If you grew up in South Carolina, or even if you just spent a few summers sweating through the humidity of the Lowcountry, you know the sound. It’s not a hymn. It isn't a folk song from the 1800s. It’s a beat that feels like a physical heartbeat. When the opening notes of My Old School by Dexter Check start playing, the energy in the room shifts instantly. It doesn't matter if you're at a wedding in Charleston, a dive bar in Columbia, or a high school football game in the Upstate. People lose it.
Honestly, it’s kind of a phenomenon. Most "hometown songs" are cheesy or forced, written by some marketing committee to promote tourism. This wasn't that. It was organic. It was local. And even though it’s been years since it first dropped, the track remains the unofficial anthem of the Palmetto State.
But why? Why this specific song?
The Lowcountry Origins of a State-Wide Obsession
To understand My Old School, you have to understand the man behind it. Dexter Check isn't some distant pop star living in a Los Angeles mansion. He’s a guy who actually knows the dirt roads and the salt marshes. When he wrote the track, he was tapping into a very specific kind of nostalgia that most outsiders just won't ever get. It’s about more than just a building. It’s about that weird, bittersweet feeling of driving past your old high school and realizing how much has changed while everything somehow stayed exactly the same.
The song resonates because it’s hyper-specific. It mentions the "mighty, mighty Trojans." It talks about the "blue and gold." For people in Orangeburg—specifically those tied to Orangeburg-Wilkinson High School—this isn't just music. It’s family history. But the genius of the track is how it leaked out of Orangeburg and infected the rest of the state. Suddenly, everyone wanted to claim it.
What Most People Get Wrong About the Lyrics
There's this common misconception that the song is strictly about sports. Sure, the rhythm is perfect for a stadium. It has that marching band energy that makes you want to stomp your feet until the bleachers shake. However, if you actually listen to the verses, it’s a narrative about community. It’s a roll call.
The song functions as a bridge between generations. You’ve got grandfathers who graduated in the 70s dancing next to kids who haven't even started middle school yet. That’s rare. Most music today is fragmented. We have our "TikTok songs" and our "classic rock," and the two rarely meet. My Old School is one of the few pieces of media in South Carolina that erases that gap. It’s a shared language.
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Some people think the song is just a "regional hit" that got lucky. That's a massive understatement. To call it lucky ignores the production value. The horn section alone is iconic. It mimics the soul and funk traditions of the Deep South while keeping a modern bounce. It’s basically a masterclass in how to capture a "vibe" without being corny.
The Power of the "Call and Response"
Let’s talk about the structure. Musicologists often talk about "call and response" as a cornerstone of African American musical tradition, and My Old School utilizes this perfectly. When the lyrics ask a question, the crowd answers. It’s interactive.
It creates a feedback loop of adrenaline.
- The beat drops.
- The crowd recognizes the first four bars.
- The shouting starts.
- Total chaos (the good kind).
I’ve seen this song played at events where the "vibe" was supposedly too sophisticated for a rowdy anthem. Didn't matter. As soon as that rhythm starts, the suits come off and the heels are thrown under the table. There is a deep, almost primal connection to the "hometown" identity that Dexter Check captured. It’s about pride. Not the arrogant kind, but the kind that says "I’m from here, and that means something."
A Masterclass in Local Branding (Without Trying)
In the world of marketing, people spend millions trying to create "viral" moments. They want to manufacture "authenticity."
You can’t manufacture this.
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My Old School became a staple because it didn't feel like it was selling anything. It was a gift to a specific community that the rest of us decided to borrow. This is a crucial lesson for anyone looking at how culture is actually made in 2026. It’s not about reaching everyone at once; it’s about reaching a few people so deeply that they become your ambassadors.
Why It Still Matters Today
We live in an era where everything feels temporary. Apps change, trends die in a week, and everyone is moving to a different city every three years. In that context, a song about "the old school" acts as an anchor. It reminds people where they started.
For the African American community in South Carolina specifically, the song is a celebration of HBCU culture, high school pride, and the specific joy of Southern gatherings. It’s a resistance against the idea that our local stories don't matter. It says that a high school in Orangeburg is just as worthy of an epic anthem as a skyscraper in New York.
Breaking Down the Longevity
If you look at the streaming numbers or the YouTube comments, you'll see a pattern. People come back to this song when they’re homesick. It’s the "break glass in case of emergency" track for South Carolinians living in Charlotte, Atlanta, or D.C.
- The Beat: It’s timeless. It doesn't use the over-processed synth sounds that date a song to a specific year.
- The Vocal Delivery: Dexter Check sounds like he’s having a conversation with you, not performing for you.
- The Specificity: By being about "his" school, he made it about "everyone's" school.
It’s actually a bit of a psychological trick. When he shouts out the Trojans, your brain fills in your own mascot. When he talks about the colors, you think of your own jersey. It’s a universal template for nostalgia.
How to Properly Experience "My Old School"
If you’re just listening to this on your AirPods while sitting in a cubicle, you’re doing it wrong. You're getting maybe 10% of the experience. To actually "get" why this is the definitive hometown song, you need to be in a crowd of at least fifty people who all grew up within sixty miles of each other.
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You need the heat. You need the loud speakers that are slightly peaking. You need the collective muscle memory of a thousand people doing the same dance steps without being told.
The Technical Side: Why the Audio Works
From a technical standpoint, the low-end frequencies in the production are designed for large spaces. The kick drum is tuned to resonate in gymnasiums and outdoor stadiums. This wasn't an accident. The song was engineered to move air. When people talk about "feeling" a song, they usually mean it metaphorically. With My Old School, it’s literal. The bass hits you in the chest.
What’s Next for the Anthem?
As we move further into the 2020s, there’s always a fear that these local staples will fade away as "global" culture takes over. But the opposite seems to be happening. Because the world is so connected, we crave the things that are hyper-local. We want the stuff that belongs to us and not everyone else.
Dexter Check’s legacy is secure because he didn't try to be a global superstar. He tried to be the voice of his neighborhood, and in doing so, he became the voice of a state.
Actionable Ways to Keep the Culture Alive
If you want to support local music and keep the "hometown" spirit going, don't just stream the big hits.
- Support Local Creators: Follow artists like Dexter Check on social media and see what they’re doing now. The local scene only survives if there’s an audience for the next generation.
- Request Local Tracks: If you’re at a wedding or a party with a DJ, ask for the local anthems. It changes the energy of the night and supports the regional identity.
- Teach the History: Tell the younger kids where the song came from. Explain the Orangeburg-Wilkinson connection. Knowing the "why" makes the "what" much more meaningful.
- Digitize the Memories: If you have old footage of your school or your town featuring these songs, share it. Archives are how we prevent culture from being erased.
At the end of the day, My Old School is a reminder that you don't need a billion-dollar record deal to make something that lasts. You just need to tell a true story about the place you call home. And in South Carolina, that story is loud, proud, and it definitely has a horn section.