good kid m.A.A.d. City by Kendrick Lamar (Review)
[Originally Published on May 29, 2020]
As the crowd roars two notches past what previously seemed like max volume, Kendrick welcomes solidified West Coast legends The Game, Dr. Dre, and Snoop Dogg onstage. Though all 3 of them dwarf him in physical stature, Lamar looks each of them eye to eye as he daps them up into an embrace. It’s 2011 at the Music Box in LA, and the Compton rapper is fresh off the release of his stellar brainchild Section.80.
The four of them share toothy grins and a brief, woozy dance session before the OG Snoop grabs the mic wearing an expression that’s all business. After paying respect to Dr. Dre and the Game, Snoop proudly proclaims to Kendrick: “You got the torch nigga, you better run with it.” This ignites a rhythmic chant of “Kendrick, Kendrick!” Receiving validation from his idols and being fully embraced by his city is clearly emotionally overwhelming, as K Dot’s face is riddled with tears, his limbs go limp and he topples towards the floor. His body is held up by the only 3 living men who can lay claim to having reigned as West Coast King themselves.
This christening moment is damn near unprecedented in hip hop. Though rap is primarily a young (wo)man’s sport, it is not quite like boxing where you can physically see one’s decline in skills. The fade from greatness is often more gradual, where overtime you lose grip of the culture’s ear. Not everyone is willing to relinquish the attention, power, and wealth that comes with it if they can keep the show going. Though these legends willingly handed over the West Coast crown, what Kendrick received was the undisputed championship of hip hop. As he rapped on the tenacious loosie “The Heart Part 3”, he accepted the torch and “ran with it in hot pursuit” on the autobiographical audio picture Good Kid Madd City.
The intro, the hypnotic “Sherane a.k.a. Master Splinter’s Daughter”, unravels with the sound of a tape recorder rolling and a repentant prayer. In unison, a group of young black men humbly ask God for forgiveness before the beat drops. The track is a master class in narrative storytelling. You can see Kendrick wading through the thick haze of underaged drinking, wall grinding, and reefer as he approaches Sherane at a house party. He knew she was trouble, living in a different neighborhood and having gang affiliated cousins with reputations made by wielding violence. He is skeptical but can’t resist. “My tactics of being thirsty probably could hurt me, but fuck it I got some heart/ took my momma keys than hopped in the car, then oh boy.” His foot inches forward on the gas as she sends him naked selfies during the ride, but his smile fades when he pulls up to her house. “Then I see two niggas, two black hoodies, I freeze as my phone rang.” This foreshadowing verse sets the scene for one tumultuous day that encapsulates Kendrick’s experience growing up in Compton.
The album is stitched together by voicemails left by Kendrick’s mother, which play as interludes. Her banter with Kendrick’s father provides comic relief, continuity, and a voice of reason for the album all-in-one. She makes references to “the County building” and “food stamps” that are all too familiar to impoverished groups. She also communicates her concern that she may be losing her son to the streets, a concern many black mothers share. A rambunctious teenager, the Compton rapper has stolen his momma’s van to impress his boys and hopefully fulfill his lustful desires later in the day.
The “The Art of Peer Pressure” kicks off with a short intro that sounds like driving down a Los Angeles runway lined with palm trees that two-step in the wind. Kendrick observes that he’s more susceptible to engaging in violent displays of valor and even to smoking weed when he’s “with the homies.” After an ominous beat change, he recounts how he and his friends executed a failed robbery in the more affluent suburbs and narrowly escaped arrest. He strategically shares details (a quarter tank of gas, one pistol, and orange soda) to convey how they clearly weren’t cut out for this line of work. Continuing his discussion of inequality, he raps “back to reality, we poor ya bish” on “Money Trees.” Fellow TDE member Jay Rock—who was about the life Kendrick and his friends portrayed—ends the fast break with an emphatic windmill 360 dunk of a verse.
“Good Kid” and “Maad City” are a one-two punch that punctuate each part of the album’s title. The pair of tracks plays after the two men in hoodies from earlier yolk Kendrick up and interrogate him. Sherane had set him up. On “Good Kid,” Kendrick compares gang members and police officers. Both groups expose young black men to victimhood and are often ruthless in the violence they are willing to deploy to preserve their respect and power in the neighborhood. The only difference is officers do it legally. Young black men who aren’t either gang or police affiliated must live in a constant state of fearing for their safety. They are guilty until proven innocent. Speaking from the perspective of a racial profiling officer, Kendrick raps “he’s probably young, but I know that he’s down.” “Maad City” lives up to its title, with K Dot anxiously rapping about how location and affiliation are everything in the hood. You must be consciously aware of where you are, who you’re with, and who can vouch for you at every turn in order to survive. “Where you from, my nigga?” he repeats on the hook. A beat change throws the song into further chaos, as Kendrick shares that his first blunt being laced with drugs deterred him from smoking much. “Compton, USA made me angel with angel dust,” he concludes.
Sherane’s cousins put a bad, bloody beating onto Kendrick before dumping him back into the van he drove up in. Kendrick’s homie hands him a handle of vodka to numb the pain. “Swimming Pools (Drank)” displays one of this emcee’s greatest gifts: layering his music. The track doubles as a club anthem and an indictment of alcoholism as a method of escaping one’s problems. But Kendrick doesn’t act like he’s above “livin’ his life in bottles” like so many family members and friends he’s seen. He sees that he must shed the “appetite for failure” that came from being shown he was worthless and expendable growing up in Compton. After this track, Lamar and his homies go on a vengeful tirade during which one of them is murdered. This sends them down a path of anger and blood lust for retaliation.
“Sing About Me (Dying of Thirst)” is one of the best songs Lamar has ever crafted. Over a solemn beat, Kendrick raps from the perspective of his slain homie’s brother, a young woman who was pushed into prostitution, and himself. Both critique his methods of using their loved ones as characters in his stories on wax. He describes poetic sensory details when speaking from their perspectives (my titties bounce on the cadence of his tingling keys).
After he reflects on his responsibility to tell the stories that haunt his hometown, the song moves into “Dying of Thirst.” Plunging downward over dark cymbals, he and his homies gather guns with angry, desperate tears in their eyes and repeat that they’re “tired of running.” Legendary poet Maya Angelou then comes in to talk them off the ledge, pray with them, and welcome them to their new life.
Kendrick’s rise to the top of the rap game was far from inevitable. He didn’t grab hold of his sound early on like Drake or Chance the Rapper. He had many doubters and critics who weren’t fond of his voice and rapping style. He had to find himself. Good Kid Madd City displays how most people caught up in the violent “belly of the beast” of cities such as Compton are searching for significance. They are thirsty for self-worth and often willing to die for it. On a classic release that lands among the greatest hip hop albums ever unleashed, Kendrick questions what would happen if more of us were willing to live for it.
