The record’s few lulls succumb to what surrounds them. Between the two tracks, it’s easy to tell which force is tugging at him harder. “LUST.” would sound better if it weren’t next to an ear-worm as tender as “LOVE.,” which slow-dances between Zacari falsettos and Lamar’s sheepish read of the girl who fills him up. It lags slightly around the center, where the concept loosens: “LOYALTY.,” with Rihanna, has all the makings of a radio mainstay this summer, and is as low-stakes as the platform demands it’s always fun to hear Rih rap, and her presence is its most interesting aspect. Such internal processing plays out through the album’s Greek chorus, via the singer Bēkon, who speaks in riddles of balance throughout: “Is it wickedness, is it weakness ” “Love’s gonna get you killed, but pride’s gonna be the death of you ” “It was always me versus the world/Until I found it’s me versus me.”ĭAMN. There have been few threats committed to record as sincere as, “Let somebody touch my mama, touch my sister, touch my woman/Touch my daddy, touch my niece, touch my nephew, touch my brother”-you tick down the list along with him, slot in your own lifelong bonds with loved ones. He mastered rap not for mastery’s sake, but to use it as a form, undeterred by slow-eared fans who’ll only highlight his “simplest lines.” His best new trick is repetition it offsets his density and drills his ideas, as enthralling as a Sunday sermon or pre-fight chirp session. Cole through an electric originality and curiosity. Throughout it all, he’s avoided the boxed-in fates of predecessors like Nas and peers like J. His short absence, even after lending Taylor Swift a verse, has been made to feel longer by his media shyness and a surging tide of new rappers shuttled out daily. Ever the curtain-puller, he released an album of untitled and unmastered drafts and grew his hair out. He came of age with his fans, and by 2015’s To Pimp a Butterfly, he put to music their chest-clenched frustrations. Dre by 2013, he was playing “SNL” and touring with Kanye West. After years of such releases, Kendrick dropped a self-titled EP in 2009 that featured Big Pooh from Little Brother and elicited such Nah Right comments as “I like the beats on this” and “who da fuk?” Accolades swelled with each project by 2011, he was considering signing with Dr. Kendrick is a relic of the mid-aughts rap blog era, where bedroom WordPress pages would post. Lamar’s recitation is so effortless you wonder where he breathes, or if he does at all. On “FEAR.,” he relays daily threats from his mom (“I’ll beat your ass, keep talking back/I’ll beat your ass, who bought you that? You stole it”) and from his neighbors (“I’ll probably die because I ain’t know Demarcus was snitching/I’ll probably die at these house parties fucking with bitches”) over low-slung blues stirred by The Alchemist. His boyish nasal instrument is distinct and inimitable as it slithers up and down in pitch on “PRIDE.” Even when Lamar sounds like Eminem, or Drake, or OutKast, he sounds like himself, and he arguably outpaces them all as a writer. The raps on his fourth studio album DAMN. Storytelling has been Lamar’s greatest skill and most primary mission, to put into (lots of) words what it's like to grow up as he did-to articulate, in human terms, the intimate specifics of daily self-defense from your surroundings. Kendrick Lamar has proven he’s a master storyteller, but he’s been saving his best plot twist this whole time, waiting until he was ready, or able, to pull it off. But it’s a tale too strange to be fiction, and too powerful not to believe in-just like its author. It’s a precious origin story, the stuff of rock docs and hood DVDs, and it’s delivered with such precision, vivid detail, and masterful pacing that it can’t possibly be true. “DUCKWORTH.,” the last song on Kendrick Lamar's fourth studio album DAMN., tells a winding story about Anthony from Compton and Ducky from Chicago, whose paths cross first over KFC biscuits, and again, 20 years later, when Ducky’s son records a song about the encounter for Anthony’s record label. Life is one funny motherfucker, it’s true.
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