I can’t remember a week when so many rap records hit the chart all at once. Most of them are pretty good, too, though one of them (guess who?) is among the worst things I’ve ever heard. The rest of the debuts are bad country, faux and otherwise. Maybe I should have called this no pop week, instead.
Kendrick Lamar—“I”
#39
You can’t love others unless you love yourself, the old self-help homily goes, but Kendrick Lamar knows that’s bullshit, or at least ass-backwards: you can’t love yourself until you love the world around you. And love it he does, so much so that he tries to pack all of it, with all its contradiction and beauty and violence and grace, into a single song. He fails, of course (how could he possibly succeed? nobody else ever has), but his ambition is so refreshing that the record works anyway. It helps that he plays it cool, hiding his ambition behind funny voices and soft 70s funk, but those things also illuminate his transition from hesitant street rapper to full-blown art rapper. They may also signify self-doubt and a lapse in confidence, but self-doubt is part of the equation—one that Lamar is obviously used to—and any rapper who puts down the Nation of Islam (“Satan wants to put me in a bow tie”) doesn’t need to worry about their confidence level.
Jason Aldean—“Tonight Looks Good On You”
#53
“Ain’t got a pair of jeans that don’t fit you just right”. Oh, Jason Aldean, you silver-tongued devil, you.
Big Sean Featuring E-40—“I Don’t Fuck With You”
#70
At last. Digging down to the very depths of his soul, Big Sean finally strips away the bluster and braggadocio that marred his career until now and reveals himself for what he truly is and always has been: a vindictive little shit. Kanye West, DJ Mustard, and E-40 pull some old beats and raps out of their respective closets to lend him a hand. Worst rap record (if that’s what it is) of the year, hands down. And of course it’s a hit.
Rae Sremmurd—“No Type”
#76
They may not have a type, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have pop sense. Latching on to a good Mike Will beat is one thing, but layering it with a flow that’s borrowed, at least in part, from Lorde, lives up to the title’s promise better than anything they have to say. I mean, every rapper’s mama thinks they ain’t living right, right?
Florida Georgia Line—“Anything Goes”
#76
Between Tyler Hubbard’s vocals and Joey Moi’s garish production, even when they get off a decent song—and this isn’t bad—Florida Georgia Line are the most irritating thing on the radio. And not just country radio, either. All radio, of all time, ever.
iLoveMakonnen Featuring Drake—“Tuesday”
#90
Catchy and different, but it goes on too long, and iLoveMakonnen’s voice grates after a while. Drake meanwhile, raps better than he usually does, and almost has something interesting to say. I’m afraid, though, that my memory of this song will be permanently altered by this, which says more about where Drake is coming from than anything else I’ve read or seen.
Migos—“Handsome And Wealthy”
#92
Let me get this straight: this guy walks into a club covered in chains, he’s handsome and wealthy, all the “bad bitches” are in his face, and he wants to know how the woman he brought with him feels? Because he’s worried she only hangs with him for his money and his looks? And he actually asks her? These guys really are different, aren’t they?
Scotty McCreery—“Feelin’ It”
#96
Now that he’s older and no longer seems as much of a wonder of nature, McCreery needs to come up with some solid material. I appreciate his attempts to ween his audience off his amazing lower register, but he needs to produce something equally entertaining if he expects them to keep listening. This isn’t it.
Parmalee—“Close Your Eyes”
#98
Worse than the Swon Brothers, if such a thing is possible. Slicker, too, which may be why.
alt-J—“Left Hand Free”
#99
As false in their own way as the Black Keys, only artier. What this really reminds me of, though, if I can be allowed to show my age for a minute, are the faux-western fantasies that Bernie Taupin used to dream up for Elton John in the early 70s on albums like Tumbleweed Connection. “Left Hand Free” leaves out the jumbled sentimental mythos that Taupin traded in, but it has the same movie set feel to it: all banal facade and no depth.