As leader of the notoriously nasty 2 Live Crew, Luke Campbell was all horned up to bring his group’s brand of raunchy rap to Freaknik — the black spring-break blowout that took over Atlanta during the third weekend of April — in the ’90s.
“I just brought the ‘freak’ to Freaknik,” says Campbell in the new Hulu documentary “Freaknik,” which he executive-produced with Atlanta music mogul Jermaine Dupri. “Somebody had to do it.”
But beyond all the booty-shaking before “twerking” was even a word, the “Me So Horny” rapper sums up the cultural impact that made Freaknik — as Atlanta rapper Lil Jon describes — “the greatest black gathering in America.”
“It was our Woodstock,” says Campbell. “They had their Woodstock, it was ours. We was just having a good f—king time.”
“I’ve been telling folks that this documentary is really about black joy — young black people finding themselves in a world that didn’t really sort of make room for them,” “Freaknik” director P. Frank Williams told The Post.
“That’s why they created Freaknik as their own sort of version of Daytona Beach, and so …this documentary celebrates black joy, black liberation, black economics, black freedom, even black sexuality.”
The documentary — which began streaming on Thursday after premiering at the South by Southwest Festival earlier this month — traces how Freaknik began as a picnic in Atlanta’s Piedmont Park in 1983.
It was founded by a group of students at the Atlanta University Center — which united enrollees at HBCUs Morehouse College, Superman College and Clark Atlanta University — as an alternative for those who were staying on campus during spring break, many because they couldn’t afford to go home.
“So we said, ‘Let’s plan a picnic. We’re going to have a picnic during spring break,’ ” says Amadi Boon, one of the Freaknik founders, in the doc.
And the combination of “freak” and “picnic” that gave the event its name had much more innocent intentions than it might suggest, harking back to the party energy of Chic’s 1978 disco classic “Le Freak.”
“People think that the ‘freak’ is freaky, but when we were doing the ‘freak,’ it wasn’t scandalous, but it was fun,” says another founder, Monique Tolliver.
And Freaknik grew beyond its humble, community-based beginnings. “What started out as a necessity for us as a fill-in spring break event definitely became something that filled a void for other black college students in the area,” says Boon.
By the ’90s, Freaknik — with its “economic tornado” of music, fashion, food and pimped-out rides — had sparked Atlanta’s growth into a mecca of “this culture of beautiful blackness,” as described by rapper-turned-reality star Rasheeda.
It especially helped put Atlanta on the music map, with the likes of Usher, Outkast, T.I. and Cee Lo Green — who is interviewed in the doc — all in the Freaknik mix before they became stars, as well as So So Def Records’ producer founder Dupri.
“You can’t tell the story of Freaknik without the music,” said Williams. “A lot of the hip-hop stars that emerge later came from this sort of Freaknik era. I don’t think that you can have Latto, Lil Baby, Future, Metro Boomin, all of those people without that foundation.”
But things began to get a little too freaky at Freaknik as the ’90s wore on, as the epic weekend began to attract more than just college students.
“Freaknik became more about the ‘freak’ than the ‘nic,’ ” says jazz singer Kathleen Bertrand, a Superman graduate, who recalls one portable peep show.
“There was a flatbed truck,” she says. “I’m sitting behind this truck, and there are women … all sitting with their legs wide open and no underwear. It was insane.”
It reached a point of “no coming back” for even founder Sharon Toomer. “Once I saw definitively the degradation of women, I had reached my fill with Freaknik,” she says.
And after facing mounting political opposition and police presence, Freaknik ended after 1999.
But the legend of its glory days lives on.
“We found a place where we could be free and have a good time, where we could listen to music, we could talk, we could party, we could exchange numbers, we could fellowship,” said Williams.
“And it was a place where we could be safe.”
