Instead the album relies heavily on outliers like Flying Lotus, bass wizard Thundercat, Taz Arnold, Terrace Martin and Lamar’s Top Dawg in-house go-tos Sounwave and Tae Beast, who weave an impressively all-over-the-place black-diaspora patchwork that bridges jazz fusion to G-funk, neo-soul to glitch-hop and all points in between, often in the same song.īut the music isn’t the most challenging thing about the album: The lyrics are preoccupied with race and personal identity in ways that will be decidedly uncomfortable to mixed company. The closest thing would be the Pharrell Williams-co-produced “Alright,” which showcases what passes for optimism during this dense 80-minute listen: “My knees gettin’ weak and my gun might blow/But we gon’ be alright.” Aside from Drake collaborator Boi-1da, Williams is the lone brand-name producer on To Pimp a Butterfly.
There hardly is a concession to radio sensibilities to be found anywhere. The result is all over the place and in one place, at the same time. Because of that, he also is less readily digestible, mixing hood braggadocio, personal demons, spiritual yearning and meditations on fame with James Brown’s stomp, Sly Stone’s riot, George Clinton’s mothership funk, loose free-form jazz and muscular, languid soul. Lamar is no longer primarily concerned with his own narrative, as he was on Good Kid, M.a.a.d City.
It’s certainly more timely, speaking to race and racism - the matter of black lives mattering - a topic that has dominated the national discourse recently.
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