Drake represents a new fusion between rap music and the US culture of individualism. From his insider-outsider position, with an American father and Canadian mother, the Toronto rapper has latched on to the individualistic strain always present in hip-hop and removed it from its wider context in the African-American fight against racism. In him, rap individualism becomes a pure expression of ego.
His first studio album, 2010’s Thank Me Later, was estimated to contain 410 uses of the first-person pronoun. Over a decade later, the topic remains unexhausted. “This is the part where I find a new part of me to explore,” he raps on his new album, Certified Lover Boy.
With 21 tracks lasting almost 90 minutes and involving over 12,000 words of lyrics, the navel-gazing is epic in scale. Such bloat is typical of Drake’s albums. But Certified Lover Boy has defied predictions of his waning commercial powers as he reaches his mid-30s. Within hours of its release, it broke streaming records set only days previously by Kanye West’s Donda.
There is a longstanding rivalry between the two rappers. West represents a competing strand of hyper-individualism, centred on the self-aggrandising myth of the genius. His songs are full of attention-grabbing noise and disruption. In contrast, Drake’s songs are softer, less strident. He raps in an easy drawl, as though luxuriating in the sound of his voice. His tones are framed by highly textured beats overseen by his long-term producer Noah “40” Shebib. The music is moulded around the rapper’s vocals, a world of sound in which his imprint is total. It illustrates an older meaning of genius, the essence of a person.
He is joined on the album by numerous guests, almost all men, several of whom (Jay-Z, Travis Scott, Lil Baby) also feature on Donda. Amid these companions, Drake depicts himself as a colossus carrying the cares of the world upon his back. These cares don’t include the pandemic or Black Lives Matter activism, which are mentioned only in the most cursory way. The penthouse of Drake’s imagination is a lonely place. “Under me I see all the people that claim they over me,” he raps of his antagonists in “Champagne Poetry”: “And above me I see nobody.”
“Nobody” rhymes with “me” for Drake: nobody is his equal. He portrays himself as a patriarch, mixing references to his real-life son Adonis with symbolic imagery that cast him as a kind of rap founding father. The pregnant emojis on the cover, designed by Damien Hirst, seem to show the harem of women variously bedded during the course of the album’s many verses. Drake’s sexism becomes ludicrous in “Girls Want Girls”, when the rapper tries to woo a gay woman with the absurd claim that he too is a lesbian. But there’s nothing comical about the decision to briefly sample alleged sex abuser R Kelly on “TSU” — it was unintentional according to producer Shebib, as a Kelly song was playing in the background when a guest’s voiceover was recorded.
Drake’s brand of rampant individualism is objectionable, even immoral. But it can also be pleasurable, smoothed by flowing melodies and multi-layered production. In this respect, Certified Lover Boy marks an improvement over his recent output. The rapper’s indulgent desire to break into R&B singing is kept under control, as is his habit of borrowing from the sounds of UK rap or Afrobeats. Notwithstanding the album’s length, it is more focused than its immediate predecessors. Tennis, that most individualistic and exhausting of sports, is mentioned several times. With Drake, you don’t have to like the player, but you can enjoy the match.
★★★☆☆
‘Certified Lover Boy’ is released by OVO Sound/Republic Records
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September 10, 2021 at 04:00PM
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Drake’s Certified Lover Boy is a pure expression of ego - Financial Times
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