Kendrick Lamar: Mr. Morale & The Big Steppers
After a 5-year intermission, King Kenny (now reborn as oklama) has dropped his fifth studio album, Mr. Morale & The Big Steppers. The long-awaited album, which hears the generational artist reminisce on “the first time [he] fucked a white bitch,” confess to the graphically vivid slurs he would launch at his auntie (who is a man now) in his salad days, and ruminate on the gripes he holds with the current zeitgeist of virtue signaling and cancel culture, fits as a bold proclamation of self in a celebrity climate where restraint seems to have become the safest choice. In this most recent project, Kendrick is unafraid to give us testaments to the highest degrees of his human flaws.
This choice seems to emerge in direct response to the decorated rapper’s appointment (by a large swath of hip-hop heads) as the game’s messiah. Following the releases of Good Kid, M.A.A.D City and To Pimp a Butterfly, his status as arguably the greatest rapper of all time is far from undeserved. But, with this deep veneration from millions of fans comes the unique pedestal attached to global superstardom. Due to being a figure celebrated across the map (or, in other words, a worldwide stepper), Kendrick uses this album to refute beliefs that he is above the materialistic vices, problematic habits, or violent tendencies of mortal men. “Celebrity does not mean integrity, you fool,” he mumbles in “Rich Spirit,” expressing his disdain for the roles of guidance asked of culture’s A-listers. By creating this disclaimer, effectively advising listeners to limit their reliance on the rich and famous for virtuous stewardship, the Compton native carves out space to continue his work as the people’s prophet while maintaining transparency as an imperfect leader.
“Savior,” then, lends itself as a thesis of the larger body of work. The introduction opens with “Kendrick made you think about it, but he is not your savior,” with the final verse continuing “The cat is out of the bag, I am not your savior/ I find it just as difficult to love thy neighbor.” Those latter sets of bars provide an interesting contrast between the God-like status the rapper is placed into by his devoted fanbase and his inability to love blindly in the manner true holiness would entail. Recognizing his own corporeal limitations, Kendrick draws the line between his capability as a voice for the masses with that of divine religious prophets. Unlike a truly pure or religiously perfect leader, Kendrick admits that he preaches with hate in his heart and flaws to his story.
Those thoughts are further upheld in “Mr. Morale” when he writes, “Better known as myself, I’m a demigod/ Every thought is creative, sometimes I’m afraid of my open mind.” With an understanding of his artistic talent, Lamar concedes to his almost supernatural ability to make music, while maintaining that he is anything but. He much more accurately defines his creative identity as demigod-like, neither fully humanistic nor fully sacred. Having laid the groundwork for mask-less, honest conversation, oklama then vents frustrations that have poured over from the hit single “Family Ties”: He is sick of the “overnight activists” and the “social gimmicks.”
In this current digital era, it doesn’t take the great rhyming or storytelling talents of Kendrick to amass crowds of supporters. Instead, anyone with a phone and access to social media is granted the platform to voice opinions or advance leadership to their followers. Kendrick, throughout this new stage of his artistry, vents his annoyance with those who only use such platforms to exude images of goodness and purity, without their messages carrying any real substance. “I pray to God you actually pray when somebody dies/ Thoughts and prayers, way better of timelines/ False claimin’ not cute, I’m mortified,” he spits as he glides over the spacey, classically west coast instrumental of “Rich Spirit.” With timelines referencing the interfaces of online sharing platforms, Lamar expresses his embarrassment in living with those that fail to carry their digital sentiments into reality.
In “N95” he takes his most commanding voice of the project, using the recent proliferation of face coverings as a metaphor for the moral facades of today. He urges his audience to “take off the foo-foo, take off the clout chase, take off the Wi-Fi.” Initially, under a simple snare and hi-hat pattern, he switches tone to inform his listeners that “it’s a real world outside,” before the instrumentation widens with noxious distorted 808s, triumphant synths, and grounding piano keys. He follows this expanded production with a couplet about his trip to Cairo and St. Tropez, giving contrast between the relative blandness of fabricated digital worlds against the rich vividness of the palpable earth beyond our screens. The beat then begins to soften again as he instructs his listener to continue shedding their superficial exoskeletons. “Take off the fake woke.” “Take off the gossip.” “Take all that designer bullshit off, and what do you have?”
Immediately after questioning what’s left once all the artificial is removed, the grand production begins to flourish again. Atop the return of this robust, stunning sound space, he snarls, “Bitch! You ugly as fuck! (You outta pocket).” Interestingly, while these words alone would be insulting, Kendrick’s delivery attaches them to a sense of empowerment. After all, he is the one that demanded his audience to strip down to their unseemly cores. Similar to the rough, jarring 808 accompaniments, the beauty in a rugged, bare person is not always found in what’s conventionally pretty or well-packaged, but the charm can also exist in the coarse, harsh imperfections. Being out of pocket, as well as referring to crossing the line when one goes too far, also cites the off-beat flow he uses here, trademarked by Baby Keem, whose jittered, unorthodox rhythm has become appreciated by his followers despite its relative oddity. In a coordinated act between his message and his sound, oklama reminds his listeners of the enchantment and beauty that’s found in the bizarre and gross. He invites us to abandon our cloaks of virtuosity, symbols of status, and desires to portray perfection for a naked representation of our fallibilities.
Unfortunately, though, with Kendrick’s desire to focus on highlighting his limitations, his consumer base is left with less enlightenment than they may feel he’s capable of providing. While the artist rejects most of the logic of cancel culture, one of its main questions still stands: shouldn’t someone with such a large platform highlight the needy and decenter the oppressors? It surely doesn’t seem as though Kendrick is doing his due diligence in this aspect. He makes the widely offensive decision of including Kodak Black on the album, who was the center of public contempt after accepting a plea deal for his rape allegation. With another dubious artistic move, he un-censors himself fully in “Auntie Diaries,” spewing a label used to dehumanize and subjugate queer identities in a long history of struggle and inequality. While this song ultimately ends in clarity the artist finds in the faults of his old ways, it feels as though that lesson could have been communicated with less damage. He tiptoes around the inclusion of Kodak in “Mother I Sober,” which comes across as a reductive and stale explanation of the trauma reproduced by black male rappers in their communities. Overwhelmingly, it seems Kendrick is much more comfortable presenting mistakes than he is being the model presenter.
He doesn’t seem fully careless about these harmful inadequacies, though. As he exits the album, he issues an apology for the mistakes he knows he’s made and his absence in the world’s time of need. In the outro, “Mirror,” he reflects on the album, himself, and the demands expected of him. He admits that “he can’t live in the Matrix,” before confessing his inability to please or show up for everyone. Seemingly, he uses the Matrix as a proxy for the simulated reality that’s created by the internet and the expectation that’s placed on him to untangle its issues. In a similar manner to “Savior,” he upholds the point that “faith in one man is a deal breaker.” Instead of attempting to be the hero solving all current issues, he limits his scope to the issue of fakeness by delivering all his flaws on a table. He acknowledges the damage that occurs in this process, and apologizes, stating, “I choose me, I’m sorry.”
While Mr. Morale & The Big Steppers does not provide the medicine for all of our culture’s ills, it does offer some therapy. It precisely addresses a concern for callout culture online, which can limit the ability of Black people to grieve after patterns of devastating, state-sanctioned executions. In opposing the demand for constant computerized expression, Kendrick validates the need to prioritize oneself and to shape space for one’s own healing. “I care too much, wanna share too much, in my head too much/ I shut down too, I ain’t there too much/ I’m a complex soul, they layered me up,” he confesses in “Count Me Out,” addressing how despite being relied on for his profound voice, he often needs to first address his own wellbeing before addressing the needs of others. As an essential theme of this album, his self-care often comes across as revealed therapy sessions with the German teacher Eakhart Tolle, in which Kendrick needs to be fully truthful in order to grow and learn. So, in sharing glimpses into his vestigal queer-phobia, misogyny, and daddy issues, Kendrick Lamar invites us to forgo our online images of purity and address our own challenges. Though Kendrick doesn’t create a perfect body of work, he communicates an alternate, critical message of candid self-critique through a showcase of flaws, jagged edges, and moral deficiencies.