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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