![]() The songs are not titled per se, simply numbered and dated, although it’s unclear exactly when they were finished. But before we hit the two-minute mark he’s seeing rapists and murderers, “death faces screaming in agony,” “atheists for suicide/planes falling out the sky/trains jumping off the track.” And this is a jam about uplift. This eight-track, 35 minute set begins in a bedroom, incense burning, Lamar sexing up a lover over soul-jazz, bass-and-percussion foreplay. ![]() Of course, nothing’s that simple in the mind of Lamar, and after torching the Grammys, his embers are still popping. It feels like an earned and inclusive celebration of a singular artist’s excellence, achieved against all odds. “Pimp, pimp: hooray!” goes the cheer that reappears throughout the record. Why wouldn’t our best artists mirror that? In the wake of Kanye’s work-in-progress psychodrama comes this left-field Kendrick Lamar surprise drop – a similarly unfinished-feeling, just as all-over-the-place, yet somehow more decisively indecisive set, which functions as a victory lap following the triumph of To Pimp A Butterfly. We’re up to our molars in data-seas of dissonance, and most of us are flipping out, at least a bit.
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