And so begins the debut song from four survivors of the so-called war on drugs, who at once detail Black folks' complicity in trafficking, abuse and glorification of illicit crime, declaim any confidence in governmental intervention and refuse to succumb to imminent doom and gloom on the hallowed ground they would famously dub "the Dirty South." In fact, as CeeLo Green, T-Mo and Big Gipp join the phantasmagoria with confessions and observations, they dare to weave a host of Orwellian conspiracy theories for a class-stratified nation too busy to care, decrying the nightmarish corruption and surveillance, historical and present day, that's dependent upon Black communities' implosion and self-destruction.
Holle'n they got rank." Surely, not even Scorsese and his whitewashed Taxi Driver lens could make Goodie Mob founding member Khujo's vision any less horrific. Reporting to you live from "the traps" of "the city too busy to hate," a voice, like buckshot, breaks the ragged silence, only to unsettle you further with 28 words so at war with the 16 counts they fall within that you know you'll never see Atlanta's longtime slogan or hear Southern hip-hop the same again: "When. or even a Miami Beach rumpshakin' set with Uncle Luke. Then the keys add an even lower D and A pattern in the mix with an unassuming drum-and-bass line that lets you know you're not in Hollywood on Elm Street the Bronx projects riot-riven, post- Boyz n the Hood South Central L.A.
A psychedelic guitar lick frets, no, chokes a note for five supple seconds to trip you out, seeming to signal that Jimi Hendrix and Freddy Krueger are back from the dead, the latter surely to shank you. A pianist taps out a low D and a syncopated D-minor blues chord.
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