The Game Belongs To UGK: Celebrating Two Decades Of Ridin’ Dirty
The following was written a magazine feature that never went to print for unrelated reasons. Was as much of an honor to work with Simone Amelia on the copy as it was to speak with Bun B for over an hour and a half on the phone while sitting on a park bench in Los Angeles. July 2016.
The Game Belongs To UGK: Celebrating Two Decades Of Ridin’ Dirty
UGK’s third studio album was bigger than Pimp C and Bun B themselves.
For countless reasons, Ridin’ Dirty hits as close to home in 2016 as it does when it was first released on July 30, 1996. This doesn’t surprise Bun B, nor would it bewilder Pimp C if he were still physically among us today.
Coming together to form the Underground Kingz in the late 80s, the two Port Arthur, Texas-born musicians knew exactly what they were seeking to achieve when they walked into the studio for their third go-around at a full-length project, creating what unknowingly at the time would inspire two generations (and counting) of what has become quintessential Southern hip-hop.
The album solidified UGK’s permanent place within the culture, with the group unapologetically speaking for an entire region and paving the way for the artists that came after them, much like the leaders within the East and West coast music scenes were doing. However, pioneering the uncharted Southern frontier for hip-hop was not an easy task, with Pimp C and Bun B running into various sets of challenges along the way, such as proving themselves simultaneously as innovators of the genre and as masters of the craft.
Twenty years ago, on the record’s release date, a commercial aired on television promoting the project without involving the creative input of Pimp and Bun. When the pair saw the advertisement for the first time, both were perplexed as to why the record company associated them with what was, in their minds, an unapproved visual incorporating a scene with a desert and a limousine, the furthest two components of UGK’s day-to-day reality. That disconnect between the music, the mission and the industry grew into what would become a challenging and reoccurring pattern, with the pair having to consistently balance not compromising who they are, while also not angering the record company or resulting in their music being shelved.
“I may have records that are going to get more radio spins than others, but that’s not the kind of music that resonates with people as deeply as records such as ‘One Day,’” Bun B says. “That’s what you want to do as an artist. You want to touch as many people as deeply as possible in the moment. Ridin’ Dirty, for us, was the first time we were able to do that. We were able to do what we wanted to do, and say what we wanted to say, and that’s why the album best represented us.”
Throughout its thirteen-track duration, the duo exhibits how they had their eye on what was really going on in their neighborhood, with an intention of educating others on how to lead certain lifestyles in a smart and spiritual way. Discussing the life they knew and the life they wanted, the album touches on subjects such as poverty, police brutality, relationships, God and poverty, showcasing UGK’s unprecedented ability to spill their souls on a record without losing any street cred.
“Though the record company thought we were young and naive, we had to take complete control and they had to trust us,” he continues. “We understood where we were from and we knew how to translate and communicate that to people better than anyone else could. You can’t tell me how to talk to my people about this trill s**t, you just can’t, I’m sorry.”
“Ridin’ Dirty specifically was a very insular conversation directed at a specific group of people that didn’t necessarily have anyone speaking to them, or for them,” the emcee reflects. “When you were in the streets, you lived this lifestyle and you made that choice, so while we couldn’t do anything about that, the best thing we could do was make sure you were navigating the streets correctly.”
The group’s strength was in their dedication to not misrepresenting themselves and provided the lack of opportunity to release properly executed and budgeted music videos, the duo relied on visceral lyricism and dynamic production to best tell their story. The image of the desert and the limousine became a metaphor speaking louder than that particular advertisement did, serving as a reminder that with freedom, comes responsibility and UGK held a responsibility to always keep it real, while also inspiring a greater, timeless message.
“We tried to make music people could actually live to, not just party to,” Bun B says. “Pimp’s interpretation was that the record was a weekend in the hood. On Friday, you got your hustling done, Saturday you partied and on Sunday, you reflected.”
While Bun B jokes not to fault him for what he said when he was younger, the two succeeded in building their confidence up early on. The homegrown confidence found in their risk-taking, both behind the boards and on the mic, allowed them to forge the path for recognizing not only was it acceptable to be Southern and still be a lyricist, but that it was the best of both worlds to not have to choose between being one over the other.
“It’s not about what the album did for us, it’s about what the album did for other people,” Bun says. “It’s no surprise this album still makes sense years later. We tried to tell the truth, and the truth remains.”
#Repost BET.com: Debates About J.Cole Are a Necessary Hip-Hop Evil
Originally posted here on BET.com.
With Friday's (Dec. 9) release of his fourth studio album, 4 Your Eyez Only, J.Cole achieved what a vast majority of artists aspire to achieve throughout their careers: He got people talking. Here we all are, halfway through Monday afternoon, and the conversations still continue.
J.Cole lives up to his reputation as a conscious emcee on his latest project — for better or for worse. As the weekend unfolded, memes and commentary not-so-surprisingly flooded timelines across all social media networks.
Some of my peers didn't make it all the way through their first listen before sharing their potent opinions, while others expressed they were mind-blown at the seemingly spot-on fan theories that this album was actually his friend's story and not his own. Some called it fire, others called it trash. Some said J. Cole puts them to sleep, while others argue that's simply because they aren't woke. Needless to say, in the first 24 hours following his new release, things got pretty serious in the internet trenches, with memes like this one providing a perfect "lemme just leave this here" comment to lighten the mood.
Meanwhile, conversations in the media remain just as heated. Genius's Rob Markman made the observation: "If Nas dropped Illmatic today, Twitter would slander thee f**k out of it," while HipHopDX's Justin Hunte passionately argued that J. Cole IS Nas — without Illmatic. Complementing the discussion surrounding 4 Your Eyez Only was The Ringer's Shea Serrano and Justin Charity, who went shot-for-shot arguing whether or not J. Cole is even a good rapper in the first place. DJ Booth's Nathan S. did the project justice during his one listen review, a subjective and raw style of reviewing music that Cole himself unassumingly inspired years ago, while BET's music staff also shared a handful of our first impressions. We all made it through our first listen — and ran it back.
What it all comes down to is this: at the surface, the way J. Cole utilizes his platform and his creative expression ignites the age-old binary debates of good or bad. Real hip-hop or wack hip-hop. Old versus new. His art, his persona and his bigger picture all encourage these debates. As fans of hip-hop music, we have an intrinsic need to classify or categorize or comment on whatever he is doing. These conversations are important or they wouldn’t be ignited with every new release he offers. J. Cole gets compared to Nas in a way that a vast majority of rappers in 2016 will never inspire. Is that fair? Did Cole ask to be held at such a high standard of quality? Or is he just simply making music that a generation of people taking the bus to work can relate to?
A millennial rapper like Lil Yachty can stand on a roof with a megaphone yelling that he does not care about golden-era icons Tupac or Biggie while Periscoping the whole thing on Twitter. People may sigh, shrug or argue, but regardless, they believe him. Many say hip-hop isn’t what it used to be and look to Lil Yachty as supporting evidence. All J. Cole has to do is low-key release a 10-track album proving Lil Yachty does not represent the view of every millennial fan and creator of rap music and he becomes a hero. That subtle reassurance that people still create and consume conscious rap music comes as a huge relief for many, especially to those particularly territorial of the culture’s historic roots and concerned about hip-hop’s overall well-being today, four decades later.
Debates about J. Cole have become the most non-evil, necessary evil of contemporary rap. As an emcee, he earns the title, finding a way to pull at our heartstrings and stir up the masses at the same time. He makes taking the unpopular route seem less difficult to take. He casually drops lyrical bombs and chooses to watch the dust settle from the sidelines instead of in the spotlight. He raps over top-tier production and finds a way to weave in almond milk, folding clothes and the struggle of the Black American male all into one narrative pulled directly from real life. After 2014 Forest Hills Drive, we expect this from him, and as exemplified on 4 Your Eyez Only, he complies.
While other rappers may find more commercial success through their dab-worthy singles in radio rotation, J. Cole can proudly and humbly add another successful concept album to his collection. As he mysteriously retreats back into his world, leaving us to digest — and debate — his album bar for bar and beat for beat, it proves that the younger generation still does care about the state of hip-hop in 2016. We care about J. Cole. Just look at the comments section.
Written by KC Orcutt