Goodie Mob songs down, Organized Noize would put a song up and one of us would just listen to it and jump on it. Not CeeLo. He would listen to it, and then he’d rearrange it and tell us all what to do. He was always the one to ask the question, and then he was also the one to give the answer. I never got involved in that, but CeeLo always took it upon himself to make whatever he was doing better. He put songs in a kind of storybook lineup so that they added up to say something, to tell a story, to make the music a journey. That’s what he does, and he does it better than anyone else I’ve ever seen. And he did it with soul and style. It was like he was arranging a meal, and it all had to work together and it all had to taste good. He was busy making something out of nothing, and I think that’s the story of CeeLo’s life. The story of his life is taking something that nobody may even see the beauty of, seeing what it can really do, and being the one who’s always able to take it and shine it up and make it seem like a brand-new toy.
Goodie Mob went out on our first tour opening up for the Roots and the Fugees, and that’s when my relationshipwith Lauryn Hill began. I felt a powerful connection with her immediately. We’re both Geminis, the same age. Lauryn’s birthday was the same as Dré’s, and mine was two days later. She’s very nurturing, comes across like family. So we were just like brother and sister, although I confess that I once thought she could have been my soul mate. She saw something in me that I may not have recognized for myself. This was right before I met my future wife, Christine, and for a moment, I thought Lauryn was going to be my queen, the love of my life. True confession: I loved Lauryn Hill. I wanted to marry her, and I thought she was made just for me. That didn’t happen, but we still got to have a great friendship that ended up making a big difference in my life.
When we signed with LaFace Records, they gave us a check for $20,000—$5,000 each. Even after our first album was out, Goodie Mob’s financial reality didn’t change that much. But I was cool with that, I didn’t even want massive success all that much. The truth is that being famous was never my dream. I wanted something constructive to do with my life, have a real purpose in the world. I was more preoccupied with being an activist than with being some kind of superstar.
So I talked. A lot. Touring for our first album, I would do fifteen minutes of dialogue onstage. I was preaching, basically because to me it really was the family business. I was also trying my best to explain the music. I didn’t think the
Soul Food
album was all that enjoyable, honestly. I thought it was listenable and high quality, but itsure wasn’t one of those “put your hands in the air like you don’t care” party albums. At this time we were deadly serious about the music because we were soldiering, trying to solidify the South as someplace worthy of respect in hip-hop. So we went out on the front lines to make sure that we were respected—that we were counted. That’s all it was about for me in those days. We had a mission and a purpose. Right there, right then, we wanted to forever abolish the stereotypes about Southern rap—that it was less meaningful and political and relevant than the music coming from New York or Los Angeles.
I think it’s pretty shameful that some of the Southern artists who followed us have reinstated certain old stereotypes. But back then we were four Southern guys with a mission, and we were carrying a whole lot on our backs, and in a way it weighed us down at the time.
L.A. Reid from LaFace Records thought we were taking ourselves too seriously. One time when we were back from the road he had us over to his house. “You’re young guys!” he said. “Why so serious all the time? Ain’t you getting no pussy?”
Our second Goodie Mob album called
Still Standing
was an easier process for me. The four
Goodie Mob went out on our first tour opening up for the Roots and the Fugees, and that’s when my relationshipwith Lauryn Hill began. I felt a powerful connection with her immediately. We’re both Geminis, the same age. Lauryn’s birthday was the same as Dré’s, and mine was two days later. She’s very nurturing, comes across like family. So we were just like brother and sister, although I confess that I once thought she could have been my soul mate. She saw something in me that I may not have recognized for myself. This was right before I met my future wife, Christine, and for a moment, I thought Lauryn was going to be my queen, the love of my life. True confession: I loved Lauryn Hill. I wanted to marry her, and I thought she was made just for me. That didn’t happen, but we still got to have a great friendship that ended up making a big difference in my life.
When we signed with LaFace Records, they gave us a check for $20,000—$5,000 each. Even after our first album was out, Goodie Mob’s financial reality didn’t change that much. But I was cool with that, I didn’t even want massive success all that much. The truth is that being famous was never my dream. I wanted something constructive to do with my life, have a real purpose in the world. I was more preoccupied with being an activist than with being some kind of superstar.
So I talked. A lot. Touring for our first album, I would do fifteen minutes of dialogue onstage. I was preaching, basically because to me it really was the family business. I was also trying my best to explain the music. I didn’t think the
Soul Food
album was all that enjoyable, honestly. I thought it was listenable and high quality, but itsure wasn’t one of those “put your hands in the air like you don’t care” party albums. At this time we were deadly serious about the music because we were soldiering, trying to solidify the South as someplace worthy of respect in hip-hop. So we went out on the front lines to make sure that we were respected—that we were counted. That’s all it was about for me in those days. We had a mission and a purpose. Right there, right then, we wanted to forever abolish the stereotypes about Southern rap—that it was less meaningful and political and relevant than the music coming from New York or Los Angeles.
I think it’s pretty shameful that some of the Southern artists who followed us have reinstated certain old stereotypes. But back then we were four Southern guys with a mission, and we were carrying a whole lot on our backs, and in a way it weighed us down at the time.
L.A. Reid from LaFace Records thought we were taking ourselves too seriously. One time when we were back from the road he had us over to his house. “You’re young guys!” he said. “Why so serious all the time? Ain’t you getting no pussy?”
Our second Goodie Mob album called
Still Standing
was an easier process for me. The four
Similar Books
