“Yo, you know what they saying on ‘Stay Fly?’” That question, posed to me in a high school hallway back in 2005, was all it took to send my teenage mind spiraling. At the time, I was a devoted fan of Three 6 Mafia, and “Stay Fly” was inescapable – dominating radio airwaves and music video countdowns. My initial, slightly offended response to the lyrical query masked a deeper insecurity that was about to be unearthed by a simple playground rumor about 3 Six Mafia Songs.
“Yeah, what you mean?” I retorted, ready to defend my hip-hop heroes against any lyrical misinterpretations. But this wasn’t about misinterpretations; it was about something far more unsettling, at least to my fifteen-year-old sensibilities.
“Naw yo, did you hear what they saying in the background of the chorus?” My friend was referring to the haunting, almost indecipherable harmonies that open “Stay Fly” and weave through its iconic hook. Then came the bombshell: “They saying ‘Lucifer, you’re my king. You’re my father!’ Listen to that shit again,” he declared with an air of conspiratorial certainty.
I dismissed it instantly. Crazy talk, I thought. But the seed of doubt had been planted. Later that day, iPod Nano in hand, I cued up “Stay Fly,” repeatedly hitting ‘next’ until I landed on the track. As those opening vocals washed over me, I listened with a hyper-focused intensity. And to my surprise, the syllables seemed to align perfectly with the sinister incantation: “Lu-ci-fer, you’re my king. You’re my fath-ah.” My teenage mind was blown. Had I been oblivious to a devilish undercurrent in one of my favorite 3 six mafia songs?
At 15, my religious beliefs were a fragile, fluctuating landscape. I was in that turbulent phase of questioning everything I’d been taught in church, oscillating between outright skepticism and pangs of guilt for even entertaining such thoughts. This “Stay Fly” revelation landed amidst a period already rife with religious anxieties. Not long before, I’d endured the graphic violence of Passion of the Christ, its brutal depiction of Jesus’ suffering leaving a disturbing imprint. Then, a low-budget DVD my grandmother insisted I watch attempted to link rap music directly to Satanism. The film, hosted by a self-proclaimed musician, presented ludicrous “evidence,” like claiming Bone Thugs-n-Harmony were devil worshippers because album liner notes were written backward. He even dedicated a segment to DMX and Marilyn Manson’s collaboration “The Omen,” “The Omen” arguing its satanic nature based on a chord he couldn’t find on a piano or production software – apparently, Satan, as God’s “minister of music” in his warped interpretation of the Bible, could manipulate sound at will.
Three 6 Mafia, with their dark imagery and lyrical themes, seemed to fit this narrative, even without the low-budget DVD’s “insights.” Their name itself – Triple 6 Mafia in their early days – the grim reaper logo of Hypnotized Camp Posse, and frequent lyrical nods to Satan were hardly subtle. I’d always acknowledged this dark aesthetic, but it hadn’t deterred my fandom. However, the idea that they were actually praising Lucifer in “Stay Fly” felt like a line crossed. The combination of fear-mongering media and my impressionable age created a perfect storm of religious panic. The only logical course of action, in my teenage brain, was drastic: get rid of my Most Known Unknown album, home to some of the most iconic 3 six mafia songs.
Later that week, wrestling with the supposed satanic message of “Stay Fly,” I decided to give the song one final listen. By then, I couldn’t unhear the “Lucifer” lyrics. This time, I used a portable CD player to avoid the Nano’s shuffle and focus solely on the track. When the song ended, I ejected the CD, gazed at it one last time, shook my head in solemn teenage drama, snapped it in half, and tossed it into the trash. It felt like a monumental sacrifice, a profound departure – one of the most significant musical decisions of my young life.
To justify my continued enjoyment of hip-hop while appeasing my religious anxieties, I crafted a convoluted set of rules. I vowed to abstain from any songs listed under the Three 6 Mafia name. Features were permissible, loopholes to my self-imposed ban. Project Pat, whose music was entirely produced by Three 6’s DJ Paul and Juicy J, and frequently featured the group, remained in heavy rotation. It was a flimsy, self-deceptive system, but it provided a semblance of religious cover, a flimsy excuse to offer God should I face divine judgment for my musical tastes.
Of course, this entire episode was a spectacular overreaction. A simple search for the samples used in “Stay Fly” reveals the truth: the backing vocals are lifted from Willie Hutch’s 1970s R&B track, “Tell Me Why Has Your Love Turned Cold.” “Tell Me Why Has Your Love Turned Cold.” Hutch was a favorite of Three 6 Mafia, his music sampled in other tracks like Project Pat’s “Choose U” “Choose U,” (sampling Hutch’s “I Choose You” “I Choose You,”) and famously in UGK and Outkast’s “International Players Anthem.” “International Players Anthem.” In “Tell Me Why Has Your Love Turned Cold,” the song does begin with those same ambiguous vocals, initially sounding like “Lucifer, you’re my king. You’re my father.” But as the song progresses, the lyrics become clear: “Tell me why… tell me why has your love turned cold.”
Despite the clear source material, some commenters on WhoSampled people in the comments section still argue that Three 6 Mafia intentionally manipulated the sample to evoke a demonic interpretation, aligning with their established aesthetic. Regardless of intent, my teenage crisis was ultimately unfounded. My Three 6 Mafia ban lasted barely two weeks. The sheer joy their music provided outweighed any lingering religious anxieties. I decided I’d rather risk eternal damnation than live without regularly bumping these pioneers of Memphis rap. After all, if a higher power truly disapproved of 3 six mafia songs, why bless them with the talent to create such fire in the first place?
