Kendrick Lamar and Drake: Brief Reflections
It’s much ado over nothing at all.
I have to admit that I took only a passing interest in this recent and overblown beef between Kendrick Lamar and Drake, since I’m not a hip-hop fan.
However, I do have ears. I’ve been listening to this music since at least 1980. I can recall when popular rap tunes on the radio did not exist. As late as 1985, hip-hop tunes that were big hits on R & B radio could be counted on one hand. That (in my opinion) is how it should be. Not that Black American pop music of forty years ago was anything great in its own right: it could be horribly slick and sterile, a lot of synth-driven blackfaced white noise. I don’t have to name names (okay, DeBarge and Donna Summer were classic examples of what I mean). But forty years ago, there were options besides choking on one stupid, belligerent hip-hop track after another. Today, those options don’t really exist, because everything has been infested by this fake hood “culture.”
How it is that a relatively insignificant genre of Black music came to represent our entire cultural heritage is indeed baffling. There is a huge discrepancy between what Black Americans really are and how they are represented in “hip-hop.” But the same can be said about white “Hollywood.” In fact, “Hip-hop” (the so-called “culture,” as if this is all we really are) is Black Hollywood in a very real sense. “Hip-Hop” represents what a number of Black Americans wish themselves to be rather than what they really are.
It is typical all-American escapism in natural Blackface. And it is completely violent. You could say, as did Fanon, “violence in its natural state.” Americans eat, drink, shit and piss violence. The violence is deeply encoded into American cultural DNA as a by-product of the extreme colonial brutality that was visited upon the original people of North America and, subsequently, we who were forcibly brought here from Africa to replace that indigenous population, and do their dirty work in constructing virtually every aspect of what white Americans like to call “The Great Experiment” — American Democracy.
A history soaked in mindless violence has begat a culture (with few exceptions) steeped in mindless violence. The violence isn’t always physical. In fact a huge percentage of it is psychological and spiritual, reflected in the mindless greed, selfishness, narcissism and — need one say it — deep suspicion that the average American has towards his or her countrymen: a suspicion which increases dramatically when that American just so happens not to be white, and especially if that American (so-called) is Black.
David St. Vincent, a writer for Medium, writes that “Black beef is titillating entertainment for the world, but after that audience moves on to find the next Honey Boo-Boo show, or Kim Kardashian romance, or Taylor Swift album, our people are left holding the baggage and healing the damage of our method of entertainment.” Reality TV? Welcome to Reality Minstrel Shows, updated and streamlined for the fucking 21st Century.
As I said, I only took a passing interest in this “beef” between Kendrick Lamar and Drake. But if I was pressed to say exactly who won this “beef,” I would have to give it to Kendrick Lamar. David St. Vincent would simply say (as we all should), “so goddamned what?”
“My perspective,” St. Vincent writes, “is that whatever the rationale, explanation, or excuse on offer, anytime one Black man targets another Black man for harm in a public setting, he is harming all of us regardless of whether he intends or desires to.”
It’s like watching Floyd Patterson going up against Sonny Liston all over again: Floyd Patterson being the well spoken and allegedly bourgeois Uncle Tom vs Liston the big, burly lumpenproletarian (both represent black masculinity as Americans wish to see it). Except that this time, the twists are a bit strange: Kendrick Lamar is like a lumpenized Floyd Patterson whipping the living daylights out of a bourgeois Sonny Liston who comes on like a latter-day Al Jolson: Al Jolson as big, burly Jewlatto.
I would like to take a slightly critical look at this modern-day battle-royal between these two misguided nigras on ole massa’s digital plantation, albeit from a slightly different angle than from St. Vincent’s — with whom I am in complete agreement as to how silly and egregious it all is.
First: about Kendrick Lamar.
I grew up in the seventies and eighties listening to politically charged Black music, such as Stevie Wonder’s “You Ain’t Done Nothin’” and “Living for The City,” Curtis Mayfield’s “If There’s A Hell Below, We’re All Gonna Go,” Blackheat’s “Super-Cool,” Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Goin’ On,” the O’Jay’s “For the Love of Money” and so on and so forth. Grandmaster Flash’s “The Message” and Public Enemy’s “Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos” set a political standard for the eighties. And who could top Gil Scott Heron in those days with his “Winter in America” and “Johannesburg”?
The above-named artists are the true measuring tape against which Kendrick Lamar’s achievements should be measured. And needless to say, he doesn’t quite make the cut. I’ve listened attentively to his Pulitzer Prize-winning album, “To Pimp A Butterfly.” Compared to “The Mind of Gil Scott-Heron” or “It’s Your World,” it sounds tepid and unconvincing.
TPAB is like a thrift shop full of curious geegaws and recollective odds and ends, some of them potentially pithy, barbed and occasionally acidic comments on the state of blue collar black America circa 2015. Potentially, that is. That potential was squandered by Kendrick’s inability to simplify the complicated, which is the hallmark of a genuine artist. TPAB does precisely the opposite. There’s stuff in there that doesn’t quite fit, some of it not at all, and feels like padding. Furthermore the social commentary is so out of focus that one feels like one’s looking at a Romare Bearden collage through a badly blurred camera lens. The metaphors often don’t gel. It is like a jazz suite filled with bad, repetitious chords and stale harmonies. The cover of course represents the black Americans Kendrick Lamar is familiar with and which both his white and black fans prefer to see: a bunch of goldtoothed superspades. (Most of us outside the entertainment/criminal complex simply don’t have these fat wads of cash to put up to our ears.)
Kendrick geniunely wishes to make some profound and artistically challenging statement concerning African American life. The trouble is that he lacks Scott-Heron’s (or Mayfield’s, or Public Enemy’s) artistic and aesthetic maturity; he even admits it to an extent on his track “U,” which — to my ears — is like all the other tracks on TPAB: all over the fucking place. At most, Lamar’s work is strictly “midcult”: neither highbrow nor low-brow, but smugly and safely in the mushy middle. That he won a Pulitzer for TPAB (while Duke Ellington was denied one for a lifetime of work: a different era of course, but that lousy record still stands) speaks volumes about the sorry state of contemporary American “serious” culture.
I place blame when you steal
Place shame when you steal
Feel like you ain’t shit
Feel like you don’t feel, confidence in yourself
Breakin’ on marble floors
Watchin’ anonymous strangers tellin’ me that I’m yours
But you ain’t shit I’m convinced your talent’s nothin’ special
What can I blame him for
Nigga I can name several
Situation had stopped with your little sister bakin’
A baby inside, just a teenager where’s your patience
Whats your intentions where is the influence you speak of
You preached in front of 100,000 but never reached her
I fuckin’ tell you, you fuckin’ failure you ain’t no leader
I never liked you, forever despise you I don’t need you
The world don’t need you, don’t let them deceive you
Numbers lie too, fuck your pride too, thats for dedication
Thought money would change you, made you more complacent
I fuckin’ hate you, I hope you embrace it
Loving you is complicated
Loving you is complicated
Loving you is complicated
Loving you is complicated
Loving you is complicated
Loving you is complicated
Loving you is complicated
Loving you is complicated
…
I know your secrets nigga
Mood swings is frequent nigga
I know depression is restin’ on your heart for two reasons nigga
I know you and a couple block boys ain’t been speakin’ nigga
Y’all damn near beefin’, I seen it and your the reason nigga
And if this bottle could talk *gulp* I cry myself to sleep
Bitch everything is your fault
Faults breakin’ to pieces, earthquakes on every weekend
Because you shook as soon as you knew confinement was needed
I know your secrets
Don’t let me tell them to the world about that shit you thinkin’
And that time you *gulp* I’m bout to hurl
I’m fucked up, but I’m not as fucked up as you
You just can’t get right, I think your heart made of bullet proof
Shoulda killed yo ass a long time ago
You shoulda filled that black revolver blast a long time ago
And if those mirrors could talk it would say “you gotta go”
And if I told your secrets
The world’ll know money can’t stop a suicidal weakness
(From “U,” To Pimp A Butterfly)
Drake, on the other hand, represents everything that Black Americans need to get the living fuck away from, and fast. Drake’s music is fluffy bunny rap with no depth and no intellectual anything. It is simply not true that (according to Varun Virat of Medium.com) Drake “has brought an exciting dimension to hip-hop that combines softer melodic sounds with more aggressive production elements.” His music is just empty, soulless and without substance, and his lyrics are hopelessly juvenile — the rants of an angry, confused and bored teenager fed up with his shitty life in suburbia. (His nasally delivery doesn’t help matters much, either.)
Bust that pussy open for a real one
She call me her baby like I’m still one
They say love’s like a BBL, you won’t know if it’s real until you feel one
Can I feel it? Can I feel it? Can I feel it? Can I feel one?
Can I feel it? Can I feel it? Can I feel?
[Verse 2: Drake]
Sometimes, I think to myself, “What if I was somebody else?”
Would your ass still be here?
What if I had a CDL leavin’ outta STL
On the way to ATL in a big eighteen-wheel
Would your ass still be here?
Would your ass still be here?
Would you love Ed like you love Drake?
Love Fred like you love Drake?
Love Greg like you love Drake?
Love Ced like you love Drake?
Thought you said that you love Drake?
Thought you said that you love Drake?
Thought you said, ayy
Your man brought you to the Drake show
Front row and paid all cash
Dressed up to the nines, girls showin’ all titties, showin’ all ass
Lookin’ at me like you’re single, lookin’ like you got a hall pass
Better take your ass home tonight and love that man like you say you love Drake
(From “BBL Love,” For All The Dogs)
I’ve asked about you and they told me things
But my mind didn’t change and I still feel the same
What’s a life with no fun? Please, don’t be so ashamed
I’ve had mine, you’ve had yours, we both know, we know
They won’t get you like I will, my only wish is I die real
’Cause that truth hurts and those lies heal
And you can’t sleep thinking that he lies still
So you cry still, tears all on the pillowcase
Big girls all get a little taste, ah
Pushing me away so I give her space, ah
Dealing with a heart that I didn’t break
I’ll be there for you, I will care for you
I keep thinking you just don’t know
Tryna run from that, say you done with that
On your face, girl, it just don’t show
When you’re ready, just say you’re ready
When all the baggage just ain’t as heavy
And the party’s over, just don’t forget me
We’ll change the pace and we’ll just go slow
You won’t ever have to worry, you won’t ever have to hide
And you’ve seen all my mistakes, so look me in my eyes
’Cause if you let me, here’s what I’ll do
I’ll take care of you (I’ll take, I’ll take)
I’ve loved and I’ve lost
(From “Take Care”)
From the seemingly high perch on which Kendrick Lamar appears to sit, it would make sense only by contrast that Kendrick would so gleefully shit on Drake’s head. But only by contrast. What is Drake’s problem, really?
It has been suggested that much of the shit being piled on Drake’s shoulders has to do with his being upper-middle-class, suburban, Canadian, light-skinned and, of course, Jewish. I would concur. I am not going to sit here and pretend that there is no prejudice involved in this stupid spat. I have no illusions about African Americans and know damn well that we, sadly, can be as prejudiced as any redneck asshole. We may lack the ability to act on those prejudices in the way that Sloppy Joe or PeePee Satanyahoo is able to, but those various prejudices can and do manifest, and increasingly so on social media.
Drake has been flippantly labeled a cultural “colonizer.” This is gross hyperbole. Drake speaks with the colonizer’s accent. He doesn’t have the politico-cultural pull to be a Paul Whiteman, a Morris Levy, a Clive Davis or an Irving Mills. Drake is not the fucking Immerman gangsters of Connie’s Inn: those are colonizers. He’s not even Elvis Presley! Drake is just that clueless black kid who never really grew up around black people and knows little about them (which his rap reveals) and when he tries to “be black,” or whatever he’s been told “black” is, he comes off sounding — at the very least — like a pathetic stereotype.
In addition, the list of “rappers” he’s worked with read like a Who’s Who of 21st Century Coonism: Nicki Minaj, Sexyy Redd, Rick Ross, 21 Savage, Meek Mill, and Lil Wayne. These are cultural criminals who continue to flush what’s left of Black culture — and Black folks’ global reputation — down the fucking toilet. (In one video Drake is seen putting a crown on Sexyy Redd’s knobby little head. Sexyy Redd has absolutely no talent for anything other than blowing smoke up Trump’s orange ass…in between making Black women look like idiots.)
However, his pantomime of so-called “authentic blackness” (as the racist mass media understands it to be) is convincing enough for some people. Ngannou is a wrestler/boxer from Cameroon who actually did come from the rock bottom of world society. He has found Drake’s lyrics compelling enough to make Drake’s rap his own personal theme song. Why?
I don’t like Drake’s music or, for that matter, anything Drake represents. But it seems like Drake’s critics don’t really understand the function of art, whether that art is good or bad. Rappers (assuming they’re of middle class origins, and a considerable number of them are) aren’t permitted to impersonate people from the bottom; they either must actually be from the bottom or not. If you are not then you are forbidden to mimic those who came out of such circumstances, no matter how effective your mimicry is. Which, of course, is just plain stupid overall.
And before one decides to stick a crown on Saint Kendrick’s head and declare him the new King of Authentic Black Culture, here’s why none of this matters. If you haven’t noticed by carefully reading snippets of their lyrics, both of them share a general outlook on life which is fantastically juvenile, with Kendrick edging out Drake by considerable mileage points yet still nowhere approaching what can be called maturity. Their views on sexuality, politics, economics, race — all the topics that matter to mature minds — are on the level of fifteen year olds.
“Saint” Kendrick deserves no accolades for “winning” this useless beef, since he is guilty of many of the same cultural crimes he has accused Drake of committing. Kendrick Lamar has a ghetto mentality in which “nigga” is a signifier as to who he and whom he imagines “his people” to be. Having heard all the diss tracks, I would concur with everyone else who listened to them that Kendrick definitely had the last word. Unfortunately, the Pulitzer Prize winning rapper still had the hindsight to insert certified scumbag Kodak Black into one of his musical projects.
What’s the issue with Kodak Black? This:
(I)n 2016, Kapri was facing criminal charges for sexually assaulting a high school girl. He eventually admitted to the charge in 2021 and took a plea deal of first-degree assault and was given 18-months probation and a fine of $125 — according to XXL Mag. He was also pardoned by former President Donald Trump. Which makes sense the more I think about it. I guess alleged abusers would pardon other abusers. No payment was made to Kapri’s victim, which again, he admitted to assaulting and to make matters even uglier, has since bragged about not having to pay her a cent.
So that’s Kodak Black — a real class act — who has now been featured on an album by one of the world’s most inspiring and influential individuals of the 21st century — Pulitzer Prize-winner Kendrick Lamar. And that’s a real problem, one that I feel completely downplays and cheapens the vulnerable places Kendrick goes to in his 18-song album.
Kendrick is larger than life, but his whole point for me is to be exposed in the public eye. He’s not afraid to rap about the real pain in his real life and the real pain he sees in his surroundings. He doesn’t hide behind flowery metaphors or vague phrases. He’s 100% genuine and that line is about himself and other rappers who can be reduced to shreds of themselves because of sexual trauma. Much like the sexual trauma Kodak Black caused. So why allow a person who is at the very root of the issue to be celebrated on your album? People who make the choice to sexually assault others should not be celebrated.
I strongly disagree with what Stephan Boissonneault says above concerning Kendrick Lamar NOT hiding behind vague phrases and flowery metaphors. To Pimp A Butterfly is precisely just that. The fact that sexual assailant and ultra-coon Kodak Black is allowed even an iota of space on one of Lamar’s albums really shows that Lamar, at bottom, just doesn’t really give a shit. He is ultimately amoral, a kind of dime-store Ubermensch. At bottom, this makes him not very much better than Drake.
None of this horseshit matters in the long run. None of this rubbish is speaking to the immediate concerns of most young black Americans or young Americans in general, many or even most of whom have no future ahead of them. It is just light, fluffy entertainment coming from our overpampered celebrity elite. When Kendrick Lamar triumphantly sneers, they not like us, precisely what part of “us” is he alluding to? Kendrick, like Drake, like all the rest of these rap clowns is filthy rich. We’re not.
Kendrick tells himself “you ain’t no leader” and he is right. He shouldn’t be one. And neither should have Gil Scott-Heron, for that matter. These men and women were and are, after all, simply entertainers, and leading a nation of millions is not a job they are suited to. Nobody listened to Malcolm X when he warned us about making singers and tap-dancers our “leaders.”