On a certain level, the analogy of “greatest rapper alive” has long been subjective. At any given time there are performers who have pushed boundaries and paved the way for more innovative techniques. Others could be praised for their lyricism or for helping to push hip-hop into a mainstream market. As a result, even artists who may seem dated by today’s standards are deserving of respect. With that said, it’s the type of question that makes one defensive as few artists could ever fit everyone’s criteria. With that said, if one was to look at just the past decade and take into account irrefutable achievements, there’s a strong reason to suggest that Kendrick Lamar has his name fairly high on that list.
In 2012, audiences were introduced to Lamar with “good kid, m.A.A.d. city,” which not only featured an incredible array of hit songs, but found a promising artist in the making. His stories of growing up in Compton, CA were matched by an infectious backbeat and a technique that was cinematic down to the opening sound of a tape deck. While many had heard stories of growing up in sketchy neighborhoods, nobody had done it quite as impactfully as he did.
Even then, nobody could expect that in the decade since he would change the very definition of what a rapper could achieve. With “To Pimp a Butterfly,” he released a universally acclaimed masterpiece that, among other things, lead to a Black Lives Matter chant with “Alright” and pushed boundaries even further with a fusion of jazz and recurring motifs lyrically and sonically that reflected his meticulousness. He wasn’t just making music to express himself. He was coming to terms with sociopolitical issues as they related to the Black identity. Controversy would rise. Even then, it came with incredible success including winning a Pulitzer Prize and an Oscar nomination for his work on the Black Panther (2018) soundtrack. In short, Lamar’s every word was now going to be held up to scrutiny, an artist loved for his singularity.
In a time like 2022, it felt like his voice was needed more than ever, where The United States grew divided and the sense of identity was even more scattershot than it had been on his last true release “DAMN.” five years prior. While his songs continued to fill the airwaves, the curiosity about when he would come back grew with each passing month. In that time so much had changed from a pandemic to the rise of racial discrimination, homophobia, and even discussion around mental health. To counterpoint, his contemporaries like Drake and Kanye West haven’t exactly made genuine, certified masterpieces despite being more vocal. If anything, it’s been a further divide into shallow madness. If anything, it only helps to confirm why he should be up for greatest rapper alive. After 10 years in the game, he still cares about what his words mean to the public.
It would be easy to stop and suggest that “Mr. Morale & the Big Steppers” is another masterpiece. There is something undeniable about how immersive the listening experience is, to press ‘play’ and just let the 73 minutes wash over you. By the time “Mother I Sober” arrives, the listener will have experienced something spiritual, of listening to Lamar breaking down everything that was promised on the opening track “United in Grief.” It’s here that he says “1,855 days/I’ve been goin’ through somethin’/Be afraid.” It’s in part a winking nod to how long it’s been since “DAMN.” but also something that blends musical craft with elements that are both religious and therapeutic. In just those three lines, he could be confessing his sins to a priest in hopes of forgiveness or talking to a shrink whom he hopes will cure him of this madness. For everyone living today, the pandemic’s inescapable misery has definitely made those years difficult, and having someone to listen to is important. Even if Lamar is about to get hyper-political, this is something even greater. It’s a reflection of why self-healing is crucial.
The double album is split up into two halves detailing his journey through self-healing. The title metaphorically stands at odds with itself as Mr. Morale means something pure while The Big Steppers reflect something suffocating. Given that there are points where Lamar is accused of sidestepping the conversation that leads into tap dancing numbers, there’s reason to believe that he’s trying to dodge these difficult topics and live in his naivety. As the second song “N95” begins with him asking his audience to, among other things, “take off the clout chase” there’s reason to believe that he’s somehow morally superior to everyone, a messiah preaching the truth. However, as the tonal shift happens, he parallels this removal of vanity with the revelation “You ugly as fuck.”
The cries of superiority turn into ones of judgment, where the good intentions fall into resentment. It’s one of the first and best examples of how Lamar is able to blend tropes with commentary, finding a need to be more authentic underneath the distraction. As the album will reflect, he needs to take a lot off and understand why he’s ugly. He’s been sidestepping for too long. Thankfully, like all Lamar albums, “N95” works as a single that builds throughout the song, creating small moments that are anthemic and memorable. He doesn’t exist in conventional pop and yet he’s able to manipulate it in his image, infusing complicated ideas into the verses while having his audience sing along to “You out of pocket.”
The first half is much uglier than the second and for good reason. It’s the half where he’s sidestepping every issue, trying to act like his life is in control. His excuse of “I grieve different” isn’t enough to stop him from needing to address his parental conflicts (“Father Time”) and even his own self-worth (“Rich Spirit”). There is something engrossing and suffocating as he keeps cutting to tap dancing, where he’s almost laughing at the idea that there is a problem. It enhances anxiety, where the calmness leads to concern. Given that Lamar is known for playing characters within his work, it makes sense that the various voices are at odds with themselves, where the rapper, the singer, and even the pitch reflect an idea running through his veins, trying to stabilize amid discomfort. As before, it is cinematic, serving as both shocking horror and a strange revelation at the same time.
In one of the more brutal moments in Lamar’s whole career, he performs “We Cry Together” opposite Zola (2021) star Taylour Paige. A lot of the discomfort comes from one of the bolder decisions in the track, where the sense of relief that the two are finally walking away is undercut by them returning to fight about something that seems tangential. It’s a story of an affair, of how each hides behind toxic profiling. Women can’t be friends. Men defend their awfulness to the point of protecting people like Harvey Weinstein. Even when it turns to the idea of sex, Lamar cleverly uses the line “fuck you” and “fuck me” to be something assaulting and self-defeating. The piece works because each person is uniquely incompatible and shouldn’t be together, and yet they keep returning long after logic disappears. It’s a piece that symbolizes desperation many have felt even before the pandemic but feels exacerbated. If this is indeed a cohesive narrative, “We Cry Together” is the rock bottom, where Lamar begins seeking redemption.
By the time of “Count Me Out,” the music shifts from having a merely spiritual subtext to something more symbolic of therapy. The tap dancing fades away in favor of a doctor, almost Freudian, who appears during various tracks’ introduction to develop themes. It’s here, on side two, that the self-healing begins. The wounds have been open and it’s time to take account of everything. At a point in “Savior,” Lamar even goes so far as to reject celebrities, believing that despite their great achievements “He is not your savior.” It’s like a rehabilitation, separating the Earthly desires for something greater in the self. As mentioned in “N95,” there is a need to take away the artifice, but can Lamar work on his core not being ugly?
What makes the latter half particularly fulfilling is that while all of these topics are themes that Lamar has explored before, they are present in a 2022 lens and thus feel even more crucial. In a time where people revel in negativity and toxic behavior, what are we doing to make society a better place? It’s clear that everything is exhaustive for Lamar the artist and his ability to use it through character is astounding. He isn’t just preaching a need to cleanse his soul and recognize the importance of forgiveness, but he even decries cancel culture to an extent, believing that people are capable of redemption. This is his own personal journey of working through his problems, and they don’t come clearer than the home stretch.
In one of the more controversial moments on the album, “Auntie Diaries” finds him discussing a theme that is fairly taboo for mainstream rap. In the opening, he declares “My auntie is a man now/I think I’m old enough to understand now.” In a time when Dave Chappelle promotes harmful rhetoric, there’s something impressive about how Lamar handles this topic. While there’s valid criticism around misgendering and even deadnaming, the narrative impact reflects a growth that is complicated for the Black community. He doesn’t deny that it is difficult given that others in his family disagree. What’s impressive is that in a fairly theatrical album, this moment is subdued, allowing his words to be better emphasized. In some ways, they’re even beautiful, even as he references slurs that he regrettably used. By the time he attacks the church in Verse 4, there is an awareness of how these communal themes are designed to harm, where even religion’s kindness can come across as cruel.
It's maybe not the most perfectly worded song, but as far as discussions worth having go, this is one that shouldn’t be mired in unnecessary nitpicking. As a wordsmith who uses everything intentionally, “Auntie Diaries” does plenty to reflect not necessarily the right words but the ones of growth and acceptance. He’s questioning a lot and it’s cathartic to hear someone be this sympathetic on record, especially amid the ongoing anti-trans legislature in The United States. It’s not a cynical, lazy track meant to score pity points, but hopefully one that encourages others to listen, to question why they hold certain prejudices. Given that the album starts with a pseudo-religious subtext, questioning faith at this point is a brilliant take on how certain things couldn’t be resolved by congregational agreement. Sometimes a need to accept things for yourself is what’s necessary.
By the time the album reaches “Mother I Sober,” the listener has been through an exhaustive ringer. Even if this is a very personal journey, there’s something universal enough to his vulnerability. By allowing himself to speak out, he has done something grander than a run of the mill album. Not since Jay-Z’s “4:44” has rap had something so maturely deconstruct what it means to be a decent human being in the world, acknowledging past mistakes and the effort to be a better person. In the opening line, he mentions something that feels different from “N95” where he was yelling “You ugly as fuck.” Here he calmly begins “I’m sensitive, I feel everything, I feel everybody.” Alas, empathy has been achieved. Along with a brilliant appearance by Beth Gibbons of Portishead, the song becomes something more harmonious and clear-headed, where it sounds like the weight is finally lifted.
This is especially true in the closing interlude that suggests: “You did it, I’m proud of you/You broke a generational curse/Say ‘Thank you, dad’”). This is what the whole album has been building to: a simple, sweet moment where suddenly the pain of prolonging negativity starts to be shredded away. There’s nothing that can stop Lamar from having that pain, but he has to be able to move forward, to look past it, and be a decent human being. He can’t exist yelling and blaming others. He needs to look at himself and ask what makes him a good person, what would make him a morally just person. In the closing song “Mirror,” he even repeats “I choose me, I’m sorry,” reflecting his own atonement for the confessional that the audience has just experienced.
Over four albums now, Lamar has done a lot to redefine what it means to be a rapper. In an industry that’s predicated on Top 40 hits, he’s finding ways to expand these ideas into an art form. He’s able to self-reflect through lengthy, interlocking tracks that hold ideas that grow with greater context. He does it while being able to maintain a candidness that keeps him appealing, where his lyricism flourishes with entendre and deeper meaning, reflecting how mental health is tied to his very identity, motivating even the instrumental changes. Even without directly saying it, he uses “Mr. Morale & the Big Steppers” as a reflection of the modern times and the need to try and heal the nation as a whole.
So much happens over these 18 tracks that it’ll likely take a long time to truly process what Lamar has achieved. Even then, early signs of its greatness are evident in how he nimbly handles every shift, where a song breaking down during “United in Grief” holds deeper meaning than pure chaos. Maybe it’s the hypertext of references, or how the whole thing has a rehabilitated quality to it. Whatever it is, there’s a search for honesty that becomes breathtaking by the end, finding an artist able to grow and hopefully inspire the community to begin shifting their views. After all, he had that impact before with “To Pimp a Butterfly” and “DAMN.” What’s stopping his listeners here?
As evident by artists like Tyler the Creator and Denzel Curry, rap’s shift into more open discussions of mental health has been more normalized. Even then, there is something to hearing Lamar carefully construct an album that feels like the five year wait was worth it. More than that, it captures every last frustration that one has experienced in the past few years better than almost anyone else. It’s been a chaotic one if just because the struggle for clear and honest leadership hasn’t been front and center. While it’s not Lamar’s job to be the only voice, the weight of his obligation is felt on every track. In a time where some politicians are pushing conspiracy theories and angering up the base more for RT’s than progress, it’s nice to hear a voice this rational even if it’s likely to be misunderstood.
I don’t hold the answers on if Kendrick Lamar is the greatest rapper alive. I frankly don’t listen to enough artists with enough of an academic ear to know what constitutes great. What I will say as a listener is that in the past 10 years, he is one of the few who has consistently made music that I’ve felt has mattered. What he’s doing has the power to empathize and entertain in equal measure, commenting on a perspective that’s rarely been allowed to make art this substantial. In a time where other giants like Kanye West are picking fights with Pete Davidson over trivial nonsense, it’s refreshing to hear someone with power use it for good causes. Now the only question is whether anyone will listen. There’s an urgency to “Mr. Morale & the Big Steppers.” It’s not just an album that will go away. Much like the past three, it’s probably going to be here for a long time. Hopefully, it won’t take him that long to release another masterpiece, but if this is what he produces as a result, I am not going to be all that mad.
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