Make Love in My Car | Episode 3: Do You Wanna Ride?
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Make Love In My Car is a regular music column by Kendra Allen. The name of the column is a reference to the song “Make Out in My Car” by Moses Sumney. The slight change in meaning is intended to amplify the camaraderie, comedy, and closeness of riding in a car with a great playlist, whether alone or with someone else. In this episode, she talks about how Nelly wrote the soundtrack to her childhood and deepened her affinity for Cadillacs.
The summer Nellyville drops, I’m waiting to go to Houston when Doll pulls up in a forest green Cadillac Coupe Deville that look like money. If he was from Dallas, it’d just be called a Slab, but either way—Doll is treating it like his baby. It’s shiny—like it’s coated with class—big-bodied, clearly new, and my cousin Breeze is in the front seat. I hear them before I see them; stand outside and wait to see where all the commotion is coming from.
It’s coming from the trunk.
And I figure Breeze must’ve been bouncing up and down in her seat the whole ride here. Our street ain’t that wide cause it’s an apartment complex and it’s 2002 which means Mama is still letting Doll in her house and it’s 2002 which means I’m going on eight and everything is on top of everything so it all feels a lil bit suffocating; the sound at least does, muffled by the speaker in the back. The car is special, but only in the way an ONLY GOD CAN JUDGE ME tattoo is. It has no real meaning, it just looks good—the feigned status of it all. But it only ever boils down to being seen. I understand this immediately and I hop in, wonder what is being played that got my heart pounding and how long it’ll take for me to memorize it. The interior is full of brown leather and I rub it down like I’m moisturizing it. When I look at my hand touching it, it almost looks as if my skin blends into it, like I’m camouflaged. Like I belong here.
“Breeze been having me listening to the same song for three hours,” Doll say. I don’t think nothing of it cause three hours with the same song on repeat been a regular day for me. I done learned how to fix the settings on my CD player to loop whatever I wanna hear back, not satisfied until I know every word, every inflection—which is why I’m so interested in what song could possibly have Breeze in a trance.
“It’s number six,” she say. I’m in the back seat and it’s almost the size of a bedroom, it’s so big I lay down; I sit up, I can’t get comfortable. I lean between them to press my finger on the button with the forward arrows until it circles back to Track 6.
Then I sit back.
Breeze assumes Pimp Juice is not only edible but purple. I can’t say she wrong because after hearing “Pimp Juice,” it makes sense why this color would accompany it. It feels royal—rich, even if I’m not the biggest fan of it.
The only thing I really know about Nelly at the time is he from St. Louis, Country Grammar was a debut, he talk funny like me, he fine as hell, I like all his songs, he wear a Band-Aid on his face and makes art with his friends. This last notion is why I initially pay attention. The year before Nellyville, some of my other cousins replayed the St. Lunatics album Free City constantly, so I had preexisting respect for Nelly. I liked that he made it a point to make space for all of his friends’ talents to exist alongside his at the height of his career. And although most of them didn’t stand out much in comparison, Murphy Lee did—and usually over Nelly. Murphy Lee just felt far ahead of the people he ran with. With his flow, his tone, and his overpowering presence on everything I heard him on had me thinking he was gonna go down as one of the greatest ever. His verses on “Air Force Ones” were some of the first I learned and analyzed bar for bar. When I’d be at the rec after school, me and my friends would rush to the swings and see who could fly the highest while we screamed the lyrics. I made sure to switch I can tell they never seen Murphy Lee before with I can tell they never seen Kendra Allen before and so on and so forth—adopting Doll’s inclination to freestyle over any beat. One of the things I could always count on in a car with him is if the song is taking too long to start, he gone rap. If it’s taking too long to end, he finna flow. If a line could be better, he finna change it. So I do the same. And even though I’m not as nice with it as he is, I’ve always craved authority, especially when it comes to what comes outta my mouth.
Then I heard Nellyville. And most importantly, I heard “Pimp Juice” right along with “Say Now” and “Splurge.” And from that point on—for a very long time—there wasn’t a rap album you could convince me was more me. It became my comfort album. Still is. Teaching me how to value style, camaraderie, and my speaking voice through the sequencing, humor, and drawl that Nelly lead with. It’s low stakes but still skillful, and also the album that jumpstarted my love of listening to a particular type of rap in particular types of cars.
One of my dream cars is an old school Cadillac, but with Bluetooth connection. A top-down situation. I’m not sure of the model, but I know it’s way older than me and I know the look when I see it. And I know if you ever find yourself in one, what’s on your Cadillac playlist is the only thing that matters. I learn this during the summer I learn about the meaning of “Pimp Juice.”
By the time we arrive back in Houston, Nelly has told me bout fifty-eleven times that “Pimp juice is anything that attracts the opposite sex.” And although this message is dated and kinda dangerous, “it can be money, fame, or straight intellect” is a hard fact. Folk be attracted to access and it’s weird but understandable. But even more than that—I learn that I love the passion that this particular type of music brings out of me. I don’t know how to name it, but it don’t take too much for me to identify it.
Most of my musical taste is inspired by hypothetically owning said car and generally holding Texas close and is ultimately inspired by the South as a whole. I know there’s Zydeco that keep you on your feet and there’s chopped and screwed that keeps you in your seat and that the latter is what you need inside of this automobile. What you choose to listen to in these moments is contingent upon desire. But it’s all so formulaic.
The formula is talking shit.
The secret is you need to be as melodic as possible as you talk yo shit.
And the production needs to be smoother than the shit you talk.
Add a melodic hook of some sort with an intro that’s kinda horror movie–like with some eerie, deafening sounds, some guitars, some horns, some type of live instrumentation—it’s all mandatory for the ride, and the bass gotta be knocking to the point of the Cadillac moving to its beat or it don’t count. You check off most of this list and boom, a Southern classic. It seems simple to replicate, but if you don’t know, then it’s gone show. I’m not sure why, but scientifically speaking, there’s nothing better. I knew that before eight.
From Outkast to UGK, a lot of Southerners love writing about being in their car, philosophizing their cars, and making worlds of their cars. Big K.R.I.T. and Isaiah Rashad—two rappers around my age—both from the South—not only make the best music for my invisible Cadillac, but take immense pride in rapping about their own cars. And not just every now and then but A LOT. From Big K.R.I.T.’s entire discography—especially his highly underappreciated album Cadillactica, an Afro-futurist concept album—and Isaiah Rashad’s Cilvia Demo, it’s apparent that just like me, they both spent a lot of time listening to the same things I listened to in cars as kids. Isaiah Rashad constantly pays homage by referencing the whole No Limit era whether in his lyrics or his song titles to sort of guide the listener on the song’s intentions. And K.R.I.T probably honors and finds power in his Southern sound more than anybody.
It’s clear that cars create cultures, and these artists are filling these cars up with soul through their specific sounds. And this culture is very specific. And if you wasn’t raised on it, it’s hard to comprehend the urge to sit in it all the time, even when the entire musical landscape is influenced by it (without acknowledging the fact). I mention the artists because it’s not only about discussing the invincibility you feel in these cars—these songs are really about the love of the South and the contentment with living and dying in it.
Nelly was the first singing non-Southern rapper who I recognized to be directly influenced by the music I grew up on and the first rapper I loved outside of all the Houston rappers I had become prone to. “Pimp Juice” was just my undeniable evidence of that influence. And I don’t mean singing in the literal sense—it’s more about manipulation of sound and tone and quiver and ultimately a better understanding of how your voice can be used in an infinite number of ways. Devin The Dude does it, Lil Wayne does it, and Missy Elliot almost invented it. These are just a few of my faves who all come from different places—Southern and otherwise—but have created experiences and personas with their music. They’re just a few of many who can say a thing and change your entire personality when you mimic it. When Nelly sings, “Cause you wanna put ya feet on my rug don’t cha?” I don’t know why, but it moves my spirit to believe I could backhand sum if I wanted to. This music for this car instills some semblance of confidence in you—at least during the duration of the track. Plus, it’s a song about sex appeal and I’m just the type of person who believes I can form sexual tension with most adults so—just like Breeze’s attraction to the song—it was immediately right up my lane. Even at eight and ugly, in my head I was like, “I could have Nelly if I really wanted to.” I truly felt that, and I think if I wanted to, I could be polygamous but the problem I keep encountering is having humans in my space for more than two to three hours at a time. But this music ain’t about who you is in reality. It can’t be. That’d be exhausting and I’d be talking exactly how Nelly talks throughout “Pimp Juice” in my actual life, like a character instead of a person—voice and all—which is probably why I’m twenty-six now and constantly say, “And I walk and I talk like a pimp cause I am.” I probably should’ve dissociated by now, but it’s about selling dreams. And I bought into the idea that I’m a hustler who can’t tell they’re tired as long as the music is on. And I still be imagining. It’s about who you—who I—know we have the potential to be.
The only other rap album that had such a hold on my young brain the way Nellyville did was Webbie’s Savage Life and one day I will write unabashedly about how “Gutta Bitch” is my favorite rap song ever and why. Savage Life came out three years later and I was a little bit older but it only solidified that not only would my mouth get me in trouble for the rest of my life but deep down I felt a power in reciting the sometimes ignorant, privileged, painfully aware, most times sexist rhymes of Southern legends like Z-Ro, Gucci Mane, and especially Webbie. Doll played Savage Life front to back the entire summer of 2005 and my eardrums rumbled, but I didn’t mind. I’d wait around for my favorite song to come on which was perfect for the Cadillac. Breeze loved “Gutta Bitch” too and when it came on, we found the unique rhythm of rapping all the words while skipping over all the cussing that kids everywhere have mastered in the presence of adults. And we was skipping over a whole lot.
It kinda threw Doll for a loop how quickly we grew from “She only want me from my pimp juice” to “You my gutta b**** / who I’m wit when I’m in s*** with my other b**** / my other b**** when my other b**** on sum other s***” in a matter of three summers, but we’d been bred and there was nothing more to do about it.
In his mind we were always—and only supposed to be—the girls Webbie was referencing in the song, which is why he turns it down and interrogates us by first asking, “Y’all like this song?” Not once did he ever stop to think that maybe we were singing along as Webbie—that we could be the ones directing and addressing and controlling. And yea, this wasn’t as thoroughly thought out at eleven either, but I knew I was drawn to the bravado of men who rapped like this and now know that a lot of my artistic influences have been men exactly like this and that is another thing I’ll eventually write about dismantling but I do know yelling those lyrics out in the confines of a Caddy made me feel large—made me feel noticed and understood and made me feel like no man could hold me back or even hold my hand.
I didn’t know how to articulate the allure in rapping with my whole heart
This some gutta ass G-shit girl I can’t tell ya I love ya
But you ain’t just another hoe, I kinda got feelings for ya
You just play your part right, don’t slip, and stay focused
Somebody might get laid off and you might get promoted
but in the midst of reciting the tale—in the midst of regurgitating twenty-year-old Webbie’s wildly impressive endeavor—I knew how problematic it was, but I also knew I wasn’t finna turn that shit off when it made me feel like wind.
Of course there’s something luxurious about riding right side in a car so beautiful. These Southern songs—especially in a Cadillac—all cater to this aesthetic of slowness, seduction, and sight. It’s about smoking and about sureness. The really good ones are about story. And something about it all is uniquely about hurt and pain disguised as sureness if you listen closely. There’s something about it all that makes you feel seasoned. You drive slower. Whenever I’m in the back seat, I feel like I gotta lean. In my left peripheral, Doll is in the driver’s seat, his butt bent almost off its edge and it’s more wrist than hand whipping the wheel. It’s draped over the top and his fingers dangle in the empty space between the dash and blinker switch. You gotta be going somewhere to understand the road is an allusion to a smoother life, a life where you can get away with crime—or at the very least, disrespect. This music is a flex within itself, a space to brag, to accomplish goals in a flashy fashion and I’m drawn to it because in real life, I’m the complete opposite. I won’t tell nobody what I accomplish until I surpass it, until I master it and feel safe—feel stability—in my so-called mastery. But when I’m in the car and somebody is talking that shit—please believe I’m on a big one and it allows me to remember who I am. Beyond the profanity, the bass, and the luxury/poverty of the genre, this is why I love it. Sometimes Doll has the visor down if the sun is beaming, but mostly all the windows are down. Like I said, it’s about being seen. I’m about being heard, so I say “turn the music up” so I can sing louder. It’s not that I can’t, but the wind I’m attempting to be lost in—the wind I’m willing to perform as—makes the sound all jumbly. Artists like Rick Ross understand the art of this feeling, the art of luxurious raps. He built most of his catalog on honoring the wind, but I get asthma during the Nelly era. And I only think it’s cool cause Nelly got a Band-Aid on his face, so it must be sum wrong with him too. This is before we start making grills out of foil gum wrappers but after Doll breaks down all the rules of his Cadillac. He say ain’t gone be no eating or drinking up in his ride, maybe not even water. Ain’t no dirty shoes, no dirty hands, and no dogs. Every time we stop anywhere for anything, Doll bring out his white towel from thin air, spray it with some concoction, walk around the whole car wiping it down to the wheels, then hands me the towel to wipe the smudges on the inside of my window. The only thing that ain’t a rule is non-smoking. But I think the asthma came in the back seat of the car before this. It could’ve been two cars ago. I don’t know. I was minding my business looking out of the window listening to songs when he ashed the cigarette out the passenger seat window. I watched it float outside through the air and into my window, landing on my arm and I been coughing every since.
By the time I’m acquainted with the Cadillac’s confines, I know how to manage it. At eight, there’s already albuterols hidden around at all times, in drawers, backpacks, and on counters. I know what it feels like to not be able to breathe so I make sure it never happens; I race against it. When he smokes weed in the car, I fake cough louder but that don’t stop it, just make him speed it up. If you ask me about breathing, I’ll just mention how I got a hard time doing so. I find it tiresome to walk up one flight of steps, to walk across a large plot of land, to exist. I mean, I can do it—can make myself do it; Imma just be breathing like Baby D once I’m done. But that summer of Nellyville, we watch 106 & Park, and “Hot In Herre” is the number one video every single week. At this point in my life, I truly thought I would grow up to be a video vixen and “Hot In Herre” is timeless in terms of songs that make white people go up. The blue lights, the bodies—I’d stand in front of the TV and pop all my flatness until it became round. I still watch that shit till this day. It’s like I don’t even be outta breath when I dance; as long as I’m creating something, my exhaustion don’t matter cause I know the mission.
Nellyville was probably one of the first concept albums I listened to enough to actually begin to understand what the phrase means. And although I don’t think this album is technically deemed a concept album, it felt like one to me. It tells a story even in the midst of housing a slew of very iconic hits. He starts the album off with explaining the type of world he aims to build. In the title track, he starts the first verse with
Welcome to Nellyville
Where all newborns get half a mill’
Sons get Sedan DeVilles, soon as they can reach the wheel
And daughters, get diamonds the size of they age
and ends the verse with
Every month we take a vote on what the weather should be
And if we vote it rains—know how wet we want it to be
And if we vote it snow—know how deep we want it to get
But the sun gone shine 99 percent, in Nellyville.
The rest of the album is just him expanding on this dreamworld. But this particular verse is one that still sticks with me. Those lines in particular made me feel like I had permission to have vision for my life, that I could dream, that I could blend the old with the future, and at eight, allowed me to hope
that this is where Doll was driving us.
Kendra Allen was born and raised in Dallas, Texas. She’s the author of the award-winning essay collection When You Learn the Alphabet as well as The Collection Plate, a book of poems forthcoming from Ecco (summer 2021). Her other work can be found on or in Repeller, Frontier, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. Sometimes she tweets @KendraCanYou.
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