what happened to big boi and andre 3000

Cover story: Outkast

Revisit The FADER's 2000 interview with Big Boi and Andre 3000 ahead of this week's episode of The FADER Uncovered with Mark Ronson.

Finally the sun came up.

Outside the morning has a dewy cling that just the South knows. Soon everything is serenity, the photographer has packed up his equipment, clothes accept been put back on, doors have been slammed and the SUVs and the Benz SLKs driven away, leaving only you to rub your eyes and wonder what the fuck simply happened in the span of eighteen hours.

Large Boi and Andre are OutKast and they travel in a realm of magic realism they call Stankonia. S-T-A-N-K-O-North-I-A. It'due south a place where the weed is purple and the greens and blues of a strippers apparel all of a sudden match the colour of the early morning time heaven and the pino tops of the Georgia woods. In Stankonia searing electrical guitar solos run across the godsong of the Morris Brownish College choir, and when studio tapes are flipped and run backwards, a dissimilar music emerges.

Stankonia is where they got they funk from.

Simply kickoff, are you experienced? Uh, have you ever been... experienced? Yous, with your conscious rappers and Black Augusts? Yous, with your headwrap, and you, with your backpack? You, with your getting-it, and you with your 360 degrees of hip-hop? Accept you ever been knock-kneed, mind-blown, zooted and looted, all funked upwards and no place to go?

OUT IN THE Land, PAST FAYETTEVILLE, GEORGIA

The affair virtually Big Boi's business firm is that inside it he has a Boom Nail Room, and the thing about the Boom Boom Room is that there'south a stage in the corner. The stage isn't big, maybe iii feet by three feet, but the surface is mirrored and there's a pole in the middle that reaches to the ceiling.

In fact, the stage is so small that you really don't notice it's at that place until one of the women gets off the couch and starts to dance around the pole. Except that it'southward non really dancing, just a repetitive boring-mo gyration suggesting ennui. No one'southward really watching her and she's not dancing for anybody else, a caged bird needing no listener to sing its song.

On the other side of the Boom Nail Room, several more women languish on low-slung couches. They all accept names in which Ys supercede Is— Chyna and Kym. At the bar, more than of OutKast'southward Earthtone crew— Slimm, C-Bone, DJ and Nathaniel are making headway on a gallon of Hennessy and more than a couple of blunts. Unmastered tracks from OutKast's upcoming album blast from the stereo organisation.

A lot of shit is talked in the Boom Blast Room, just most of the chat remains unspoken. lt's like any foreign land in that way, men and women acting out roles that are diffcult to sympathize when observed from the straight world. The simply thing to practice is go along upwards, continue your optics open, and try not to pass out in that chair in the kitchen.

Downstairs in the garage the photographer is still shooting in a race against sunrise.

"I do this all the time," says Large Boi, leaning upwardly against his mint Cadillac. Shutter clicks. The machine is a pale cheddar with imperial iridescence, and there is pride in his voice when he calls it his Paddymelt. "Really, this what we doing tonight? I dear this type of shit. Little go-togethers at the crib, with the fellas and some hoes. It's just fun, y'all know?"

At iv:37am a few of the women come downward from the Boom Smash Room. In various stages of undress, they pose in and on the Paddymelt. "This is how we made the album," continues Big Boi. "While we were working on this anthology we would practice this iii or iv nights a week. Every time nosotros finished at the studio, we'd head to the house. From 4 in the morning time 'til ii the next afternoon, merely kickin' it."

Twelve hours before everything was understandable: OutKast, a new album, a photograph shoot, an interview. In and out; no ane gets hurt. But now the moment has taken on a timelessness, a surrealism that threatens to steal it all away to a land of no return.

Andre has fallen silent, leading but Big Boi holding the lifeline. "Stankonia is whatever'due south the funkiest shit ever," he explains, lucid. 'It could be that purple, or that funky-ass music."

And the lensman clicks away.

A RAINY Night IN GEORGIA

It's been storming for hours.

Andre is driving. But fifty-fifty as he watches the route and directs his Land Rover or whatever towards Big Boi's house in the woods, his eyes accept turned inwards and his heed has moved in another management, past the other side of the game. This is when he conjures most the man from Electric Ladyland. More than than the headband or the mixed metaphors of his clothing, its the occasional deplorable, faraway look in his optics that reminds you of Hendrix, a sense of being young and world-weary at the same time.

"The funk is basically freedom," he says, not real heavy on it, just kind of remember-ing aloud. "The funk is not a certain sound or a certain way yous dress or a certain look. Something tin sound funky or look funky, just my opinion of the funk is a certain freedom that started style back in Africa. But we don't want to make information technology no big racial issue or no shit like that."

That'south because the Promised Land of Funk is an uncharted area of electro-magnetic technicolor modulations, and existence Afrocentric alone might not qualify you for the trip. This probably explains why the roadside of such a pilgrimage is littered with DAT cassettes, gold records and backup bands with shallow pockets. Rhyming—or writing—well-nigh the funk without ever having gone at that place is pointless, like feeling the heat without lament virtually the humidity.

"I guess nosotros're talking almost an individual freedom," he says, post-obit the thread a picayune deeper. "Finding that gateway that opens you upwardly, that frees you upwards mentally so yous won't be stuck in a... a... I don't desire to say a corporate mindstate, but more like a trained mindstate, Like, you grew upward a certain manner. Y'all're used to doing something a certain mode: you're used to hearing the music a certain way, y'all're used to moving, dressing, walking, talking a sure way But when you're trying to tap into something new, I know doing the same thing ain't gonna get it."

The same goes for both musical onanism and journalistic syllogism. A finger pointing at the moon is not the moon, but the funk even resists such user-friendly, Zen-for-hire didactic. Ultimately, you just have to go forth for the ride.

The rain didn't let up for awhile, and the darkness drew even closer.

HOW BIG BOI LIKES TO SPEND HIS Fourth dimension

At the Gentlemen'due south Social club, the women keep their shoes on, but that's about it. "Go back and write almost this," laughs Big Boi. He's clearly enjoying the fact that he just bought a $10 lap trip the light fantastic toe for an out-of-town author, even if the dancer has the confront of a time to come loftier school librarian. This woman, the dancer, does the sorts of things that, even at that moment, clearly will not make it into the narrative of the evening'southward events.

As far as shake joints go, Gentlemen's is pretty centre of the road. The clientele is typical, ranging from old pimps to immature hustlers. There'south a soul food menu to order from, but the drinks at the bar taste similar gasoline. The music isn't funky hither— it'due south mainly standard ATL booty guild fair but the air is. And information technology'due south the air that goes directly to the head.

A modern-day mankind bazaar with xx or then naked women walking effectually is an unlikely identify for an emancipation proclamation. But even within Gentlemen's the theme of liberty comes up again, and although the lines between freedom and liberator are blurry, someone's always ready to bear witness.

"Run into, we complimentary," says C-Os, summing upwardly the scene. "This is how nosotros practice." OutKast'southward hype human is waxing on liberty from where he stands, at the bar. He does so the way the other brothers do, leaving out the exclamation points in favor of stressing entire words, and hitting vowels the fashion chrome rims sound in a pothole. And with the first person plural, he ways non only the men, just the women.

"These hoes respect us, because we respect them," he says, gesturing to a group of dancers. "You gotta respect yo sistas." The dancers can't hear what he'south running down because Gentlemen'south is loud with laughter of varying pitch, just a few of them grinning and nod their heads, either in agreement or to the crush of the haul music.

"See, it own't necessary to accept hoes effectually only to fuck them hoes," explains Big Boi, before heading for the door. "I like to have hoes as friends. I like to accept hoes effectually me, 'cause I similar their company."

The women at Gentlemen's similar his company, too. During the couple of hours spent at their all-purpose hangout, a steady stream of dancers visit with both Dre and Big Boi, making small talk and giving why-own't-yous-chosen-me looks at the same time.

Around 2am eight of the sistas from Gentlemen's hop into their luxury cars to join the caravan leaving for Large Boi'southward house.

THE DREAMLIFE OF ANDRE 3000 (a).

The showtime dream was maybe a year ago. I was going to a candylady's house in the projects. A candylady is a woman who sells candy, gum, chips and stuff similar that out of her flat in the projects. I knocked on the door and she opened it up, and I walked around the corner and Prince was sitting at her kitchen table or something like that.

He said, Hey homo, whats goin" on?

And I said Nothin'.

And he said, Hey, yous don't remember me?

And I said, Naw.

And he said, You don't remember med I useta hang with your cousin Travis.

And my cousin Travis was the ane that introduced me to Prince when I was really, really young. He played the offset sexual activity songs and shit, you lot know what i'm maxim? He was like a real playboy blazon nigga in school—you know, this nigga useta vesture eyeliner to schoolhouse and shit. It wasn't on no gay shit, it was some existent '80s fresh prep shit. And I'm similar damn, this shit hither is real fly, the emotion Prince had with it. It was tough to me.

So he said that and I was about to walk out, but the deplorable matter virtually it was that he was there to buy drugs from the candylady. He was a junkie. Only I read that Prince, he don't do no drugs at all. So that'south kinda funny to me.

THE DREAMLIFE OF ANDRE 3000 (b).

The second dream was about Jimi Hendrix.

We were sitting at this table. I was sitting across from him, and he was asking me, Who were your guitar influences? And I said, Well, the song that actually made me desire to play was Funkadelic's "Maggot Brain". I didn't know how to play or nothin', but I useta do it with my oral cavity—do the notes with my mouth—I just wanted to do that shit, you know?

Anyway, Jimi was like, That'southward real cool, but what you need to do is check out James Brownish's rhythm guitar player, Jimmy 'Chank" Nolen. He said, Check that out.

The matter is, I had never heard of Jimmy Nolen earlier. I had never even heard his proper name. And so the whole dream came down to the role where I was going to inquire him why? Why did he want me to check this out? I never got to that so I was sort of pissed off about that.

Somebody told me Santana talks to him every night. And Erykah said she talked to Tupac.

PROLOGUE: CONFERENCE ROOM AT ARISTA RECORDS, NYC

It's i of those things where a record label buys some sandwiches and some Snapple for some hip-hop journalists or whatever it is they hate to be chosen these days, in order to introduce those journalist to a new anthology from an creative person or group on said label. They never have ice for the Snapple.

The anthology is OutKast's upcoming Stankonia, and the grouping'south managing director, Blue, starts to explicate some shit about "taking the listener on a musical journey..." He stops, and so starts over because some journalists arrive on hip-hop time. And so Blue starts in about taking the listener on a musical journey or any but this apologia is rapidly forgotten once the tracks begin, mainly considering from jump Stankonia is far more than that—a musical journey or whatever, which sounds about as exciing as taking the final train to Clarkseville—no, it is abundantly clear this anthology is nothing less than an experience, a jones coming downwardly, a getting high for the first time all once more, a real heavy digging on or getting dug out, equal parts psychedelic and street, real and surreal, thugged out and trapped out, in all the connotations of that loaded give-and-take, a bona fucking fide feel.

The demand to hear it again is like the demand to exist John Malkovich, but that'south all you're afforded, that one listen, the album isn't even mastered however, plus they still need to finish the skits. Oh. So there you are out on 57th St, irrevocably turned out and stuttering, stricken with glossolalia and stumbling from the record company your bottom two vertebrae twisted out, not giving a fuck about all the shit you have to practice before tomorrow, when you hop a plane to ATL for the interview.

And thinking, yous take to be stone crazy insane or incredibly brave to become to some strange new land, to say zilch of sticking a flag in information technology when you get there. Go some identify different and they won't believe y'all when y'all get back. People still say the moon landing was a hoax.

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Source: https://www.thefader.com/2021/11/15/cover-story-outkast-2000

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