It’s 72 and sunny on Mardi Gras Indian Uptown Super Sunday in New Orleans, and A.L. Davis Park is overflowing. Snakes and lizards drape across shoulders and around biceps. Leather body suits cling to sweaty skin. R.I.P. Soulja Slim and Pimp Daddy t-shirts abound. The air is full of smoke — from cigars, from meat-packed grills (hot sausage, jerk chicken, oysters stuffed with crawfish etouffée), from dirt bikes and ATVs whose riders wheelie through Central City past men on horseback. The sound of revved engines is outmatched by the classic bounce music blaring from portable amps and car speakers on every corner: “Choppa Style” on Fourth and Freret, “Let Me Find Out” on Third and Lasalle, “Tha Block Is Hot” on Second and South Liberty. Drifting between these tracks is a newer entry, Flagboy Giz’s 2022 single “We Outside.”

Today is about pageantry. Black Masking tribes are gathered in the park in their full suits, meticulously hand sewn over the course of the year for four occasions: Mardi Gras Day, Uptown Super Sunday, Downtown Super Sunday, and St. Joseph’s Night. The only thing that matters today is who’s the prettiest. Flagboy Giz is walking with the Wild Tchoupitoulas. He wears a sky-blue suit emblazoned with scenes of Native American life, matching facepaint, and a massive, feathered headdress.

A day later, on St. Joseph’s Night, Uptown Indians will cross neighborhood lines to do battle, exchanging war cries and tactical maneuvers before converging on Second and Dryades. If decorum is kept, the ritual runs as follows: School-aged spy boys scout nearby tribes. Wildmen come within inches of brawling but ultimately restrain themselves. Flag boys shake hands and relay a signal of peace, the final step before the culmination of the proceedings: the meeting of the Big Chiefs and Big Queens. But these run-ins are often less polite; if an Indian gets past a member of the opposing tribe without paying them proper respect, the bypassed Indian is “dead” and must temporarily retire from the field of play.

The traditions of the Black Masking Indians date back to the 18th century, when escaped slaves found refuge in Native American communities and came to admire their cultural practices. After emancipation, Black Masking tribes formed to masquerade on Mardi Gras Day in defiance of the all-white krewes that excluded them.

Whole books have been written on Mardi Gras Indian culture — about the sewing of the suits, the rites of St. Joseph’s Night, and the songs that go along with them: call-and-response chants like “Shallow Water, Oh Mama,” “Ho Na Nae,” and “Indian Red” that have etched themselves into the fabric of New Orleans music. In the ’60s and ’70s, Black Masking tribes started to augment these songs with soul and funk elements. Led by Big Chief Bo Dollis, the pioneering Wild Magnolias found success with a 1970 single called “Handa Wanda” and a subsequent self-titled LP, paving the way for records from tribes such as the Wild Tchoupitoulas and the Golden Eagles. These projects cemented a new form while staying true to the culture. Today, bands like The Rumble carry that torch with an emphasis on expert musicianship, while others such as 79rs Gang represent the culture in a looser, more spontaneous manner, their flows reminiscent of veteran New Orleans rap groups like U.N.L.V.

Flagboy Giz’s “We Outside” exists within that lineage, but it’s a different breed of song, an unprecedented collision of Black Masking tradition and bounce. “I was sewing, hustling, working for the Mardi Gras,” Giz begins over contemplative chords before the 808s and iconic Triggerman sample kick in. “Everybody talking bout, ‘Boy, your suit cold’ / It’s only one Super Sunday, it ain’t the Super Bowl.” Its verses dig into Mardi Gras Indian minutiae and locals-only references, including shoutouts to specific intersections and a name check to Scubble, a prolific parade dancer who appears as if by magic atop buildings and billboards at every second line.

“We Outside” is a perfect storm: Giz’s knife-sharp, melodic flow; the cool yet emotive, juddering beat; lyrics that resonate far beyond the ultra-niche community they describe. It’s a window into a world most outsiders have no idea exists, so inclusive in its catchiness that the exclusivity of its content doesn’t matter. Less than three years after its release, it’s a Mardi Gras standard, deserving of a seat at the table with classics like “Carnival Time,” “Mardi Gras Mambo,” and “Go to the Mardi Gras.” It stands to reason that “We Outside” reaches peak airplay in mid-March, but you can hear it on the streets year round. Like a truly transcendent Christmas song, it’s just as good in July.

The first time Flagboy Giz stared down the barrel of a professional-grade camera was on January 17, 2006, the first day of spring semester at the University of New Orleans. He was a freshman. Five months after Hurricane Katrina forced his family out of the Ninth Ward, flinging them as far as Houston and Atlanta, he was back in his hometown. At most intersections he crossed on his way to class, the streetlights were broken.

Flagboy Giz: I had a shirt on with a Mr. Magic lyric: “You can take a n***a out the Nine, but you can't take the Nine out a n***a.” MTV [True Life] was following this girl named Christian from [New Orleans suburb] Metairie, but they looked at my shirt and it answered all their questions. I rode with them to the house, and as soon as I let ’em in, I heard a gasp. Everything had been soaked in water. The walls looked like they were melting away. The water had soaked into the ceiling fan, so the wood was dripping down. I knew in my mind, “Man, they about to put a n***a on TV.”

Later that spring, Giz joined Brandan “BMike” Odums and several other friends to create 2-Cent TV, envisioned as a family-friendly version of Chappelle’s Show.

Giz: The original sketch BMike had me in was with white guys from the theater program. One of them drops his wallet, and I pick it up and run to give it back. All they see is me running behind him, so they take off running, and I get hit with a car; I’m doing my own stunts and everything. It was all because of Amadou Diallo, who reached for his wallet on his wedding day and got shot 37 times. That was our way of being young kids, saying, “This is some shit we want to change.”

Guerilla interviews (Common and Yasiin Bey were subjects) and parody rap songs became their bread and butter, and the videos began to go viral, racking up hundreds of thousands of views on early YouTube.

Giz: I was always Lil Wayne because I was the only one who could come up with the metaphors, and if I put a little Auto-Tune on, I could sound just like the dude. The main YouTube comments would always say, “Why is Lil Wayne Fat?”

In 2013, Giz walked with the Wild Tchoupitoulas on Super Sunday for the first time. A year later, he asked to join the tribe in earnest.

Giz: The parade was going, and I saw the Chief standing there, like, “Man, we waiting on so-and-so to come.” I was like, “You want another Indian, bro?” He said, “Well you gotta make yourself a suit.” I said, “Like a spyboy suit?” He said, “No, you too big to be a spy boy. You gotta be a flag boy.”

The next day, Monday, I'm calling him: “What do I need to buy? Where do I buy it from?” I went on YouTube and I found [South Asian] Indian women stitching and beading, and I was like, “I'm gonna use that method until I figure out how [the Black Masking Indians] do it.” I’d take one needle, put some beads on [the thread], go through, come back, put some more beads on, go through those. I did that for a whole suit. When I came out on Mardi Gras Day 2015, the Big Chief was like, “Man, you did your thing.”

Giz’s profile as a Mardi Gras Indian soon grew to the point where photos of his imposing, machete-wielding figure were being used for profit without credit or compensation. Eventually, he felt the need to hire a personal cameraman. He chose Dwight Bell, a co-worker at his day job as a porter for a swanky hotel in the Lower Garden District.

Giz: I went through a lot of unpleasantries where people were selling books with my pictures, doing documentaries, telling me they want me to sign off on this and that but they ain't got no money. It got to the point where I started bringing my own photographer and videographer. I didn't want nobody to make money off me if I'm not making money. You can use me and I can use you, but don't misuse me.

At the hotel, Bell became Giz’s confidant and co-conspirator as he started to spend more time making music.

Dwight Bell: I'd cover his shift, let him go in the back to the valet closet and do his thing. I'd be up front, holding it down. He’d call me to the closet: “Dwight, come listen to this.” I'd be like, “Yeah, you got it. You should take this shit serious.”

Giz dropped his first album, Flagboy of the Nation, in 2021. The following year, he shared “Uptown,” produced by Manny Fresh. The beat was initially meant for 2-Cent, but Giz got Manny’s OK to repurpose it for his own music.

Giz: I hit up Fresh, like, “Look, if I can use this, I'm never gonna ask you for another thing again.” He said, “It's yours.”

After he dropped the Manny track, Giz’s DMs blew up with beats from tapped-in producers. DJ eMynd, a Philadelphia-based record collector and prolific maker of sample-based instrumentals, sent him a pack. In it was a beat that references New Orleans bounce paragon Dolamite’s “Hustlas.” Its juxtaposition of dolorous chords with classic bounce elements adds a mournful texture to the track’s ecstatic energy.

DJ eMynd: It comes from that gangsta bounce tradition of samples, the Brown beat and the “Drag Rap” [triggerman] drums. I was very deliberately not trying to do something new to that tradition. What I'm most proud of is that I was able to capture a sound that feels authentic to people from New Orleans, even though I'm not from there.

Giz: One day, I was sitting in the house trying to be creative, listening to the beat eMynd sent me. Since lockdown ended, I’d been hearing people screaming, “We outside!” It was such an exciting thing after being locked up for so long. At the end of the day, I was just trying to make Mardi Gras Indian music, so I wanted to do something to show off the Indians who were actually out in the streets. I looked at it like, “If a Mardi Gras Indian did a bounce song, what would it sound like?” Of course, I did my “we outside” background chants first.

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In his home studio, Giz punched in, recording his lyrics over the course of the day. Below are some of his standout bars:

“It’s only one Super Sunday, it ain’t the Super Bowl”

As an Indian, you hear the NFL saying that it's Super Sunday, and you say, “No, it ain't.” I knew that would be the last bar of the chorus.

“I ain't tell him he ain't have enough on / I told an injun he look naked”

A lot of Indians will tell you you don’t have enough on, but I just say you naked. It's the same thing, but you’ve got to have a little swag to your insult. All the other rappers telling n***as they ain't fresh: “That n***a don't put it on like me.” That's what a rapper would say. I'm just trying to get that same kind of vibe but keep it clean. So I'm only talking about Injuns.

“You a Uhaul Injun, Uhaul injun / And I'm a old school Injun, walking cross the city”

Some Mardi Gras Indians, like my tribe, are outside the whole day. We've never rented a U-Haul. But these days I’ll see Injuns not taking a walk themselves. They be in the U-Haul, hanging off the back like a garbage man. It defeats the purpose of putting on a Mardi Gras Indian suit and strutting around town. I knew it was an issue because the chiefs were talking about it in the secret Indian Facebook group.

“Painted like E. Honda / Don’t let me get behind ya”

When you playing Indian, if you get behind me without shaking my hand, I'm technically dead. If I get past you without shaking your hand, you didn't do a good job holding down the spot of the Indian, and the whole neighborhood starts saying, “You dead! You dead!”

“You know what makes me happy? / When I be walking with a hatchet / In the Third Ward, looking for Apaches”

We take these common Native American words and make tribes off of ’em. There's the Apache Hunters, the Wild Apaches, the Golden Arrows, the Golden Blades, the Golden Eagles, the White Eagles, the Flaming Arrows, the Red Flame hunters, the Black Flame Hunters, the Buffalo Hunters, the Wild Magnolia, the Wild Tchoupitoulas. All I'm saying is that what makes me happy is when I'm outside in the street, looking for the Indians.

In the “We Outside” video, Giz wears a red, white, and blue suit featuring references to the 1900 Robert Charles riots, in which a white mob attacked Black New Orleanians across the city and burned down a schoolhouse after Charles, a Black man, shot and killed a white policeman; the mob eventually captured Charles and shot his body hundreds of times. The making of the suit dates back to before the pandemic, when Giz was a chauffeur, hauling tourists back and forth to swamp tours in the Louisiana bayou.

Flagboy Giz: On the way to the swamp, you’d see so many American flags next to Confederate flags, which defeats the purpose. Like, y'all know they had a whole war, and one side lost. I had the bright idea to start stealing the flags. The main pieces of the suit — the headpiece and the chest piece — were made from the flags I'd stolen. I stole the American flags [not the Confederate flags] because I felt like they didn't deserve to fly them.

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The video, directed by Bell, features close-up footage of Giz in the suit, with b-roll footage from second-line parades spliced in. It opens with a bang.

Flagboy Giz: We went right in front of this Curren$y Jet Life mural downtown that just got finished two days before. He was smoking in the mural, so I hit the peace pipe.

Bell: We were inspired by Toby Nwigwe’s video for “Try Jesus,” but then I put a twist to it and played with the imagery. I'm listening to the music in my head, like, “What's the best way we can get a cinematic feel and pay homage to our culture?” Every moment counts in this city. Second lines, Super Sunday, all that is a big thing to us. I wanted to get everybody that's outside having a good time: people in real time doing what they do — smoking, dancing, horseriding in the streets.

Over the next two months, Giz compiled the 14-minute New Orleans posse cut that would become the official “We Outside” remix. Its ensemble cast features more Mardi Gras Indians, rap royalty like Hot Boy Ronald, Choppa, Mia X, Baby Boy Da Prince, and Dolamite himself; rising stars like 9th Ward Judy and 504icygrl; Roca B, a hyper-local celebrity who calls into Q93 every week to sing over a beat; and many more. With each new verse came an Instagram reel filmed by Bell, an ingenious promotional tool. Bonus content, like comedian Frank White’s fake Genius breakdown of his verse, sprouted organically.

Giz: I was getting 150+ DMs every day of people asking to be on it, and I had to pick and choose who I really felt was taking their craft seriously. I asked for eight bars; Choppa gave me a full two minutes.

Bell: My bro was doing remixes with all these legends we used to listen to as kids at parties. They’re A-listers to us, top dogs, gatekeepers of our music culture.

The song was a hit on its own, but the videos helped launch it into the highest tier of New Orleans party music.

eMynd: I've been collecting records long enough to know it's a crapshoot; many of my favorite records never saw the light of day. I knew immediately when I got [“We Outside”] back that it was a special record, but I couldn’t have predicted that Giz would turn it into an anthem for all of New Orleans.

More than a battle hymn for Black Masking Indians, “We Outside” has become a rallying cry for a whole city. Still, it remains relatively unknown outside Louisiana. Giz has no problem with this. He wouldn’t have minded a Grammy for it, he concedes, but he’s content with its current status — a Mardi Gras classic you can confidently play at a party all 365 days of the year.

Flagboy Giz: It's a beautiful feeling. I never even saw myself doing this. I just wanted to make music that people would actually listen to and want to dance to year round. I know that Mardi Gras music is for one season, but there’s some Mardi Gras songs so good people want to listen to ’em any time of the year. That's what my whole goal was. The fact that people can play my song whenever and say, “Heard that,” that shit is big to me.