Hip hop in 2015 is legion. From the unremitting grimness of Chicago’s drill rappers to the sheer joy of Rae Sremmurd, the global spotlight-hogging of Kanye to the shadowy moves of Awful Music, it’s buzzing with creativity and diversity – but it also shows an increasing tendency, even in its upper echelons, to turn in on itself. Here, New York rap writer Sowmya Krishnamurthy takes a look at the genre’s more moody and introspective tendencies.
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Your favorite rapper is depressed… and not afraid to show it. Hip hop has, of course, traditionally been the music of machismo: young men spitting to other young men, hallmarked by masculine chest pounding, braggadocio and exchanging disses. Vulnerability – mentally or otherwise – was viewed within hip hop as an effeminate trait relegated for “bitches” or “pussies” (or, worse, catering to female listeners). Back in 2001, just in case you didn’t get it, Jay Z made a point of holding a stiff upper lip and refrained from showing weakness in “Song Cry” – and just this week on The Ludaversal, Ludacris says “Too many rappers getting sensitive / y’all should start a pussy-ass nigga initiative.” In 2015, though, despite the old guard’s protests, rappers are increasingly flipping the script, opening up to release their inner demons – and not only getting away with it but getting major props for it.
The epitome of this, of course, is Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly album, which illustrates the young rapper’s journey from rags to riches, but also from depression to self-realization in 16 tracks. The narrative begins with K. Dot as the proverbial caterpillar: young and naïve, all he wants is hip hop fame. “When I get signed homie, I’mma act a fool,” he touts on the opener “Wesley’s Theory.” Once the caterpillar has attained success and gone “from a peasant to a prince to a motherfuckin’ king” he sees the downside of haters and industry pressures.
So far, so normal. Rap thrives on autobiographical narratives of fame and its pressures (“Mo Money Mo Problems,” anyone?) , and in one sense this a straightforward depiction of the success of Kendrick’s debut album proper good kid, m.A.A.d city. After that dropped, Kendrick was dubbed hip-hop’s messiah. Anointed by Dr. Dre, beloved by hip-hop heads and even Taylor Swift, he was expected to follow in the legendary footsteps of another L.A. rapper, Tupac Shakur.
But Kendrick goes deeper: for him, great expectations were no different than being pimped. He grapples throughout To Pimp… with his role as a rap star as well as his responsibilities as a young black man coming of age. He uses the recurring motif of being trapped before finally admitting to being depressed. On “These Walls” he raps about confinement as both physical walls and mental suffering (“Resentment that turned into a deep depression / Found myself screaming in a hotel room”), while on “Hood Politics,” he says he has “survivor’s guilt” because he’s attained success while there’s “a continuous war” in his community.
Spirituality plays an added role in putting pressure on Kendrick. On “U,” God chides Kendrick for his selfishness in not visiting a dying friend (“You even FaceTimed instead of a hospital visit / Bitch you thought he would recover well… God himself will say ‘You fuckin’ failedʼ) and “How Much a Dollar Cost” closes with the plaintive prayer: “Turn this page, help me change, so right my wrongs.”
“What’s up, nigga? Why you so depressed and sad all the time like a little bitch?”
Kendrick ultimately finds redemption in the final movement of the album. On “i,” the rapper is vulnerable and openly talks about his illness (“I’ve been dealing with depression ever since an adolescent / Duckin’ every other blessin’, I can never see the message”). By the album closer, “Mortal Man,” he realizes (with posthumous help from the beleaguered Tupac) that he can break free of his demons and metamorphosise into the man he wants to be: the free-spirited butterfly. “The result? / Wings begin to emerge, breaking the cycle of feeling stagnant / Finally free, the butterfly sheds light on situations that the caterpillar never considered, ending the internal struggle.”
In the case of Earl Sweatshirt, mental and emotional issues have been an integral part of his persona since his arrival on the scene. Prior even to releasing music, Earl generated a fascination around him when his mother shipped the Odd Future-affiliated teen away to a Samoan reform school in 2011. The mysterious whereabouts of the troubled teen led to a “Free Earl” movement among Odd Future and their fans . When he finally came around to releasing his debut album Doris, the youngster didn’t shy away from his rep for being an emo, sad sack. On “Burgundy,” rapper Vince Staples grills Earl: “What’s up, nigga? Why you so depressed and sad all the time like a little bitch? What’s the problem, man? Niggas want to hear you rap. Don’t nobody care how you feel.” On “Sunday”, Earl and Frank Ocean ask, “What good is West Coast weather if you’re bipolar?”
At the time, Earl refuted being mentally ill but did tell GQ, “I’m a sad bitch sometimes. That’s the shit I’m more attracted to, so even if I’m not, the shit that gets me excited is all very moody and unstable.” Clinical or not, Earl’s second album, the aptly titled I Don’t Like Shit, I Don’t Go Outside: An Album by Earl Sweatshirt is shot through with depictions of depression, extreme misanthropy and agoraphobia, among other ailments. In the haunting music video for “Grief,” Earl is cursed by isolation and mistrust. The black-and-white visual finds the rapper’s likeness blurred out, which count point to despair, delusion or lack of self-recognition. “All I see is snakes in the eyes of these niggas,” he raps, in a drug-induced slur. “I’ve been alone in my shit, for the longest… I just want my mind intact.”
“From incest to bestiality, Gates has an equally strange reputation for skirting taboos”
For Kevin Gates, depression has become an integral part of his artistry, and has helped differentiate him from other newcomers. Dubbed as a “Sensitive Thug” by Noisey and “A New Kind of Rap Star” by Mass Appeal, the rapper has spoken openly about his demons to the press. “And I really deal with depression. I really, really deal with depression. And my only release is making music and getting tattoos,” he explained in an interview HipHop DX in 2013.
Interestingly, Gates obtained a Master’s degree in psychology while in prison, which could explain why he has become a mental illness advocate of sorts. “That’s what I just advocate that because it’s okay to suffer from certain ailments,” he told Noisey. “It’s how you treat those ailments, it’s how you deal with those ailments that matters.” Being hyper-aware hasn’t exactly excised Gates of his issues, however, nor made those issues comfortable for us to behold. From incest to bestiality, Gates has an equally strange reputation for skirting taboos – or, if you prefer, being a sick fuck. As one fan observantly put it on Twitter, “Kevin Gates seems to be mentally ill.”
Mental illness in hip-hop isn’t wholly new – although it has been the exception rather than the rule, and past representation was often masked. The Geto Boys used horror and comedy to describe a schizophrenic episode in “My Mind Playing Tricks on Me” in 1991.The track’s Halloween motif served as a mask (no pun intended) for an otherwise terrifying episode. Eminem used rage and violence to describe his host of mommy issues and deep-seated misogyny in tracks like “My Mom” and “Kim,” in 2009 and 2000, respectively.
More recently, Kanye West, Kid Cudi and Drake also touched on troubled mindstates, but they leveraged singing when discussing romantic vulnerability and self-doubt on 808s & Heartbreak, Man on the Moon: The End of Day and So Far Gone, respectively. What’s interesting about this new 2015 wave of emo, though, is that the artists are being fully transparent while actually rapping. Instead of deflecting their issues into OTT dramatisations or shrouding them behind heavily processed singing – which rap purists could dismiss as not the real deal – 2015’s emotional rappers are keeping it 100 and spitting. Kendrick’s “King Kunta,” for instance, isn’t just an exercise in lyrical gymnastics, it’s fucking ferocious. No AutoTune, no faux falsetto, it’s just good ol’ fashioned rap.
“For all its innovations, hip hop is a game of follow-the-leader and what works for one rapper is frequently replicated by everyone and their mama.”
Vulnerability has paid off commercially and critically this year. Kendrick’s album just enjoyed two weeks at number one on the Billboard 200 charts, the first album to spend its first two weeks on top this year. Concurrently, Earl pushed a respectable 30k+ in his first week, while Gates has leveraged his demons to drum up buzz and intrigue around him before even releasing a major studio album.
Larger social issues and trends have played a role in proliferating emo rap and removing any past stigma. In our post-metrosexual era, the notion of men displaying emotion and sensitivity has become norm. In 2012, men’s bible GQ ran an article suggesting the “boys don’t cry” days are over. Related or may not, depression as an industry has become commonplace for men (and women). The influx of self-help books, life coaches and therapy, as well as doctors quick to prescribe anti-depressants, have led to mental illness becoming a mundane fact of our cultural life. In fact, in 2014, The Telegraph claimed “It’s become fashionable to be depressed”. Meanwhile, activist movements – particularly black feminism – have taken on a therapeutic aspect, referring to “self care” as a vital part of rebellion.
For rappers, there’s the added influence of something I like to call “The Drake Effect.” Drake has enjoyed overwhelming success since 2009’s So Far Gone, based upon his dexterity as both an adept rapper and emotional singer. Songs like “Marvin’s Room” and “Brand New,” both which have the rapper pleading with former lovers, have not only been beloved by women but by men. In fact, Drake’s biggest commercial hit to date has been his fully sung “Hold On, We’re Going Home.” There was a time when it would be easy to dismiss Drake as “soft” or irrelevant but for every lovelorn ode, he’s consistently balanced his artistry with real rap songs and hashtag-ready rhymes. I’m willing to bet that every guy who claims Drake is ‘soft,’ has probably said ‘YOLO’ or ‘with my woes’ at least once. Thank Drake later, guys.
For all its innovations, hip hop is a game of follow-the-leader and what works for one rapper is frequently replicated by everyone and their mama. Remember when T-Pain had everyone from Kanye to Jay Z using Auto-Tune (before Hov killed it, of course) or when Migos’s frenzied flow on “Versace” became the de facto delivery for every MC in the game? Based on the success of Kendrick et al, it wouldn’t be entirely foolish to bet that subsequent major releases this year by the likes of A$AP Rocky, Lil Wayne and French Montana will be more introspective and vulnerable.
Already, Action Bronson sings throughout his recent debut Mr. Wonderful, wailing and delving into the blues, and just days ago, Charles Hamilton spoke about being bipolar and asking hip-hop to be empathetic. Hamilton had a reputation for bizarre behavior and bad publicity in the past (including being assaulted publically by a girlfriend) and now attributes it to mental illness. “I wasn’t aware the entire time that I had a mental disorder… I guess I’m asking hip-hop to have a heart. “Don’t be so quick to judge just because I have a mental disorder.”
Grab your Kleenex. It’s going to be an emo year.
