Kendrick Lamar
DAMN.

LA RECENSIONE

Come on, be honest: how do you Italians, lovers of football and secretly (heaven forbid it comes out!) admirers of Calcutta, manage to like this stuff? I mean, seriously, what makes you say you like this straight, monotone rap like this big thing full of black-power themes that, deep down, you couldn't care less about? Who makes you listen to this stuff, when you don't understand half a word and even Genius can't help you? What makes you lower yourself to the taste of the average contemporary pitchfork-nerdy university student?

I am sure that anyone - in Italy - who says they love Kendrick Lamar is a pathetic liar, but more than that: a complete jerk, an incorrigible frustrated loser, one of those who shovels crap on Drake and Sfera Ebbasta because they find them lacking in content and only suitable for teenagers in full hormonal storm, when in fact it's the first to want to be somewhere else every time one of those boringly hyper-accelerated verses of the non-national Kendrick starts: and instead, they must stay there, all tense in a false pleased expression, with their subclavian the size of a bazooka tube, saying, painfully, "what a damn bomb, eh?". When the sheep that follow the hip-hop trends dictated by white Americans make me sad, perhaps no one could express it.

I don't know what to do, dear Italians who say you love Kendrick: I don't believe you. I don't believe you also because I remember when until seven years ago you were shoveling crap on the Dogo and Truceklan saying that rap was a subject only for brainless primates; I remember when you flaunted the a priori superiority of any form of music made with guitars over rap, as a genre for unschooled street daddies. Kendrick Lamar doesn't speak for you, and if he could, he would laugh in your face seeing you nodding your head to his songs. "Rap is a violent sport," not a cigarette.