Before The South Had Something To Say: How A Region Discovered Its Voice

"What you n***** know about the Dirty South?" When Cool Breeze and Goodie Mob posed that question in 1995, they weren't really looking for an answer from anybody in particular because obviously, they already knew it — not a gotdamn thing. The question came up just three months after André 3000 declared "the South's got something to say" as audience members booed after OutKast won the Best New Group trophy at the Source Awards. It's hard to believe that just 90 days later, anyone was going to reply to Breeze's query with a raised hand and an emphatic "oooh oooh, I know something!"

You really can't blame people for not knowing. Up to this point, the "Dirty South" or "Southern Hip Hop" wasn't necessarily a thing, let alone a movement. With so many different accents, dances, identities and sounds coming from different places, it didn't really make sense to lump everyone into a monolithic moniker. There were dozens of DJs, producers, rappers and MCs from Southern cities making music that defined their area codes, but the idea of Southern hip-hop as a whole was a puzzle that hadn't been put together yet.

In the early 1990s, if you drove from Atlanta, bumping Kilo Ali's or to New Orleans for the Bayou Classic and saw DJ Jubilee performing at halftime, you were not going to think those songs had anything in common. Houston's Ganksta N-I-P and Memphis') were even further apart than the 500-plus miles between them. An Edward J & the J-Team tape from Decatur, Ga. did not sound like a Jam Pony Express tape from Ft. Lauderdale, Fla., and depending on your age and address, a DJ Magic Mike song was either the soundtrack for the skating rink or the strip club. In hindsight, such diversity can be credited to Southern hip-hop's constant regeneration.