan before anyone ever added big to it. He grew up inside a small house that stayed full of cousins, loud music, and neighborhood noise. His mom, Rosemary Gonzalez, worked hard to keep food on the table, while his grandma handled everything else that needed love.
The walls in that house were always shaking from laughter, even when times were tight. People on Buffam Street said you could hear his jokes before you even saw him walk in. Juan was that kind of kid who made everyone smile, even when life was rough outside. He had this easy way of connecting with people, like he understood how heavy the city felt.
His teacher said he was smart but restless, always talking about doing something big one day. When he wasn’t cracking jokes, he was sketching lyrics in his notebooks instead of math notes. By 11 or 12, he started sneaking into his cousin’s room to record himself on an old laptop. He found YouTube instrumentals from producers in Chicago, and he started dropping his own little verses over them.
He didn’t have real studio equipment yet, but he didn’t care about that. He recorded with a cracked version of Audacity and a busted headset mic that barely worked. When he played his songs for friends, they couldn’t believe that voice came from a middle school kid. He rapped about everyday life, about catching the bus late, eating noodles, and watching people hustle on the block.
It was funny, real, and sometimes deeper than his age showed. That early sound was the start of something Milwaukee had not really seen before. Juan was heavily inspired by local rapper Wonderbread Reed, who was already building a name across the city. He looked up to Ree for mixing humor with street storytelling, and that rubbed off on him early.
He also studied artists like Lil Wayne, Gucci Mane, and Boozy, learning how each turned regular stories into music that stuck. His favorites were the ones who talked like regular people, but still made it sound powerful. That was the kind of rapper he wanted to be, one who could talk about the block without pretending to be tougher than he was.
Growing up in Harambe wasn’t easy for any kid, and Juan knew that too early. The sound of police sirens never really stopped, and people got used to sleeping through gunshots like they were fireworks. On Tutonia Avenue, you could find groups of teenagers hanging out by the corner stores trying to stay busy. Most of them didn’t have fathers around, so the older boys on the block became role models, whether they deserved it or not.
Schools were underfunded, teachers were exhausted, and the streets kept pulling kids in like magnets. Juan was too curious to stay out of everything, but he wasn’t built for deep trouble. He saw how people around him hustled to survive. And he learned that fast money came with heavy risk. When he started hustling small, it wasn’t about building an empire or running a crew.
He sold little things here and there, just enough to keep his studio dreams alive. The goal was to pay for beats, cover artwork, and studio time without stressing his mom for cash. That part of his story would later get twisted. But back then, it was just a teenager chasing his passion the only way he could.
His friends said Juan carried himself like a comedian trapped inside a rapper’s body. He was the biggest kid in most rooms, but his energy made him seem even bigger. That’s where the name Big Juan started. Half as a joke and half as respect. People laughed when they said it, but soon it became his real tag. He made shirts with Big Juan printed on the front.
Even before he ever thought about fame, he loved his city, even when it felt too heavy for a young dreamer. He talked about one day moving his family somewhere quiet, maybe down south or out west. He used to tell his grandma, “One day I’m going to make it out with this mic, not no gun.” He meant that with everything in him.
That dream stayed on his tongue every time he hit record. Before the name got tangled in headlines, before the feds came looking, and before the stories twisted who he really was, Big Juan was just Dawan Turner Jr., a smart, funny kid from Harambe who loved his people, loved his music, and wanted to turn his neighborhood pain into something worth listening to.
By the time Big Juan hit his mid- teens, the city was buzzing with new rappers trying to find their voice. Milwaukee had dozens of small crews popping up, but none of them carried the kind of energy Juan had with his friends. Around 2017, he and a few neighborhood kids decided they needed something of their own. Something that spoke for their side of town.
That’s how young Paperchasers or YPC was born. It wasn’t just a name. It was a statement for every young kid trying to mix talent, hustle, and a little street motion into something that could last. The original crew came together like family more than business partners. Lil Trav was the one everybody saw as the muscle and the brains, a few years older than the rest, and always talking about staying consistent.
YPC Diaz handled most of the visuals and behindthe-scenes work, while YPC Ashton brought energy to every song they made. YPC Young Boy was the youngest of the group, always quiet until he grabbed the mic. Juan was right in the middle of it all, balancing humor, confidence, and leadership without even realizing how much everyone looked up to him.
Their motto became simple: music, money, and motion. Those three words showed up everywhere, written on notebooks, social pages, and shirts. They wanted the world to know that YPC wasn’t just a click. It was a lifestyle that represented Milwaukeekey’s north side ambition. They didn’t have big budgets, but they made every dollar stretch like it was their last.
They shared beats, traded camera batteries, passed around hoodies for videos, and shot music visuals on cracked iPhones in basement. If someone had one working mic, everyone took turns recording on it. Most of their early music came out raw, but full of personality. They recorded in small rooms where the walls sweated during sessions.
And they wrapped like the whole city was listening even when only 50 people were. Their early freestyles on YouTube started picking up views because they sounded like the streets were finally speaking through young voices. People could tell they weren’t faking their stories. Block parties became their early stages. White PC would pull up with speakers, plug into someone’s porch outlet, and start performing for whoever showed up.
Kids ran around while grown folks nodded to the rhythm. And that’s how the word started spreading. Milwaukee loved them because they felt reachable. They weren’t rich rappers in luxury cars. They were neighborhood stars who came from the same crack sidewalks as everyone else. Juan had this natural chemistry with Lil Trav that made their music hit harder.
Trav was more serious, always focused on the grind, while Juan brought the fun and flavor that kept everything light. Together they made songs like eight blocks, Backend, and Fastlane Freestyle, which started catching serious attention on local social media pages. Those tracks represented their identity, fast money, neighborhood slang, and a clever mix of humor and honesty.
Their music never sounded polished like Atlanta or Chicago artists, but that’s what made it real. When Big Juan wrapped, people said he sounded like the friend who told jokes all day, but still knew every street rule by heart. His flow was smooth, his punchlines sharp, and his delivery full of charisma.
In fast lane freestyle, he wrapped with that confident grin in his voice that made fans replay his verses just to catch the lines they missed the first time. Their lyrics were full of neighborhood slang that only locals truly understood. They talked about Tutonia, Holton, and my necki, named dropping corners and parks that held stories of their teenage years.
They blended jokes with real life, using clever wordplay to make their story sound funny until you caught the sadness underneath. That balance of humor and truth made them different from every other young crew trying to rap in the city. YPC started to build its brand with that teenage energy that felt impossible to copy.
They printed their own YPC t-shirts and hoodies, selling them from backpacks and car trunks at events. They turned YouTube freestyles into neighborhood premieres, gathering friends to react live in the background while they performed. Their fans started calling them Milwaukeekey’s youngest bosses even before anyone had money to match the title.
But that attention gave them fuel and every release pushed them closer to the dream they kept talking about. They wanted to turn YPC into an official label. They wanted to take their stories beyond Milwaukee, maybe even tour around the Midwest. They called it their Milwaukee OVO dream. Inspired by how Drake built something huge from his city and carried it worldwide, they talked about signing younger artists, producing their own videos, and making sure Milwaukee finally got the respect it deserved in hip hop. At that time, Big Juan wasn’t
chasing fame. He just wanted to give his friends a way to shine, too. He had a soft spot for his people and always said he didn’t want to leave anyone behind. That loyalty made YPC tight like brothers. But it also made the lines between music and the streets blur sometimes. When one of them had trouble, everyone had it.
When one of them went viral, they all felt the weight of the spotlight. The city started to notice their momentum. Local blogs, DJs, and promoters began putting their names next to rising acts like MT Twins and Wonderbread Re. It felt like YPC was next in line to carry Milwaukee to bigger stages. But with every step forward came new pressure.
The same love that held them together also tied Juan to every rumor that surrounded the streets. The family bond that made them unstoppable would soon become the same thing that made him a target. By 2019, Big Juan was no longer just another neighborhood rapper with a few songs online. The city had started whispering his name in every conversation about who might blow next.
That same year, he dropped the record that changed everything for him. A track called Fast Lane Lifestyle. It wasn’t just a song to him. It was his full personality packed into three minutes of sharp humor, street wisdom, and Milwaukee pride. The beat came with a dark bounce, the kind that felt like it belonged to the city’s cold weather and restless nights.
The piano loop rode low under heavy 808s, and Juan’s voice carried this slick confidence that made people stop and replay every line. From the first few bars, the track felt like something different. Juan sounded calm, but you could tell he was enjoying himself. His delivery was full of jokes and clever flips, the kind of style that made listeners grin while still nodding their heads.
When he said, “Too big for the stolen car seat,” it hit instantly, turning into one of the most quoted lines in Milwaukee that year. His humor came off natural, the type of funny that didn’t sound forced. People from all over the city started repeating his lines like catchphrases. Fast Lane Lifestyle quickly started circulating beyond his circle.
Radio Milwaukee gave it airplay on local artist segments, and East Side Vibes published a short piece calling Juan Style unapologetically Milwaukee. Even hip-hop threads on Reddit mentioned him in comparisons with Chicago’s rising drill artists, but the difference was clear. Where Chicago rappers sounded angry, Juan sounded clever, almost playful.
He was telling the same street stories, but his tone carried humor instead of rage, which made it hit differently. The song captured exactly what Milwaukee youth were feeling at the time. It was about chasing paper fast, moving with confidence, and staying alert before the city swallowed you whole. Kids related to it because it spoke their truth without trying too hard.
It didn’t sound like something from New York or Atlanta. It sounded like a local anthem built out of pure Milwaukee energy. The video for Fast Lane Lifestyle came out weeks later and immediately caught attention. Shot around Holton Street, Buffam Avenue, and North Avenue, it showed Juan and YPC mobbing through familiar blocks, laughing and showing off their t-shirts.
There were no fancy cars or rented houses, just real corners and faces people recognized. The video gained thousands of views within days and eventually passed tens of thousands before the year ended. The comments filled with locals tagging friends, writing things like, “Bro, this the real Milwaukee.
” And finally, somebody putting the city on right. Clubs around the city started calling him for bookings. He performed at Onyx, Myiramar Theater, and small neighborhood events where fans already knew his lyrics word for word. At every show, he’d walk in like he belonged there, confident, but still cracking jokes with the DJ.
That same charisma from his videos showed up in person. He didn’t perform like a celebrity. He performed like the funny kid from Your Block who just happened to be cold on the mic. By the end of that summer, Big Juan had become one of Milwaukey’s most talked about names. Local DJs included his songs in weekend mixes, and high school kids started copying his slang.
His walk, his hand gestures, and even his way of laughing began showing up in other artists videos. Younger fans saw him as someone who made success look reachable, like you didn’t need expensive gear or fake stories to win. He made Milwaukee feel visible. His buzz grew fast and suddenly everyone wanted a feature or a verse from him.
He started recording almost every week, bouncing between small studios across Tutonia Avenue and Capitol Drive. He dropped verses with local artists, and each one pulled in new listeners. He didn’t overthink anything, just kept moving, recording, and posting. The whole YPC crew fed off that momentum, promoting him non-stop like they knew something bigger was coming.
Still, as the numbers grew, the attention outside the music world began to stretch, too. Some older heads around the city started watching him closer. Not everyone in Milwaukee celebrates success the same way. The same popularity that filled his YouTube comments also brought people who felt jealous or threatened. When you start shining in a city built on quiet pain, the light doesn’t always bring applause.
Juan’s confidence kept growing, but he stayed grounded. He was still that funny kid from Harami who loved making music with his friends. He’d walk through his neighborhood wearing his YPC hoodie, giving out free shirts to kids who recognized him from YouTube. But people noticed how the energy around him was shifting.
Every new song brought more eyes, and not all those eyes were friendly. By late 2019, he was no longer just a local rapper trying to get noticed. He had turned into a name the city couldn’t ignore. Even people who didn’t follow rap knew about that fast lane lifestyle record. It became the song that defined that year for Milwaukee’s youth.
A track that sounded like ambition and danger moving side by side. Big Juan had entered the fast lane for real. Chasing something bigger than the block. Not realizing that fame also brings pressure that never stops moving. He was going viral. But not all eyes watching were fans. By the start of 2020, Big W’s music was everywhere in Milwaukee.
But so were whispers about his name being tied to something bigger. He was only 18, still performing in hoodies and joking about everyday life. But the attention around him had started to mix with something darker. The block that raised him, the same Buffam and Mineki streets mentioned in his lyrics, had turned into the center of a massive federal investigation that was about to shake the whole city.
On February 26th, 2020, the Federal Bureau of Investigation in the Milwaukee Police Department held a press conference that left the streets buzzing. The news dropped early in the morning. Reporters stood outside the US District Court on Wisconsin Avenue as officials listed out the names of 24 defendants under indictment tied to what they called the Buffam My Necki boys or BMBB.
The agent said it was one of the largest organized drug bus Milwaukee had seen in years. The list of evidence sounded unreal to people who lived in those neighborhoods. According to court documents, the feds had seized over 53 firearms, a mix of rifles, handguns, and modified pistols.
They listed large quantities of heroin, fentinyl, cocaine, and marijuana, along with stacks of cash that totaled more than $100,000. They even recovered a few luxury cars and designer items they claimed were bought from drug profits. The details were enough to make national outlets write short blurbs about it, framing BMB as a dangerous street enterprise running a multi-million dollar operation.
When the mug shots hit the local news that night, it felt like Milwaukee stopped moving for a moment. The television screen filled with familiar faces from Buffam, My Necki, and the nearby blocks. Some were known rappers, some small-time hustlers, and others were just names people heard about in passing.
But one face caught everyone off guard. The picture of Dawan Turner Jr., better known as Big Juan, flashed across the screen, labeled as one of the youngest defendants in the entire case. The city couldn’t believe it. Fans jumped online instantly asking if it was really him. His music videos have been full of laughter, jokes, and Milwaukee pride.
To see his name attached to a federal indictment left everyone confused. Reporters described him as a rapper and associate of the Buffam My Necki Boys, linking his success with the same group accused of running a violent drug ring. The idea that an 18-year-old artist could be part of such a serious case sent shock waves through the city’s rap scene.
Federal agents describe BMBB as a crew that used intimidation, coded language, and social media flexing to protect their operations. They claimed members sold heroin, fentinyl, and cracked cocaine across Milwaukeee’s north side, sometimes using teenage runners. They connected multiple shootings to the group’s activity, saying B&B used fear to control the block.
When the reports came out, people started trying to match song lyrics to evidence, digging through Juan’s old verses for clues. The truth was smaller than what the headlines made it sound like. Court documents later showed that Juan was not a leader or organizer in the case. His charge was for possession with intent to distribute a controlled substance, not for violence or conspiracy.
He was one of the youngest people arrested in the investigation, and most of his involvement came from being around older figures who had already been under surveillance. After his arrest, Juan spent a few weeks in custody before his lawyers secured his release pending trial. He stayed quiet on social media and focused on finishing his music.
In 2021, he pleaded guilty to the possession charge. The judge sentenced him to time served and 3 years of supervised release, which meant he avoided a long prison term. For most people, that should have been the end of the story. But by then, the internet had already built a new version of who Big Juan was.
It started small with a local blogger writing a headline that called him Milwaukeee’s youngest drug boss. The title wasn’t accurate, but it was catchy and people clicked it. Within days, other blogs copied it. YouTube commentary channels started uploading videos with his picture on the thumbnail, using dramatic titles about the teenage kingpin of Milwaukee.
Facebook groups and Reddit threads repeated the phrase until it became the main thing people knew him for. That label stuck faster than any song he ever released. It spread beyond Milwaukee, turning him into an internet myth. People who had never heard his music started calling him a legend or a villain depending on who they believed.
Some said the feds exaggerated his role because of his music videos, while others said he really had money flowing before he got caught. The truth was buried under layers of stories that mixed fact, gossip, and imagination. Inside Milwaukee, the opinions were split. Some people in Harambe said he was framed for being around the wrong people at the wrong time.
They said he was just a rapper who got caught up in a case much bigger than him. Others said he knew what he was doing, that the music wasn’t all entertainment. You could hear both sides arguing in barber shops, corner stores, and social media comments every week. His name became a debate point about whether rap culture glorified crime or just documented survival.
While all that noise spread, Juan stayed mostly quiet. He wasn’t on interviews defending himself. He didn’t post long explanations online. He went back to recording music, dropping small snippets that showed he still had the same humor and energy. He made light jokes about his situation and lyrics, calling himself the biggest young with a case and a dream.
Fans laughed, but you could feel the pressure sitting behind every bar. The FBI continued their investigation into BMBB throughout 2020 and 2021, sentencing several of the main defendants to long prison terms. Court records showed that some of the crews older members face 20 or 30 years, depending on the charges. Each new sentencing kept bringing Juan’s name back into public talk, even though his role was already settled.
News anchors reused old footage of him smiling in his videos, pairing it with headlines about drugs and guns. That repetition helped cement the myth even deeper. The city’s rap scene reacted in two ways. Some artists distanced themselves, not wanting the feds watching their movement. Others rallied behind him, calling for support and understanding.
DJ Jerry, who had featured Juan on his famous mixtape trappers platform, said in an interview that Big Juan was too talented to be remembered for the wrong thing. Rappers like Wonderbread Re and MT Twins kept his name alive in interviews, saying his energy deserved to be known for music, not indictments.
The internet didn’t care much for nuance, though. Once people had a headline to believe, that became the story. Every time someone searched his name, the words youngest drug boss appeared before any mention of his mixtapz or performances. The myth started paying more attention than the man himself.
Blogs from out of state started posting stories about him as if they knew him personally. They wrote dramatic descriptions using pictures from his music videos to make it look like he was running a massive empire. Those who actually knew Juan kept saying the same thing. He wasn’t living like a kingpin. He was a teenager recording songs, hanging with friends, and making small moves to fund his dreams.
His so-called luxury items were outfits borrowed for videos. His cars were props. His laughs were genuine, not staged. But once the label stuck, it didn’t matter how real that was anymore. The internet had already decided who Big Juan was. His mom, Rosemary Gonzalez, kept quiet publicly, but told people close to her that her son wasn’t built for that kind of life.
She said he had plans to go full-time into music to start mentoring younger rappers once his probation ended. She saw the headlines hurt him more than the charges ever did. For Milwaukee, the [clears throat] BMBB case became a symbol of how blurred the line between rap and real life had gotten.
The same culture that produced music videos full of energy and creativity also gave law enforcement a new way to link faces to crimes. The B&B case showed the consequences of that connection. And for Big Juan, it became the one thing that followed him forever. Every city has that one story where truth and rumor fuse until nobody remembers the difference.
For Milwaukee, that story was Big Juan and the buff of My Nikki Boys. He was never the boss the headlines made him out to be, but the world didn’t need the truth to believe it. He was no kingpin, but the streets crowned him one anyway. Even with the federal case hanging over him, Big Juan refused to slow down.
The spotlight had gotten heavier, but he handled it like someone who already understood how fast fame fades if you sit quiet. While most people thought he would go into hiding after the Buffam My Necki Boys case, he was still dropping music. He said once that making songs was his way to breathe. And even when the streets started whispering that the feds were watching, he didn’t care.
He went right back to work. The first record he dropped after everything went public was Eggshell. It came out while he was still waiting for his court dates, and the song title said everything about how he felt. The visuals were filmed around boarded up houses on Mineki Avenue, the same streets the news had turned into crime scenes.
The video opened with him walking alone in a green hoodie, glancing over his shoulder while wrapping into the camera like he was talking to the world and warning himself at the same time. The hook stuck in people’s heads the moment they heard it. He said, “Walking on eggshells can’t slip. They want me down.” You could feel the paranoia in his tone, but also the pride that kept him standing tall.
It was defiance disguised as a confession. The beat was cold, built around heavy drums and a faint organ loop that gave the song that Milwaukee tension. It felt like watching someone stare back at their own fears and still smile. Fans started quoting his lines on Instagram, saying he was rapping like a man who had nothing left to prove.
Eggshell didn’t sound like a comeback. It sounded like survival. It showed that he could take the pressure and still stay funny. Still sound like himself even when the world tried to turn him into something else. He dropped the video on YouTube and it gained thousands of views within a few days. It wasn’t just music anymore.
It was his statement that he was still here. Not long after that, he released his project, Dog Slayers Volume 2. The title came from a local slain term for someone who dominates on their block, and the mixtape was easily his most polished work. It had the sound of a young artist finally finding his lane. The beats carried that gritty Milwaukee rhythm, but the flow was sharper, the lyrics more focused.
He mixed comedy with tension, dropping lines that made people laugh and think at the same time. The opening track started with a recording of a phone call where he joked with a friend about being famous for the wrong reasons. Then the beat dropped and he launched into verses about moving smarter, trusting fewer people, and staying ready for whatever came next.
You could tell he was reflecting on the case and the energy around him. Dog Slayer’s volume 2 wasn’t just a mixtape. It was therapy. Every bar sounded like he was trying to remind himself that he could still control his story. By the time that project dropped, the phrase free one had turned into a local slogan.
You’d hear it shouted at block parties, clubs, and even basketball games. >> >> Fans started wearing shirts that said free the biggest in bold letters. Milwaukee might be small compared to bigger rap cities, but his loyalty runs deep. When someone from there catches heat, the people rally. Social media became Juan’s main way of staying connected during that time.
He posted clips of himself recording and made jokes about his nickname as the youngest drug boss. Sometimes he would laugh it off in captions, saying things like boss energy, but still grounded. He used humor to stay in control even when the pressure was obvious. People respected that because he didn’t act like a victim.
He handled it the same way he handled his music with a mix of jokes, confidence, and honesty. His peers stood by him, too. Wonderbread Reed, who had always been one of his inspirations, posted messages calling him one of the most talented kids in the city. MT Twins sent him encouragement online, reminding people that Big Juan wasn’t built like every other rapper.
DJ Jerry continued spinning his records on his mixtape trappers podcast, saying he wouldn’t let Milwaukee forget what Juan represented. Even artists outside the city started noticing his resilience. His story traveled because it was rare to see someone so young carry that much weight and still smile. He started performing again, taking small shows around Milwaukee, Wawua, and Rasine.
He performed at neighborhood events, small clubs, and Juneenth celebrations where families came out to hear local talent. His stage presence grew every time. You could see that he loved those moments because the crowd gave him peace, that the courts never could. He joked with fans between songs, freestyling with kids in the audience, and turning every show into something that felt personal.
People could feel that he appreciated them for showing up. The contradiction in his life was clear. On one side, he was under legal supervision and couldn’t travel too far without permission. On the other side, he was performing in front of hundreds, proving he still had control of his path. It was a delicate balance. His probation officers watched closely and his lawyers advised him to stay quiet, but he didn’t want silence to define him.
He chose to keep creating instead of letting fear kill his passion. Through all of that, his personality never changed. He stayed humble with everyone around him. When kids came up asking for pictures, he smiled and told them to chase something they loved. He wasn’t rich, but he gave out whatever energy he could.
People said his humor was what kept them drawn to him. He’d make a joke about himself before anyone else could. That was his way of disarming the negativity that followed his name. Even with the tension getting heavier, he kept recording more songs. He worked out of small studios on Capitol Drive.
Spending nights in sessions that stretched past midnight. His producer said he wrote fast, rarely doing more than two takes. Every line sounded urgent, like he didn’t have time to waste. He knew he was being watched, but he never let that stop him. By that point, everyone could feel that Juan was walking a thin line between redemption and danger.
He was proving that he could turn pain into power, but the noise around him never fully disappeared. Fans were cheering, blogs were still speculating, and the streets were still whispering his name. Yet, every night he touched the stage, he carried that same big grin and cracked the same kind of jokes that made Milwaukee fall in love with him in the first place.
Every night, he performed like it could be his last show. By late 2021, Big Juan was living in two different realities. One side of his life was bright, full of interviews, fans, and viral clips. The other side was cold, full of tension, whispers, and paranoia. His fame had finally stretched beyond Milwaukee.
But the higher he climbed, the more he felt the eyes watching from every direction. In a city where success draws both love and jealousy, Juan was learning that too fast. His buzz was still rising, but so was the hate that came with it. Milwaukey’s rap scene had always carried its share of rivalries, but Juan’s name started showing up in online beefs that he never even started.
Local rappers from smaller groups like the Mud Baby rappers and other neighborhood crews started throwing small shots in their songs or Instagram captions. They said things like he changed since the fame that he forgot who helped him. Some of it was clout chasing and some of it was real tension brewing in the streets.
Juan laughed about most of it in public. He’d post funny replies or crack jokes during live streams, acting like it didn’t bother him. He always carried himself like someone too laid-back to argue online. But behind the camera, he told a few close friends that things were getting strange. They believed him because he had started acting more cautious.
He stopped sharing his location, kept his circle tighter, and told his younger cousins to stay inside once the street lights came on. Life under probation already had him boxed in. He couldn’t leave Milwaukee County without permission. And that meant he had to stay close to the same streets that made him famous. He still lived around Buffam and My Necki, moving between his mom’s and his grandma’s houses.
The same blocks that raised him now felt smaller every day. He had curfew restrictions, so most nights he stayed indoors once it got dark. When friends called asking him to come out, he would say, “I can’t move like that no more.” At home, Juan spent most nights sleeping near his grandmother’s room. He said it made him feel safer hearing her prayers through the wall.
His family said he started double-checking the locks every night before bed. He even kept a small weapon inside the house, something he said was only for protection. To people outside, he still looked untouchable. But the truth was that he didn’t trust anything anymore. Fame made his name big, but it also made him a target.
The drug boss rumor from the FBI case made everything worse. It gave him this false image of being rich, connected, and dangerous. even though he was still living in the same neighborhood. The myth made people assume he had money stacked up that he could defend himself or that he had crews behind him. In reality, he was just a young man trying to rebuild his life after probation.
The story that made him famous was the same one that stripped his peace away. He started recording songs that sounded heavier, more emotional, and less like the playful verses that made him famous. In tracks recorded at Mellow Drop and 30 studio, you could hear the change. The beats were slower, the tone more reflective.
He wrapped about loyalty, about losing friends, about feeling watched. One line stuck with his fans later when they replayed it. You can’t tell who loved you till it’s too late. People thought it was just another catchy lyric, but those close to him said it came from real fear. Juan was becoming more isolated, but he stayed focused on his goals.
He told his mom that once he finished his next project, he would start traveling, maybe go to Atlanta or Houston to build new connections. He talked about buying his grandma a small house somewhere quieter. It wasn’t just talk. He really planned to leave. He just didn’t know that time was running shorter than he realized. The pressure around him started to change his energy.
Friends said he would zone out sometimes, sitting quietly for minutes before cracking a joke to break the silence. He used to stay up late writing lyrics about loyalty and betrayal. He said the streets didn’t respect peace, so you had to protect yourself even when you weren’t looking for trouble. He told one of his close friends.
Milwaukee too small for dreams this big. People like Wonderbread Ree and other older rappers started reaching out, warning him to stay low. Reed told him, “You got too much talent to move like these other cats.” Juan listened, but he still wanted to keep performing. He didn’t want to disappear just because people talk behind his back.
He said music was all he had left to feel normal. His confidence stayed the same in public, but his eyes told a different story. Around October 2021, he told another friend he wanted to change his sound completely. He said, “Next year, I’m done with the street talk. I’m dropping hits, real music only.” He wanted to build something bigger than Milwaukee drama.
He wanted to show that he could rap about success, women, and life without always referencing pain. That was the direction he wanted for 2022, a clean slate. He believed if he could outgrow the image the streets gave him, people would finally see who he really was. But in Milwaukee, leaving the past behind isn’t easy.
The same streets that give you a name never forget your mistakes. Every move Juan made was watched. Every post reposted, every rumor twisted. He carried himself with calm pride. But deep inside, he was balancing two worlds that didn’t fit together anymore. Fame had given him a microphone. But fear had taken away his peace.
At night, when the neighborhood went quiet, he’d sit near his grandma’s room, listening to her TV. His notebook opened beside him. He’d hum new melodies and whisper bars to himself, trying to plan a future that always felt one wrong step away. To his fans, he was still the funny, confident rapper who laughed through everything.
To his family, he was just Dwan, a boy trying to stay safe in a city that loved him and feared him at the same time. The morning after Thanksgiving in 2021 started quiet across Milwaukey’s north side. The streets were still wet from the night’s drizzle, and the cold air carried that stillness only found after family holidays.
Inside the small house on Buffam Street, most of the Turner family was still asleep. Leftover food sat on the kitchen counter. Big Juan had spent the night before eating with his mom and grandma, laughing about how much turkey they cooked. He stayed up late texting friends about new songs he planned to record that weekend.
Around 9:05 a.m., everything changed. The piece shattered when gunshots echoed from outside, cutting through the morning silence like cracks of lightning. The bullets tore through the side of the house, punching holes through the upstairs wall where Juan slept. He didn’t even have time to react.
His mother, Rosemary Gonzalez, woke up to the sound of the shots and screamed his name from the hallway. The sound of her voice was sharp enough to pull the whole house into chaos. His grandmother ran to call 911, crying into the phone while trying to stay calm enough to give their address. Neighbors came outside, looking around for the shooter, but nobody saw anyone.
The gunfire stopped as fast as it started. Only the smoke from the cold air and the sound of footsteps fading away remained. Inside the house, Rosemary found her son on the floor, bleeding near the edge of his bed. She screamed for help until her voice broke. Police and paramedics arrived within minutes, sirens bouncing off the narrow streets of Harambe.
Officers rushed upstairs while paramedics carried in stretchers. The air inside smelled like gunpowder and Thanksgiving leftovers. They tried to revive him, but the damage was too deep. At 9:30 a.m., they pronounced Dawan Turner Jr., known to the world as Big Juan, dead at the scene. He was only 19 years old.
Outside, word spread fast. Neighbors started gathering near the yellow tape, some still wearing pajamas. Kids from the block cried as they watched officers cover the windows with black tarps. His mother screamed from the doorway, her voice breaking through the morning air, the sound carried down the street, and more people came running.
It was one of those moments when the whole neighborhood felt the same pain at the same time. The police moved fast, marking shell casings on the ground. They interviewed witnesses, but nobody saw who fired the shots. Some people said they heard a car speeding away. Others said it sounded like someone on foot, but there were no suspects, no security footage, and no solid leads.
The street cameras nearby didn’t capture the angle of the house. Within hours, the house that once echoed with music had turned into another crime scene under flashing blue lights. By noon, the story hit local media. News trucks parked near the corner of Buffam and Mineki. Their cameras pointing at the house while reporters spoke into microphones.
The early headlines all sounded the same. Teen rapper tied to Milwaukee gang gunned down. Every article mentioned the Buffam Myi boys case from 2020. None of them mentioned his family’s laughter the night before or the dreams he talked about before bed. The story moved fast, but it left out the heart of who he really was. Fans started flooding social media as soon as the news dropped.
Instagram stories filled with his face, videos, and old clips of him joking around in the studio. His friends posted tributes tagging him in photos with captions that carried pain and disbelief. Lil Trav, his closest brother from YPC, posted a picture of them performing together with the caption, “My brother forever.
” DJ Jerry posted a black screen with three words, “Milwaukee lost one.” Even artists from outside the city started commenting under his last video, saying they couldn’t believe it. By evening, the neighborhood had transformed into a vigil. People came from every block to pay respects. They brought candles, balloons, and posters with his name.
Someone connected a Bluetooth speaker to a phone and started playing his songs. Tracks like Fastlane Lifestyle and Eggshell echoed through the cold air while people sang along, crying and laughing at the same time. His younger cousins lit candles around the steps where he used to sit. The glow from the flames flickered off the boarded windows, lighting up the crowd.
The energy felt heavy, like the whole city came to say goodbye. Mothers held their kids tighter, and fathers shook their heads quietly. It wasn’t just another shooting to them. It was the loss of someone who gave Milwaukee hope that music could still rise from struggle. Friends told stories about how he used to crack jokes to calm everyone down during stressful days.
Others said he was planning to drop a song that week, something different from his usual street talk. That made it hurt even more, knowing he was just beginning to change direction. As the night went on, more people showed up. Police cruisers stayed parked nearby, watching from a distance as the crowd grew. Nobody wanted trouble.
They just wanted peace for someone who never truly got it while alive. The speakers kept playing his songs on repeat. The same bars he wrote about survival now sounding like prophecy. Then the rumors started. People whispered about retaliation, about jealousy, about a setup. Some said it was connected to the old BMBB case. Others claimed it came from street envy.
Social media filled with theories and fake screenshots. each one spreading faster than the truth could catch up. But when reporters asked the police for details, the answer stayed the same. No suspects, no witnesses, no arrests. The next morning, candles still burned on the sidewalk.
Balloons floated against the porch railing, their strings tangled around the fence. The same spot that once held music videos now held silence. His family stayed inside, avoiding interviews. The city felt smaller that day, like the life had drained out of it. Fans online called him a legend, using hashtags like #longlivebigwan and #fastlane forever.
Every post came with clips of his music, every comment with disbelief. For some, it was their first time hearing his name. For others, it was the end of an era that had just started. The story spread to blogs and YouTube again, repeating the same words that haunted him in life. Every title tied him back to the myth, not the man.
But to Milwaukee, it was personal. They didn’t lose a drug boss. They lost a son, a friend, a voice that turned pain into rhythm. The city that crowned him a boss couldn’t even tell who took him out. The days after Big Juan’s death felt unreal for everyone who knew him. His family stayed inside, blinds closed, unable to face the constant knocks from reporters.
His mother, Rosemary Gonzalez, was too heartbroken to speak publicly. She barely left her room, surrounded by pictures of her son and the trophies he won in school. His grandmother spent mornings praying in silence, whispering his name under her breath. The house that once echoed with laughter turned quiet, filled with the kind of stillness that comes after too much pain.
His funeral was held at Reed’s new Golden Gate funeral home, one of Milwaukey’s oldest familyrun chapels. Hundreds of people showed up, lining the sidewalk long before the doors open. The chapel was filled with flowers, posters, and balloons in silver and blue. His music played softly from speakers near the casket, and fans whispered his lyrics through tears.
DJ Jerry, Lil Trav, and Wonderbread Ree all came dressed in black, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his family. They spoke quietly, hugging people who broke down halfway through the service. Outside, the streets around the funeral home overflowed with cars. Local police were there to manage traffic as more people arrived carrying candles and shirts with his face on them.
Inside the chapel, when the pastor spoke about his life, you could hear quiet sobs from every corner. Even people who never met him in person cried like they lost a brother. Tributes flooded social media that weekend. Tik Tok videos, fan-made edits, and Instagram stories filled every feed.
Some clips replayed his best moments from Fastlane Lifestyle and Eggshell. Hashtags like #longlivebigwan and #buffleion trended in Milwaukee. Fans defended him in comment sections whenever blogs called him a drug boss. One viral post read, “He was a kid with a gift, not a criminal.” Others posted his lyrics with captions about how his music got them through hard times.
Meanwhile, national blogs and local news sites kept recycling the same old headlines. Every article still mentioned the Buffam Myi boys case, turning his name into a symbol instead of a story. The city’s newspapers ran updates on the investigation, each one ending with the same line. No leads, no arrests.
That silence left space for rumors to grow. Some people online said it was revenge. Others whispered about robbery or betrayal. Nobody knew for sure, and that mystery became another part of the myth. A few weeks later, the remaining members of YPC released a tribute song titled Angel in the Sky.
The track opened with Big Juan’s old voice recordings and ended with Lil Trav saying, “We love you, bro. You still here with us.” The song spread fast, pulling thousands of views overnight. Milwaukee radio played it every weekend for months, and fans treated it like a final goodbye. A mural soon appeared in Harambe painted on the side of an abandoned store near Mineki Avenue.
It showed Juan wearing a crown with angel wings behind him. Across the top were the words fly high Big Juan. Locals lit candles in front of it every weekend and kids took pictures under the painting after school. His mother later announced the creation of the Big Wan scholarship, a small program that helps creative Milwaukee teens buy equipment, studio time, or art supplies.
She said she wanted to give other kids the chance her son never got to finish. By early 2022, the city council had even debated naming November 26th as Big W day. Some saw it as honoring a young artist gone too soon. Others argued it glorified someone tied to controversy. But in every conversation, one truth stayed clear. He mattered to people.
His story showed how fame can twist itself around tragedy until the line between the person and the myth disappears. Milwaukee never stopped saying his name. Some remember the rapper who made them laugh. Some remember the rumors that haunted him and some just remember the sound of his voice.
Disclaimer : This content may be created by AI for entertainment purposes. Any resemblance to real persons, events, or places is coincidental.
