Kendrick Lamar – To Pimp a Butterfly
Some stuff here is undoubtedly brilliant, but…this sort of thing is not for me anymore, and I (and you) should stop pretending it ever really was. Lamar’s slashing anger at social injustice is laudable and viscerally gripping, but the album is tempered with hip-hop’s usual tiresome obsessions. I’m definitely well into the second half of my life, so I really, really, really don’t need to spend one of my dwindling hours listening to yet another self-tribute to bad-ass gun-toting “niggas” and their magic dicks, punctuated by a few shout-outs to bitches and pussy. It was fun to have imaginary swagger for a while, but guys, it’s over. I just cringe now when I try to listen to it. And to all the white, middle-class twentysomething music bloggers (and respected, middle-aged, equally white professional critics perched pretty high on the socioeconomic ladder) who put this at the top of their year-end list, shame on you copping a vicarious thrill by trying ride the street-cred coattails of something that IS NOT FOR YOU…
…or maybe it is for you. On second thought, this sounds purposely designed and marketed to win the Frank Ocean Award for Outstanding Achievement in Making White Music Nerds Feel Cool.
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The Institute of Idle Time 