In 'Ridin' Dirty,' UGK Created Their Perfect Album
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 3, 2016 AT 5 A.M.
BY BRANDON CALDWELL
Facebook
349
The most important speech of 1996 was not delivered at a political convention.It was not delivered by a public figure; rather, it was a fictional public figure. It was Bill Pullman, as President Thomas Whitmore in Independence Day, who delivered the rallying cry of my childhood. Surrounded by impossible odds, a destroyed White House and looking in the face of Will Smith among others, Whitmore had to rally not just the troops but the world itself. The most important line of his speech comes around the middle; it’s centered around a state of being: “We are fighting for our right to live, to exist.”
The second most important speech of 1996 came below the Mason-Dixon line. It was not from a Hollywood set, but came from a man who probably inspired just as many troops as Whitmore did. This man broached a topic that felt as right for him as it did the rest of the world: respect. It was delivered with fury; measured anger and a calculated drawl. While President Whitmore had the urging of Americana backing his words and diction, this speech had funky guitar loops born from spaghetti westerns, New Orleans’ bounce whistles and snare drums.
“Well it’s Pimp C bytch, so what the fukk is up?”
In rap terms, UGK’s Ridin’ Dirty was all about fighting for the right to exist, for which there was no louder moment than Pimp C and Bun B’s opening refrain from “Murder,” There is no chorus, just pure rapping from Chad Butler and Bernard Freeman. They ran their seminal third album like a presidential campaign; only both of them could have traded between President and Vice President on any given day. At different times, Ridin' Dirty can be somber, being honest, being funky and the perfect soundtrack to a blaxploitation film.
It may not be the greatest rap album the South has ever produced, but it's one of them. It is, however, the greatest album UGK ever produced, the perfect meeting point of Pimp C’s creativity and Bun B's increased presence as a dominant MC. It’s a pioneering record for a number of reasons: one of the first to use ProTools, the first national mention of drank (ESG's mention on "Swang & Bang" was far more of a regional milieu in '95), candy paint and other bits of Houston car culture, and more.
Pimp is far more beloved because of his sheer presence and personality; Bun for delivering the most unforgiving rap verse the South ever produced and being a proud elder statesmen, professor and occasional political-party convention attendee. Ridin' Dirty saw Pimp and Bun as equals, unique geniuses who did what made them great better than what others did to make them great. And it meant something to both.
Much of Pimp C’s production was tied to conviction and belief. He believed that Willie Hutch meant as much to Southern producers as James Brown did to Marley Marl and others. That the sounds of Stax, Hutch, Chaka Khan and Wes Montgomery had a say in the boom-bap that dominated the sample-based records out of New York or Los Angeles. To him, those records were the basis for country rap tunes, Southern-fried production tied together by life experiences and bloated egos. If it felt like the ‘70s to Pimp and could be soundtracked to The Mack, it fit into his thinking in regards to making a beat.
DJ Premier, despite being born in Houston and educated at Prairie View A&M, is central to New York-style production, which ultimately became synonymous with an entire region. Cut-up vocal samples became his trademark. Dr. Dre merged the sounds of New Jersey-born Parliament-Funkadelic and stylized West Coast funk to create G-Funk, funk’s far more brooding stepchild with heavier drums. This is central to the creation of Ridin’ Dirty, because the sound of hip-hop in 1996 was morphing and expanding. Car culture had been attributed to the growth of hip-hop in Los Angeles and especially in the South. If the drums were tweaked just enough and the synths sparkled then it became part of the riding experience. “I made this for the nikkas tryin' ta chop in they cars,” Pimp would say years later on “Choppin’ Blades." It was all he wanted his music to do — to travel around the world and to be understood.
By 1995 and going into 1996, Pimp felt dissatisfied with the industry as a whole. The moment Andre 3000 made it clear “The South Got Sumthin' to Say” at the 1995 Source Awards, the seeds were planted for every other rapper from the South to follow suit. UGK had already created the blueprint for dopeboys who never aspired to mafioso status; humanizing the need to sell for the sake of daily survival. However, it didn’t register the same way it should have across the country. Two rappers from the oil town of Port Arthur were looked at and shrugged off. Jive Records had switched A&Rs and pushed Bun and Chad to work in Jive’s Battery Studios in Chicago with live instrumentation; UGK’s manager, Mama Wes, ultimately told them the records they made in Chicago were “boo boo." "The worst shyt I heard in my life,” she told Julia Beverly in Sweet Jones: Pimp C’s Trill Life Story. It was certain that everything had to be done at home, regardless if Jive Records started treating them like important regional rap stars.
Here’s the constant about home— it brings out the best and worst in you. It’s a comfort zone, an embryo that not only nurtures you it can also take away from you. Home is also where you hear stories about the best of your friends and the worst of them. The stories of home, the internal struggle in regards to relationships and friends became the opening sonnet of “One Day,” a song I used to revile as a child because of what it meant to people.
As a kid, I hated funerals. I still loathe them to this day, as my body won’t allow me to emotionally release. So whenever I snuck a copy of my uncle’s UGK cassette, I couldn’t wait to get past the end of “One Day." It didn’t matter if I knew that Ronnie Spencer was doing the greatest imitation Ronald Isley he possibly could. Or that Chad and producer N.O. Joe had smartly tied the Isley’s “Ain’t I Been Good to You?”, a song about the loss of requited love. Mr. 3-2, the former Rap-A-Lot stalwart and a man Bun B credits for improving his rapping throughout Ridin’ Dirty, batted leadoff and it feels like the world is about to collapse on itself when Bun reminisces about friends from Short, Texas dead over the most trivial of things. He’s scrapping the well of paranoia so far that he thinks going to jail after his brother is released will be a reality. And Chad God is the anchor leg of “One Day,” such a devastating reminder of life’s fragility. He’s clutching AK-47 magazine loaders and questioning God why bad things happen to good people. The December 1995 house fire that claimed the life of Bo Bo Luchiano’s son is the final testament of how incredibly powerful yet fukked up “One Day” is. To have it segue into a bout of realized anger is mesmerizing.
Some levity is brought on by “Pinky Ring,” a guitar-tweaked discussion of pimp life and living with the inflated sense of being a player. It’s the album’s first mention of Houston car culture, which UGK had steeped themselves in once they began hanging at DJ Screw’s house. No one had discussed elbows, ‘84s’ and candy paint on a national rap album before Ridin’ Dirty. Screw’s 3 In Tha Mornin’ Pt. 2 had come out earlier in 1996, but Big Tyme Records' distribution was dwarfed by Jive's. To some, the first mention of the word “slab” came from UGK. It was on purpose.
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 3, 2016 AT 5 A.M.
BY BRANDON CALDWELL
349
The most important speech of 1996 was not delivered at a political convention.It was not delivered by a public figure; rather, it was a fictional public figure. It was Bill Pullman, as President Thomas Whitmore in Independence Day, who delivered the rallying cry of my childhood. Surrounded by impossible odds, a destroyed White House and looking in the face of Will Smith among others, Whitmore had to rally not just the troops but the world itself. The most important line of his speech comes around the middle; it’s centered around a state of being: “We are fighting for our right to live, to exist.”
The second most important speech of 1996 came below the Mason-Dixon line. It was not from a Hollywood set, but came from a man who probably inspired just as many troops as Whitmore did. This man broached a topic that felt as right for him as it did the rest of the world: respect. It was delivered with fury; measured anger and a calculated drawl. While President Whitmore had the urging of Americana backing his words and diction, this speech had funky guitar loops born from spaghetti westerns, New Orleans’ bounce whistles and snare drums.
“Well it’s Pimp C bytch, so what the fukk is up?”
In rap terms, UGK’s Ridin’ Dirty was all about fighting for the right to exist, for which there was no louder moment than Pimp C and Bun B’s opening refrain from “Murder,” There is no chorus, just pure rapping from Chad Butler and Bernard Freeman. They ran their seminal third album like a presidential campaign; only both of them could have traded between President and Vice President on any given day. At different times, Ridin' Dirty can be somber, being honest, being funky and the perfect soundtrack to a blaxploitation film.
It may not be the greatest rap album the South has ever produced, but it's one of them. It is, however, the greatest album UGK ever produced, the perfect meeting point of Pimp C’s creativity and Bun B's increased presence as a dominant MC. It’s a pioneering record for a number of reasons: one of the first to use ProTools, the first national mention of drank (ESG's mention on "Swang & Bang" was far more of a regional milieu in '95), candy paint and other bits of Houston car culture, and more.
Pimp is far more beloved because of his sheer presence and personality; Bun for delivering the most unforgiving rap verse the South ever produced and being a proud elder statesmen, professor and occasional political-party convention attendee. Ridin' Dirty saw Pimp and Bun as equals, unique geniuses who did what made them great better than what others did to make them great. And it meant something to both.
Much of Pimp C’s production was tied to conviction and belief. He believed that Willie Hutch meant as much to Southern producers as James Brown did to Marley Marl and others. That the sounds of Stax, Hutch, Chaka Khan and Wes Montgomery had a say in the boom-bap that dominated the sample-based records out of New York or Los Angeles. To him, those records were the basis for country rap tunes, Southern-fried production tied together by life experiences and bloated egos. If it felt like the ‘70s to Pimp and could be soundtracked to The Mack, it fit into his thinking in regards to making a beat.
DJ Premier, despite being born in Houston and educated at Prairie View A&M, is central to New York-style production, which ultimately became synonymous with an entire region. Cut-up vocal samples became his trademark. Dr. Dre merged the sounds of New Jersey-born Parliament-Funkadelic and stylized West Coast funk to create G-Funk, funk’s far more brooding stepchild with heavier drums. This is central to the creation of Ridin’ Dirty, because the sound of hip-hop in 1996 was morphing and expanding. Car culture had been attributed to the growth of hip-hop in Los Angeles and especially in the South. If the drums were tweaked just enough and the synths sparkled then it became part of the riding experience. “I made this for the nikkas tryin' ta chop in they cars,” Pimp would say years later on “Choppin’ Blades." It was all he wanted his music to do — to travel around the world and to be understood.
By 1995 and going into 1996, Pimp felt dissatisfied with the industry as a whole. The moment Andre 3000 made it clear “The South Got Sumthin' to Say” at the 1995 Source Awards, the seeds were planted for every other rapper from the South to follow suit. UGK had already created the blueprint for dopeboys who never aspired to mafioso status; humanizing the need to sell for the sake of daily survival. However, it didn’t register the same way it should have across the country. Two rappers from the oil town of Port Arthur were looked at and shrugged off. Jive Records had switched A&Rs and pushed Bun and Chad to work in Jive’s Battery Studios in Chicago with live instrumentation; UGK’s manager, Mama Wes, ultimately told them the records they made in Chicago were “boo boo." "The worst shyt I heard in my life,” she told Julia Beverly in Sweet Jones: Pimp C’s Trill Life Story. It was certain that everything had to be done at home, regardless if Jive Records started treating them like important regional rap stars.
Here’s the constant about home— it brings out the best and worst in you. It’s a comfort zone, an embryo that not only nurtures you it can also take away from you. Home is also where you hear stories about the best of your friends and the worst of them. The stories of home, the internal struggle in regards to relationships and friends became the opening sonnet of “One Day,” a song I used to revile as a child because of what it meant to people.
As a kid, I hated funerals. I still loathe them to this day, as my body won’t allow me to emotionally release. So whenever I snuck a copy of my uncle’s UGK cassette, I couldn’t wait to get past the end of “One Day." It didn’t matter if I knew that Ronnie Spencer was doing the greatest imitation Ronald Isley he possibly could. Or that Chad and producer N.O. Joe had smartly tied the Isley’s “Ain’t I Been Good to You?”, a song about the loss of requited love. Mr. 3-2, the former Rap-A-Lot stalwart and a man Bun B credits for improving his rapping throughout Ridin’ Dirty, batted leadoff and it feels like the world is about to collapse on itself when Bun reminisces about friends from Short, Texas dead over the most trivial of things. He’s scrapping the well of paranoia so far that he thinks going to jail after his brother is released will be a reality. And Chad God is the anchor leg of “One Day,” such a devastating reminder of life’s fragility. He’s clutching AK-47 magazine loaders and questioning God why bad things happen to good people. The December 1995 house fire that claimed the life of Bo Bo Luchiano’s son is the final testament of how incredibly powerful yet fukked up “One Day” is. To have it segue into a bout of realized anger is mesmerizing.
Some levity is brought on by “Pinky Ring,” a guitar-tweaked discussion of pimp life and living with the inflated sense of being a player. It’s the album’s first mention of Houston car culture, which UGK had steeped themselves in once they began hanging at DJ Screw’s house. No one had discussed elbows, ‘84s’ and candy paint on a national rap album before Ridin’ Dirty. Screw’s 3 In Tha Mornin’ Pt. 2 had come out earlier in 1996, but Big Tyme Records' distribution was dwarfed by Jive's. To some, the first mention of the word “slab” came from UGK. It was on purpose.
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RIP CHAD
