The Big Dawgs of the New South
What kind of rappers wrestle swine in their videos and boast of "ballin' on a budget"? The country kind. Bubba Sparxxx, Petey Pablo, Nappy Roots and others are taking rural rap off the front porch and onto the Top 40.
by Peter Rubin

Open the atlas to the map of the hip-hop nation and play connect the dots: Start in the Bronx and backspin through New York's other boroughs. Hit Chicago, South Central, Oakland and Houston. Miami, New Orleans and Atlanta. But that ain't all, because you still need to drive an hour south to the outskirts of LaGrange Georgia, where Bubba Sparxxx cut his teeth on New York mix tapes at his next door neighbor's--a half-mile away. Then amble down to Albany, Georgia. just off the Florida panhandle town so sleepy, says Smoke from Field Mob, "you can walk into a club and see the VIP section from the front door." Swing west to Mississippi and feel the thunder in David Banner's voice when he speaks of his long-suffering state, "the place," he says, "your grandparents are scared to come." Head to Greenville, North Carolina, where Petey Pablo is setting fire to the Tarheel State like a blow-torch in a tobacco field. Jump in your heavy Chevy and take your sweet-ass time heading to Kentucky to link up with Nappy Roots, the proudest country boys to go platinum since Lynyrd Skynyrd. The star maps are being redrawn: The homes of the new hip-hop are way off the avenue past the main road, out where the sidewalk ends.

Beyond the gold-and-platinumscape of Atlanta and New Orleans is a steadily growing crop of southern artists w ho are shaking off the small-town stigma and carving a new musical aesthetic--a rural renewal etched in dirt and grass, not brick and concrete. Over the past few years, Sparxxx, Pablo and Nappy Roots have all had gold or platinum debuts, and like the green-sky promise of a summer storm, their sophomore efforts are now gathering on the horizon. "Roun' the Globe," the leadoff single on Nappy Roots' new CD, Wooden Leather, expounds their homespun pride, letting everyone know "the whole damn world is country." In other words, Mason-Dixon ain't a line; it's a state of mind.

So let's get a handle on this-hurr sound. Because what is country, anyway? It's not just southern; folks from Atlanta might talk a li'l country, but they ain't country like fighting pit bulls in your uncle Fred's field or your mama lockin' you out the house on a long summer day. Country is flip-flops and socks. It's where the accent's a little deeper, where your record is named, as Field Mob's is, for the way folks in your zip code eat their pig--from the roota to the toota. It's hearing your homegrown patois bubbling up to heavy rotation, thanks to Nelly and the hard-R proclamations Missy Elliott purred on last year's "Work It." Hip-hop's vernacular is under construction. Now the hottest club is the one that gets the crunkest; the realest cats are trill, and the finest girls ain't dimepieces or even shorties, they're shawties. "We went to Chicago," says Field Mob's Smoke, "and our lingo was enough for them, dawg. People just wanted to be around us. They didn't even know who Field Mob was; they just liked the way we talk."

New York B-boys and West Coast DJs might be slingin' slang like Dixie dawgs, but the new country pride goes far beyond the lingua franca; what's striking about the new breed is the unmediated love these guys feel for their stomping grounds. While big-city rappers spend a compulsory verse bemoaning urban existence, their small- town counterparts engage their surroundings completely- rednecks, kudzu and all. It's sometimes hard-earned and bitter, but beneath it lies a common nostalgia for a pastoral life. Comin' up in the woods, all I did was run barefoot, B. Stille of Nappy Roots says in "Ballin' on a Budget, " Proust had his madeleine; Nappy Roots have their beloved Kentucky mud and their old raggedy jeans. * * *

When Southern hip-hop first hit the national stage, it was Eightball & MJG from Memphis and Houston's Geto Boys kicking down the door. But that was the street side of the South, the hood side; there was still no one speaking for all the people who lived in between the cities. For Nappy Roots' Skinny Deville, coming up country meant you wore-and listened to-the hand- me-downs of the northeastern cities. "We got used to getting shit two fashion cycles behind," he says. "No southern artist was reppin' on MTV or BET." Then, in the early '90s, along came OutKast, and the South did rise again. Dre and Big Boi might not have been from the country, but they were the first to speak of a life many lived but never heard. "OutKast was talkin' 'bout some South shit,"says Deville. "Laid-back, cool, big Cadillacs and smokin' weed. That was the same shit that we was goin' through. We was like, Damn, that's almost refreshin'."

After that, the dam splintered quickly; it was a foregone conclusion that kids from the backwoods would grab the mike and bring their own experience to the forefront. As Sparxxx says, "It just had to happen sooner or later. You can't expect us to go out and buy these records and not wanna use that forum to tell people about our lives and what we've seen."

Earlier regional eruptions distinguished themselves with distinctive production trends-the frenetic bounce of Miami's bass scene, the whining synths snaking through California g-funk--the country side of things is a more schizoid sonic existence. Bubba Sparxxx's new album, Deliverance, might get folksy with harmonicas and fiddle riffs, whereas "Twang," off the upcoming Nappy Roots joint, tweaks a plucked cello to evoke Far Eastern strings. Every place is the sum of its influences, and so the good ol' boys of the New South spin hip-hop the way they learned it--coming from everywhere.

At its core, country is about starting small. Because small towns make big dreams, big dreams give way to big talk, and reaching out to grab a piece of the rap game is about the biggest talk there is. It's not like small places have smaller problems; this might be the crunkest place on earth, but it's also the birthplace of the blues. The same frustrations that moved Robert Johnson's fingers over his guitar strings compress rappers' lungs in a land where the Rebel flag still flies on many lawns. As Smoke of Field Mob says, "You still got the redneck down there callin' you boy, and you cain't do nuttin' 'bout it." It's why David Banner opens his startling Mississippi: The Album with a growled invective: Slavery. Discrimination. This is what came outta all that pain. "When I scream Mississippi," he explains, "I think about the fact that my great-great- uncle was hung from a tree. My love for Mississippi has been earned by blood."

Add the love to the pain. Put it all together and it's an ideal equation for reinvigorating the rap game. When nihilism and sybaritic party anthems become stultifying, someone's got to bring urgency, exuberance. And while small-town life can be hard, it really is good.