One of the greatest conflicts of modern American media is the lack of urgency. Despite many songwriters crafting some of the greatest chart topping hits of the day, nothing has really captured the zeitgeist in the sense of giving voice to the moment, and rarely has that felt more necessary than in a time of rising economic issues and the literal foundation of The White House being permanently altered. Tension has rarely been higher and with the perfect symbolic button to any statement now less than a month away, the greatest question of all is this: who has anything to say about America in its 250th year of existence?
The answer, in short, is Vince Staples. Earlier this year, he announced his new album with the music video for “Blackberry Marmalade,” which depicted a first-person shooter running through a diner murdering every individual they could find. Despite the audience’s awareness of what the victim looked like, the killer’s face is never seen. The rush of gut-wrenching action is designed to raise questions over how these stories are reported. In an age where mass shootings sometimes seem to be exceeding a daily quota, what is being done to solve the problem and, more importantly, not grow desensitized?
Most other performers could be accused of using the grisly scenery for shock value. However, it was the perfect kickoff for an album that promised to be a ferocious rundown of Staples’ gripes with modern American culture. By his second single, “White Flag,” he was incorporating references to the Ku Klux Klan while whitewashing the familiar stars and stripes and shooting bullet holes through it. The symbols are provocative and blunt, serving as metaphors in an age where most mainstream rappers are concerned with beefs and Spotify metrics. Cutting through the nonsense is Staples, who, with just two songs, seems unbearably tired of playing games and is ready to lay it all out.
One of the best parts of “Cry Baby” is how much it feels like a risk. After a few somber records, he has returned to the bombastic stylings of “Big Fish Theory,” though pushed into a broader focus. It’s an angry record, but also one that purposefully finds him using his platform to highlight the political injustices he has seen in his community. In a time where late-night hosts are at risk of losing their jobs over one bad joke, Staples deciding to attack racial profiling and economic disparity feels like he’s goading the system to point out its own irony. You can practically hear the anthemic nature blasting through the speakers as he insists the listener sing along, creating something scarier than the messaging: unity.
It’s too early to know if “Cry Baby” stands a chance of being considered among the greatest protest albums of all time. However, it’s putting up a good fight just in terms of timing. The summer months are heating up, and July 4th is a perfect time to get the radio out. If this does one thing right, it’s that it doesn’t mistake important messaging as being the only necessity for a listener. Like Sly Stone or Public Enemy before, Staples understands the importance of accessible hooks and lyrics that also serve as earworms. While not every song quite gets the first shot memorability thing down pat, stuff like “Go! Go! Gorilla” does and, with just three words, manages to evoke enthusiasm through humor and symbolic messaging.
Another reason this album resonates is that it feels like it’s in direct conversation with the production standards of modern hip-hop. Whereas most Top 40 feels indebted to 808s and trap beats, the orchestration here is more mannered. “Blackberry Marmalade” is drawn by a surf guitar hook that contrasts perfectly with his lyrics on police brutality. The organic use makes it feel like the band is running with him from the danger as he repeats, “Promise me you won’t gun me down.” Adding to the delicious structure is some of the funkiest and most spontaneous bass not featured on a Thundercat record. This immediately draws the image of giving music to the people, where you can learn the chords and perform at your local dive bar while handing out flyers full of related factoids. In a time where rap music leans a bit too much into self-conscious promotion, there’s a raw imperfection that also suggests Staples doesn’t care. He’s too angry to worry about small things. Just go along for the ride and try to keep up.
In a matter of seconds, he’s already creating an American image that’s mixing ideas to create something new. The first verse on the whole album opens with the rather abrasive thesis, “Empire’s built on bloodstain grounds,” before tying in references to Kanye West, Michael Jackson, and Princess Diana by suggesting a need not to “crash out.” The density of these lines perfectly contrasts with the transition to the verse, which references his nana and her love of storytelling. The chorus in itself serves as a quaint reminder of comfort food before returning to the harsh realities of potentially being gunned down. By the end, Staples is practically taunting the listener to expose their bias by using various examples tied to racial epithets, at one point suggesting, “go on ‘head, say it.”
Obviously, the smarter listener will know how to take Staples’ request, but it’s also a moment to announce that this isn’t going to hold white listeners’ hands. If you took him at his word, there’s a chance that you need to work on yourself. Even so, this is a record of constantly being taken aback and questioning the institutions that define society. Are the states really as united as we like to think, or are there certain biases in place? The artwork points to a possible culprit with the “Cry Baby” being reminiscent of the president in a portly condition, as if the gluttony is not enough for his pleasure.
Following the jumpy “Go! Go! Gorilla” is a catchy riff led by a creeping soulful bass line and drums, like a jazz motif of military marching music. Whereas the album starts with a fist-pounding assurance, “White Flag” finds him declaring, “I don’t want to fight no more,” before detailing the nature of survival in Los Angeles County. He at one point declares, “Squabble up! I see the devil in the audience.” There’s paranoia and assumption beyond what is visible. Having grown up in this environment, it’s likely a commentary on how he’s been toughened but also on how he's formed misplaced judgment. Even still, his criticism of white people’s appropriation of Black culture can’t help but be read as coming from a place of frustration, as if asking whether his audience sympathizes with the reality as much as the art.
The next big song is “TV Guide,” where he details his time with Netflix producing The Vince Staples Show. Like everything else on the album, it feels like scratching a raw nerve and allowing any grotesque truths to ooze to the surface. Along with making a psychedelic beat that stutters through the chorus by declaring, “Television, you turn me on,” he continues the pop culture reference trend of including dense connections to the racial past. After detailing a more personal addiction to the idea of consumerism, he shifts to history by referencing Gone With the Wind (1939), Song of the South (1946), Richard Pryor, Dumbo (1941), Jim Crow, and The Wizard of Oz (1939). In a sarcastic spin on this train of thought, he shifts to an exchange with Oz the Great and Powerful, himself a huckster, who he claims “gives us crypto.” The underwhelming, inefficient reward for centuries of suffering and humiliation more than justifies any anger by the time he takes a jab at Uncle Sam.
By this point, a lot of Staples’ goals with “Cry Baby” are clear. He’s eager to have the listener see a world beyond what is presented to them. The way he weaves in pop culture lacks the normal trivial nature of other artists and instead points out the limitations of progress as he sees it. These aren’t empty gestured anti-cop lyrics. They come from a place of storytelling and experience, allowing the audience a safe distance to recognize his plight. With “The Big Bad Wolf” continuing the line of inner-city brutality as he chops up an old Slick Rick sample, he reflects on how art has long been used to speak truth to power. It becomes even truer on the back half, where “Only in America” contrasts corruption with wealth and security. The titular phrase has long meant the novel affluence one gets in this country, but he chooses it as a chance to comment about the many paths a life can take before chanting, with bittersweet irony, “God bless the U.S.A.,” as if believing that prayer and miracles could produce a chaste life.
Another reason this album works as more than a repetitive, upbeat record full of furious detail is because of how he staggers his approach. On the infectious “Cotton,” he includes a harmonic bridge that quiets everyone down, commanding them to dance in accordance with his rushed yet hushed tones. He says, “Drop the needle, turn up the volume,” alluding to the power of physical movement and the idea that music can change anyone. Given that the record is sprinkled with references to nonviolent activities, such as a passage on “Only in America” where he joyously recounts, “Fireworks on Friday night,” there’s this effort to make this largely grim record not be a total bummer, but a complete picture of a culture as in need of reform as it is of regular celebration.
That remains the conflict of “Cry Baby.” It’s a question of whether one can live a happy life and just enjoy the personal precious memories or if there’s a need to fight for change at all costs. When even the artists are struggling to stand out against the oppressive forces, is there any way to feel like tomorrow will be better? The world of Staples doesn’t have an answer so much as it gives a platform for everyone to gather and think about them while dancing and singing along. There’s a purpose to memorizing the lyrics and breaking down the entendres. Whereas most use them for meaningless humor, Staples wants to confront prejudice and lead to change. Without veering too far into party anthem central, this record remains the most thought-provoking joy ride in quite some time by returning the protest anthems to the people who don’t express themselves with 808s and autotune.
Even so, the album ends with the grim reminder that a lot of life is inevitably unified in one singular frustration. “7 in the Morning” closes the album with a dragging beat that sounds depressed, using military march chants to discuss how Los Angeles has become a war zone and, despite being able to see a Lakers parade on Figueroa, there is a need to question why we assimilate to this culture. His constant attacks, specifically at Uncle Sam, finish the record with an inconclusive statement of “Why is death our entertainment?” Given how “Blackberry Marmalade” started with a frenzied example of people on the verge of death, it’s a cry of exhaustion that no amount of effort has changed things, and yet there is a need to keep trying.
As America quickly approaches its 250th birthday with UFC fights and demolished corners of the White House, it’s hard to find a lot of enthusiasm for the current message. That may be why it’s shocking that “Cry Baby” is one of the few that not only has something important to say but does so with a creative force that few are thinking to bring forward right now. Staples sings not as an anarchist, but as someone wanting radical change, to bring focus to issues while hoping that the anger or shock will convince the system to improve its long-standing practices. Tragic irony prevails by the end, painting a picture of a man who has been beaten down, but refuses to go out without sharing his gripes. You can tell deep down that Staples loves America; otherwise, he wouldn’t fight for its betterment. This is a record brimming with importance and, in a time when rappers are trying to determine what makes something great, reminds everyone that this was a genre founded on political unrest. It’s important never to forget.
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