The Mouth of the South
I was born in 1995. Raekwon released “Only Built 4 Cuban Linx” this year. GZA’s “Liquid Swords” blessed the world 2 days after the date my twin sisters were born, and Goodie Mob’s “Soul Food” was served savory and ready to show us the sound of the South’s flavor. 2PAC’s “Me Against The World” was brought into this life on the same day as I. My parents would occasionally joke about how my name, “Jaykwon,” derived from the latter end of its spelling, “Kwon,” from the chef of Wu-Tang.
By 95, Hip-hop had spread its wings and learned the wind’s pattern. Rap was an established art form and it had seen the parts of the world that its voice was loud enough to reach. But who or what was its “voice?”
“Hip-hop landed at the South’s door and we welcomed it in and fed it some of grandma’s yams and greens. Now, look how big she’s gotten.”
There is banality in the idea of someone having or using their “voice.” We are witnesses to the reality that we all have voices. We don’t need anyone to “give” us a voice. We just need them to listen to us. We all know how to use our voices in whatever ways might be precisely, and intelligibly, conveyed to whoever will lend us their ear.
We are incessantly considering mediums through which we can illuminate our stories because we are constantly in rumination, and our hearts are always filled with the presence of ideas and identities that need to be seen or expressed. In 1995, Andre 3000 reminded us of this truth at the Source Awards. By August I was just being introduced to sounds and patterns as an infant, so I can’t recall this moment first-hand.
I have no raw emotions or vivid memories to borrow from to narrate this story; because I wasn’t present enough to experience it. I do know though, the feeling of being an outcast (pun intended). I am familiar with the frustration of failing at adhering to an identity that you weren’t created or stretched to mimic the strides of. The feeling of being an unfamiliar voice.
Being ostracized as a result of this can cause us to move with a chip on our shoulder. We then use any and every opportunity to let cultural, or personalized misanthropes see that their blockades are doing nothing but creating new roads.
These feelings helped me connect with Andre 3000 when I saw the venerable and timeless clip of him standing on a stage in front of Hip-hop’s East-coast watchdogs. His undaunted posture wasn’t necessarily him being bold or courageous. It was a natural state that the rest of the rap world happened to meet him in that night, and he meant every word. That was a cultural expression he brought to a table for which he carried his own plate of food with him.
“Closed minded folks you know’um sayin’. But it’s like this, we gotta demo tape and don’t nobody wanna hear it. But it’s like dis’ The South Got Sum to say and that’s all I got to say.”
Dre had the Dungeon Family at his aid, all of them prepared with a hawkish stance. I saw Big Gipp’s golden smile behind him as if he were waiting for this moment, and for someone to act up. His counterpart, Big Boi, and their southern drawls I assume sounded foreign to rugged, stiff New Yorkers. “So Dre. What’s up?” He expectantly challenged.
A reminder that this took place during the East-coast and West-coast bicoastal feuding — prompting Snoop Dogg to stand on stage with his plaits and bandana around his neck, asking, rhetorically and challengingly, “Y’all don’t love us!?” Dre took advantage of the one moment the world couldn’t ignore his voice, or the South’s. Whether it’s with love or hate, if they’re looking at you, they’ve given you their attention. Say something worth remembering.
“People won’t pay attention to you or what you’re building until everyone else does. .. . Or at least until they can no longer ignore it.”
The South does and will always have something to say. Our expressions are just one of rap’s many dialects. “Country Grammar” is not just a moment, but an artistic manifestation of a concept and reality. Big Krit’s “Country Sh*t” is a statement and celebration of his roots, not just reactive cultivation of something he wants his cousins from the Northeast to recognize.
“It’s strange to kick someone out of a house after denying them access to it, then ridiculing the one they decide to build for themselves.”
The Mouth of The South is loud. It holds inside of it gold fronts and tongues that speak slowly and drag their words. Its voice is the 808s and sharp kicks. Its voice is 2 Live Crew, and Luke’s parental advisory sticker paving the way for the raunchiest of lyrics with no legal ramifications following them.
The crunk music and loud expressions of black emotions and energy reflect the span of our passion. Its voice is Lil Jon, Gucci Mane, Killer Mike, Megan Thee Stallion, and Krit.
Real spitters exist here, and we shouldn’t ignore their narratives because their abilities lead back to a land some have convinced themselves is desolate or barren in terms of sharpness and lyricism. Our bragging is in Atlanta arguably being Hip-hop’s epicenter. Its Memphis legend’s voice echoing on Drake’s “Knife Talk” and Yo Gotti signing Mozzy — a west-coast MC, to his label, CMG.
The phraseology of southern rappers has been handed down, sacredly, from ancestors who toiled and traipsed through the south, even in its most ruinous stages, before them. You can learn and mimic the sound, but not its generational pain. Rappers likely aren’t aware of this because to them, they’re just rapping and making music.
The soulful gospel samples, and closeness of their music to the spiritual expressions of singers during the 70s & 90s. These things reflect a greater superlunary reality. The crooning and intoning we hear from CeeLo Green and Goodie Mob were passed down through the lamenting of voices before them.
“Lord it’s so hard, living this life. A constant struggle each and every day. Some wonder why, I’d rather die. Than to continue living this way”
I think of Young Nudy sampling Deniece Williams on “Mini Me” and 21 Savage doing the same with Diana Ross on “Runnin.” These things remind me of artists who know the root of their expressions and voice, and where we stand in hip-hop’s timeline.
Oftentimes when rappers want to look like the “cool kids” who still are in touch with the purity of an undeveloped hip-hop heart, they will seek to collaborate with artists like Young Thug, Migos, or 21 Savage. They want to look like the “Fun” parents who still have a little soul to them and can hang with their younger affiliates.
Collaborations with the south are usually done when artists want to use southern cultural artifacts as props for their art or efforts to remain relevant. Rarely because they see the value and talent of the South as instrumental to the body of Hip-hop.
Hip-hop should no longer ignore its body. Like any other breathing entity, it is made with elements that all contribute to its wholeness. Its heartbeat is felt across the globe. Its heartbeat is the door rumbling 808s. The honed kicks and snares. The producer tags excite us and we all know and remember them vividly.
The south acknowledging and celebrating its own voice is no different than west coast luminaries all gathering to pass Kendrick Lamar the torch as some ritual rite of passage. Rap has creatively taken life’s elements and used them to carve out its own world.
Whenever Andre 3000 peeks out of his shell to check the cultural temperature and make an unexpected appearance as a feature, his lyrical mastery and vivid, fluid storytelling will repeatedly point us back to the south.
We remember Aquemini and Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik, and two young guys from East Point Atlanta who met in high school. We revisit 1995, the year I was born, and reflect on the voice of the South because it was that year, we were reminded by Dre that, The South Got Something to Say.
