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Luke Campbell

Bass and Booty

ONE SPRING evening at the Atlanta airport, I find myself stalking Luke Campbell. This is my first attempt to ambush someone, in a journalistic capacity or otherwise, and I don’t think I’m cut out for it.

You probably know Luke’s group the 2 Live Crew and their song “Me So Horny,” off the 1989 As Nasty As They Wanna Be album, which local authorities deemed obscene. The subsequent free-speech battle went all the way to the Supreme Court.

Luke’s a polarizing figure, and you may find him contemptible, what with his porn company, lewd stage shows, and songs like, “Head, Head, and More Head.” Still, he’s the undisputed godfather of southern rap music, and I’ve long been trying to talk to him. Tonight he’s slated to perform at a Mexican restaurant in Athens— seventy miles east—and I plan to be there. On the trip over, I’m hoping we can knock out an interview.

The only problem is that I don’t exactly have a scheduled appointment. A couple of months back he said he’d talk to me, but then stopped taking my phone calls. I’ve since gotten in touch with his booking agent, who said Luke should be able to meet up with me here in Georgia. But after informing me that Luke’s Fort Lauderdale flight lands at 7:30, the booking agent dropped off the face as well.

Let me tell you: stalking isn’t as easy as it sounds. For one thing, two Fort Lauderdale planes land at 7:30, one Delta and one AirTran, and each deposits into a different terminal. And so I decide to plant myself near the baggage claim, next to a set of escalators where most passengers arrive.

I send a text message to Luke to say I’m here, but, naturally, don’t hear back. I pace. I sweat. I weigh my pros and cons.

On one hand, if I don’t talk to this guy I don’t really have a book. On the other hand, his bodyguard may tackle me.

I continue waiting. It’s about 7:40 now. I’ve rented a car here in Atlanta, but in hopes he’ll invite me to ride along with him, I’ve stashed it. For the same reason, my oversized travel bag is with me too.

Most likely, I will recognize him. In his solo videos from the 1990s, he usually wears a mischievous smile, flashing the gap in his front teeth while making filthy promises to his harem of bouncing dancers. In his 2008 VH1 reality show, Luke’s Parental Advisory, he wears a more sober expression; balancing his line of work with family is not easy, you see. Lucky for him, his wife “understands that I’m like a gynecologist. If I don’t see pussy every day, something’s wrong,” he notes.

At 7:45 he emerges, flanked by a sturdy-looking accomplice. Luke wears a small mustache and some scruff on his chin, and is clad in Adidas track pants and a University of Central Florida shirt. A middle-aged former football player, he looks and moves like an athlete, and quickly darts left toward the food court. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I take off after him, dodging between folks approaching baggage carousels.

“Luke,” I say softly, and then again, more loudly. “Luke!”

He turns. I introduce myself as the guy writing the book on southern rap he talked to a while back. “Sorry for stalking you,” I say, with a half-giggle, noting that his booking agent green-lit this meeting, which is sort of true.

“He didn’t tell me anything about that,” Luke says, turning back around.