Big B: The Quiet One Behind the Noise

Bryan “Big B” Mahoney has been a part of Hart & Huntington since before it had a name. He’s not loud about it. He doesn’t have to be. From the early days of motorcycles and mixtapes to the late nights drawing plans on sushi napkins, Big B has been there. Quietly. Consistently. Always showing up.

“I’m just kind of quiet. It takes a while to get to know me.”

Big B didn’t grow up trying to be center stage. He moved to Vegas in high school after spending time in California. “There’s always a lot going on,” he says. “Mixed the fast life with kind of the desert life.”

He’s self-described as standoffish, not in a bad way—more in a you’ll get to know me when you earn it kind of way. But behind that quiet energy is a deep creative drive and a long history in scenes most people only watch from the outside.

“I just wanted to write good songs.”

Music hit early. His cousin introduced him to hip hop and R&B. “I fell in love with it,” he says. “Just started rapping to mess around.”

But that hobby turned into songwriting. Then into touring. And then into a discography full of collaborations with names like Everlast, Tech N9ne, Cypress Hill, and Killer Mike.

“The people that really inspired me—I ended up working with. That’s kind of crazy.”

His approach never chased formulas. “My albums aren’t the same. It’s kind of unorthodox… singer-songwriter, rap, all of it in one.”

“Tattoos were always around me.”

Music was one part of Big B’s world. The other part was ink. “I grew up around the biker community. Tattoos were taboo. It was kind of the outlaw thing to do.”

Like many people’s first tattoo experience, his started in a garage with a friend’s older brother and a mail-order kit. “It wasn’t that good. Got covered up later. But that was my first deal.”

It didn’t take long before the sleeves came in. “I used to say I wouldn’t get tattooed on my neck until I made a certain amount. That didn’t last long. They just kept going.”

“I was riding dirt bikes by the time I was six or seven.”

That outlaw culture wasn’t just about tattoos. His dad had him on motorcycles as soon as he could walk. “I had a mini bike with training wheels at three. And I always had bikes after that.”

Even if he wasn’t racing competitively, motorcycles were always there—through childhood, through high school, through life.

“Some of Carey’s friends that he raced with as a kid, I grew up with too. Our dads were friends.”

He stayed in the moto world, wrenching on bikes and working in custom shops, eventually overlapping with the same freestyle motocross scene Carey Hart helped build.

“We met in the late ‘90s… got close around 2000.”

Big B and Carey connected through moto and music. “I was doing music for a lot of motocross stuff—soundtracks for Crusty Demons and all that.”

When Carey moved in with TJ Lavin, Big B was already close with TJ. “TJ didn’t drink. Good dude, but mellow. I liked to go out and get rowdy. Carey was kind of the same. That’s how we hit it off.”

From there, they started riding together, hitting the river, going to Havasu. They talked music. They talked bikes. They became close.

“It all started late one night over sushi.”

The idea for Hart & Huntington wasn’t some big corporate pitch. It was a napkin conversation between friends. “Carey wanted to be the first guy to open a tattoo shop inside a casino.”

John Huntington had the casino contacts. They got a meeting with the Maloofs. And things started moving—fast.

At the same time, Big B signed a record deal with Atlantic. “I had to decide—make records or ride coattails. I decided to make records.”

Still, he stayed involved.

“Carey said, ‘Why don’t I keep you around part-time, give you insurance for your family?’ That meant everything. That’s why I’ve always been so loyal.”

“We came to the shop one day and the line was halfway around the building.”

No one knew what to expect when Inked hit A&E. But the response was instant—and overwhelming.

“That was the moment. We looked at each other like, ‘Oh shit. This is real.’”

Even when the original location moved—from the Palms to the Hard Rock to Caesars—people doubted it would last. “It just kept going. Still going.”

What made it different?

“Carey was already getting tattooed. He wasn’t some newcomer trying to capitalize off the scene. That mattered.”

“It wasn’t a tattoo shop—it was an art gallery.”

Back then, most shops were rough around the edges. Big B remembers the difference clearly.

“Tattoo shops were dirty. Crusty. You’d walk in, guys are drinking beers, smoking. That wasn’t our vibe.”

Hart & Huntington flipped the model. Open layout. Bright lighting. Clean design. Anyone could walk in—first-timers, tourists, families.

“It felt more like an Apple Store than a biker shop. People who were curious about tattoos but too nervous to go in anywhere else—they felt welcome.”

Not everyone liked the change. “People said we were ruining tattooing. But now? Fast forward 20 years, and any shop that’s halfway dirty is considered a shit shop.”

“We just decided to give back.”

Big B and Carey didn’t just want to show up to motorcycle rallies—they wanted to do something with them. After Carey served as Grand Marshal at Sturgis’ 75th anniversary, they had an idea.

“Let’s turn this into something meaningful. Let’s raise money for veterans.”

That’s how Good Ride was born. A charity motorcycle ride with real impact, good people, and no fluff. It’s been going strong for nine years now.

“Sturgis is my favorite. Vegas was always good too—it was home. But riding through the Black Hills with a police escort? That’s tough to beat.”

“It’s just family.”

After all the music, motorcycles, and madness, Big B sums up what Hart & Huntington really means to him in one word:

“Family.”

“It’s a legacy we built from the ground up that’s still going. Chris took it and ran with it. He might not be the face of it, but he lives it. Same passion Carey had.”

“Feeding my kids off music… that’s the biggest accomplishment.”

Of all the things Big B’s done—touring, collaborating, co-founding a brand, building a movement—it still comes back to something simple:

“Just being able to say I fed my kids off music. That’s it. That’s everything. Everything else is a bonus.”

And if you ask who he’d still want to work with?

“Bob Marley. Johnny Cash. Citizen Cope. Biz Markie—not a big writer, but man, I’d just want to feel that energy in a room.”