The Butterfly Effect Read online

  Yugen Blakrok, a South African rapper who—in 2018—was chosen by Kendrick to appear on the soundtrack of the blockbuster film Black Panther, remembers the palpable buzz surrounding Kendrick’s visit to the Motherland in 2014. Where other U.S. musicians typically visited Africa and took from its culture, using its sound and fashion to line their own pockets, Kendrick actually gave back to the community—praising it in interviews and on his music. He didn’t whisper the wonders of South Africa; he shouted them loudly. “You started noticing things,” Blakrok recalls, “like when he started growing his hair out.… Black people, we’re not the minority out here, we’re the majority. It’s just different how we wear our hair and our clothes. It’s different from what I think is going down in the States.” South Africa gave Kendrick the freedom to be himself, to be untethered to the nuanced cultural restrictions of America. According to Mark “Sounwave” Spears, a longtime Kendrick collaborator, something clicked for Kendrick when he went to South Africa, and once he returned home, the rapper scrapped two to three albums’ worth of material to create the expansive sonic opus that is Butterfly.

  In South Africa, Kendrick saw black faces—joyous and resilient black faces—all fighting to navigate their own circumstances. The country was just twenty years removed from the end of apartheid and still segregated, with much of its black African population living in urban townships outside Johannesburg, Kempton Park, Durban, and Germiston. Still, Blakrok says, there’s comfort in knowing that black people outnumber other races. “There’s a different type of power, a physical power,” she asserts. “They know they can’t fuck with us physically.” Blakrok likens Kendrick’s visit to that of a humanitarian, and his presence in the region lit a fire beneath some of the rappers there. He was, and still is, a lyricist first and foremost, and for an MC with that level of technical prowess to thrive meant like-minded artists could succeed the same way. “It just showed there was a more open acceptance of that kind of hip-hop, whereas before, it was always pushed to the underground,” Blakrok says. “It established a trend of listening to rap that’s a little more left of center.” “He was the amazing artist with a Dr. Dre budget,” says the rapper Reason, who opened for Kendrick at Johannesburg Stadium in February 2014. “You could feel it. This guy’s not just big, he’s not just famous, he can actually rap. People were moved when he came through.”

  Reason recalls the business savvy that Kendrick brought with him. He remembers the so-called “ego walk”—or the long runway that extends from the stage into the crowd—that allowed musicians to perform closer to the audience. It was a way to better connect with the people, thus offering a more intimate show. “Nobody could use the ego walk except for Kendrick,” Reason asserts, “and if anybody used it, they were not going to perform.” Some resented Kendrick for that. “Others were arguing, ‘Why is this guy gonna build a big ego walk, and he’s the only one who’s allowed to use it? You know this is our country, why can’t we use it as well?’ ” Turns out the answer was simple: “It was always spun around to say, ‘You didn’t ask for it. He did.’ ”

  The disagreement encouraged local musicians to take those minor details seriously, and to pay stricter attention to the contracts they signed. “It kinda upped the game,” Reason says. “It was an interesting experience to go through, but it did have a nice, positive impact, because there was a big change after that.” As Sabelo Mkhabela, a noted South African hip-hop journalist, points out, Kendrick performed in the country just as local artists started to rethink those sorts of opportunities. “A lot of South African artists were beginning to refuse to be opening acts for American superstars,” Mkhabela declares. “We get treated like shit backstage.” Despite the initial hard feelings between Kendrick and local performers, all was forgiven once the headliner hit the stage. “He would just perform and perform, then stand still,” Reason recollects. At the Johannesburg show, in particular, Kendrick—dressed in a green hooded jacket, tan shorts, and a gray T-shirt—made great use of silence, using a long break between songs to strengthen the room’s energy. The fans started chanting his name, and like Reason said, he was literally just standing there on the ego walk, letting the anticipation climb to frenetic heights. “The crowd would roar. They’d make so much noise and it wouldn’t stop until he said something. That makes you appreciate how planned that is.”

  The genesis of modern South African hip-hop can be traced back to kwaito, a style of house music that emanated from the township of Soweto in the mid-1990s, just as the structures of apartheid were being dissolved and Mandela took office as the first democratically elected president of South Africa. Blending elements of mbaqanga, kwela, eighties bubblegum pop, and traditional praise music, kwaito was different from the straightforward rap of South Africa in the 1980s. Groups like Prophets of Da City (P.O.C.) and Black Noise pioneered hip-hop in Cape Town and Johannesburg, and have been credited with ushering in a new wave of black consciousness. P.O.C. was the first rap group in the country to record and release an album; the crew was able to build a fan base overseas and even performed at Mandela’s inauguration in 1994. Black Noise signed a deal with Tusk Music—a subsidiary of Warner-Elektra-Atlantic—and released its own album in 1992. That group, led by rapper Emile YX?, harkened back to the foundation of U.S. hip-hop, when break dancing and graffiti were equally essential to the rhymes being said over the music. Kwaito became the voice of disenfranchised youth who had grown tired of white minority rule and wanted apartheid to be abolished once and for all. Rap groups like P.O.C. and Black Noise were chastised for emulating the sound of hip-hop coming from the States.

  Conversely, kwaito was celebrated as an authentic sound for South Africa. In 1995, Arthur Mafokate scored kwaito’s first commercial hit with “Kaffir,” a brash tune with pointed lyrics about white oppressors in South Africa. The song title refers to a derogatory term used in the country against black people, and on the track, Mafokate demands that his boss (or “baas”) not call him by it. The song draws immediate comparisons to Sly and the Family Stone’s 1969 track “Don’t Call Me Nigger, Whitey” for its reclaiming of a word meant to insult a race of people. (To that end, Kendrick would do the same toward the end of To Pimp a Butterfly, on a song called “i,” in which he subbed the derogatory N-word with the Ethiopian word meaning “king.”) The song “Kaffir” passed muster with the youth, some of whom were influenced by Mafokate’s music and went on to create their own resonant art. Mafokate was dubbed the King of Kwaito, and from there the music thrived as a bold alternative to the political—albeit, more palpable—songs of yesteryear. In 1998, kwaito group Boom Shaka caught flack for a house music version of the South African national anthem that it created and performed. It was thought by some to be a commercial subversion of the original hymn; the group, in defending its version, said their version was meant to attract younger listeners.

  South African hip-hop is still fairly corporate, and rappers who aren’t tied to major sponsors have a tough time sustaining themselves in the country. That leaves little to no room for MCs who prioritize the art of making music over the demands of making money. “Black artists here aren’t really afforded that luxury of making art for art’s sake,” Blakrok says. In recent years, members of the African National Congress have used hip-hop to secure votes while trying to rebuild confidence in their mission. As a result, a big-name rapper like Kiernan “AKA” Forbes has been criticized for not speaking truth to power, much as his predecessors would’ve done decades ago. “The people are questioning him,” says journalist Mkhabela. “They’re like, ‘You, as a young person, how are you campaigning for a party that is failing a lot of young black people?’ ” Above all, Kendrick served as motivation to traditional lyricists in South Africa who identified with groups like P.O.C. and Black Noise, and who longed for a time when thoughtful lyricism took precedence over glossy, pop-focused hybrids. He represented the roots of hip-hop and all the spoken-word poetry, 1970s funk, and R&B that preceded it. Kendrick was allowed to create authen
tic music without conforming to what was hot on the radio, and in South Africa, he was a guiding light for unheralded MCs who wanted to succeed on their own terms. In him, they had an example of someone who could have fun without sacrificing content, who could discuss serious issues—like his family’s history of alcoholism—over booming bass drums that resonate in nightclubs. By and large, rappers haven’t been able to do both, yet Kendrick was breaking the mold for his generation.

  Four years after he visited the country, Kendrick would once again cast his eye to South Africa by selecting four of its rappers to appear on Black Panther: The Album. Not only was it a soundtrack to a major film, but it was meant to depict Kendrick’s broad musical vision of the Motherland. He could’ve chosen big-name acts from South Africa, but he went deeper into the scene to spotlight artists who were still on the rise. Along with Blakrok, the rapper chose dance music artist Babes Wodumo, rapper Saudi, and singer Sjava to share space alongside noted American rappers ScHoolboy Q, 2 Chainz, and Vince Staples. Blakrok was on tour when she was contacted by Kendrick’s label, Top Dawg Entertainment, to appear on the project. Kendrick and the label had been listening to a lot of South African music, and Blakrok—a smoky-voiced lyricist with elaborate wordplay—fit the album’s concept. After her inclusion on Black Panther, Blakrok found an audience in the United States and Europe, where her style of hip-hop was better appreciated. And because of the Kendrick nod, she suddenly had greater pull. “The fact that I wasn’t a mainstream artist with a major label, it really put a lot of attention on me,” says Blakrok, who released a critically acclaimed album, Anima Mysterium, in 2019. “If you’re not on TV, it’s almost like you don’t exist, so to be included was huge. It opened up a lot of doors for me. It was a cosign and it did wonders.”

  Ultimately, South Africa played a significant role in Kendrick’s career, and in many ways, the time he spent there helped redirect the course of mainstream black music. If he hadn’t taken that trip, or opened his eyes to the country’s grand splendor, there’d be no To Pimp a Butterfly. Free and avant-garde jazz might still struggle to attract bigger groups of fans, and sonically challenging art might still be relegated to smaller venues. South Africa set the stage for Kendrick’s greater act. It also allowed him to return to where it all started, this time with a clear head and a full heart.

  2

  “California Love”

  Before Kendrick Lamar was a world-renowned rapper, he was an introverted kid trying to navigate Los Angeles. Ask around and you’ll get the same story: the Kendrick we see today is the same mild-mannered child from 1990s Compton who, as a preteen, pedaled his bicycle through the neighborhood, ate Now and Later candy, and played basketball and tackle football with his friends. Kendrick was quick on the court, with nice dribbling skills and a reliable jump shot (though in later songs, he’d admit that it wasn’t quite good enough to take him to the NBA). He had dreams of going pro, much like other young black boys in economically challenged communities. In a place like Compton, with its prevalent gang culture, there’s a myth that black and Latino children are destined only for the streets, or that they can make it out only by creating music or playing sports at a high level. Some join gangs or sell drugs, but to spotlight that narrative alone is to ignore the support system in towns like this—the mothers, fathers, activists, and local leaders who project positive images to which the youth can aspire.

  Compton wasn’t always Compton: Before World War II, the city was majority white, with racist policies that prohibited black families from moving there. In 1948, the U.S. Supreme Court overturned those laws, and by the early 1950s, black families started buying houses, much to the dismay of the whites already living in the suburban enclave. White people fled the city, fearing that their property values would plummet due to integration. The black population in Compton rose to 40 percent by 1960; a decade later, the neighborhood was 65 percent black. Crime began to rise due to growing unemployment, and in 1971, a gang called the Crips formed. The crew was founded by high school students Raymond Washington and Stanley “Tookie” Williams after they decided to unite their respective gangs to battle South L.A. gangs that were bothering them. The Crips soon became the biggest street gang in the city. In 1972, the Bloods were formed by Sylvester Scott and Vincent Owens along Piru Street in Compton, and were quickly established as a rival gang to the Crips. Members of other local crews had been assaulted by the Crips and were eager to join the ranks of the Bloods for revenge. By the early 1970s, middle- and upper-class black families started moving to nearby towns like Carson, Inglewood, and Windsor Hills. As a result, Compton became the epicenter for violent crime and gang activity in Southern California.

  Alonzo Williams, a DJ and nightclub owner who created the World Class Wreckin’ Cru (of which Dr. Dre was a member before he became a face of gangsta rap), remembers a different time in Compton. He grew up in the town and used to walk through what are now considered dangerous parts without any issues at all. This was in the 1970s, before crack cocaine hit the streets, back when gangs existed but to interact with them wasn’t so dire. You could live near them, not be gang affiliated, and still feel safe. “Compton was like any other city, man. It was cool,” Williams remembers. “We always had gangbangers, you went to the dances and they’d be there, but you’d walk right past them. Most of the guys you’d play baseball with or you went to school with, and there was a code of the streets that the gangbangers wouldn’t mess with the civilians. Gangbangers only fought with the gangbangers. They weren’t the ones looking to start no shit, but you don’t fuck with them.”

  Crack cocaine changed everything. Gang activity grew out of control, and money was the new motivator. Williams also saw the dynamic shift in his nightclub. In 1979, when he opened the famed Eve’s After Dark banquet hall, a small number of his patrons were gang affiliated; by 1990, when crack was in full swing, much of his crowd was gang affiliated. “I had to change my personal attitude and dress code; everybody wanted to be a thug, everybody wanted to sell dope,” Williams says. “Everybody wanted to be hard. As soon as somebody got pissed off, they claimed a set. That was how you got people off your ass. It became fashionable to be a gangsta. You just did it because of where you lived, you could claim it.” That mentality still exists, Williams says: “Today, a lot of these kids are claiming hoods just because they’ve been told, ‘You live over here, that’s where you’re from.’ A lot of them are not really with the gang life, they’ve just found themselves attracted to it because it’s still fashionable in 2019 to claim a set. Back in the day, you knew why you were with a certain set. Now a lot of guys are doing stuff off the strength that it seems like the hot thing to do.”

  Kendrick was raised in a working-class environment, first in an apartment building along East Alondra Boulevard, then in a small blue house along West 137th Street with his mother, Paula Oliver, and his father, Kenny Duckworth. Kendrick’s parents had moved to Compton from Chicago’s South Side in 1984, three years before he was born. Kenny had lived in the notorious Robert Taylor Homes in Chicago and run with a street gang called the Gangster Disciples. Afraid that Kenny could end up dead or in prison, Paula put her foot down: He’d have to quit the crew or their relationship was over. “She said, ‘I can’t fuck with you if you ain’t trying to better yourself,’ ” Kendrick told Rolling Stone in 2015. “We can’t be in the streets forever.”

  Kenny and Paula packed their bags and traveled to California with just $500. They were headed farther east, to San Bernardino, but settled in Compton after Kendrick’s aunt Tina put them in a hotel until they could make ends meet. To sustain themselves, Paula did hair and got a job at McDonald’s while Kenny worked at Kentucky Fried Chicken and hustled on the side. Times were tough, but they eventually saved enough money for a more stable lifestyle. Then Kendrick was born—on June 17, 1987. As a child, he was a thoughtful wanderer who quietly observed his surroundings. That’s not to say he wasn’t fully present, but he found inspiration in the nuance of everyday existen
ce. Kendrick, by his own admission, would sit in the corner and carefully watch what happened, taking mental notes on the scenes that unfolded. Even from a young age, he had the makings of a great scribe, yet he wouldn’t pursue creative writing until he reached middle school. He was a perfectionist, and one can hear that approach in the poetry he wrote about his youth. Neighborhoods are described with pinpoint accuracy, down to the local landmarks and everyday voices that used to soundtrack his block. On good kid, m.A.A.d city, for instance, we hear actual characters from the community—the friends, the devoted church lady, even Kendrick’s parents—coming together to contextualize the rapper’s life story. On this work and others, he gives ample weight to the good and the bad in equal measure. By connecting lyrically with the Crips, Pirus, and everyday residents, Kendrick envisions a united Compton in which they all live harmoniously.

  Kendrick was born just as gangsta rap began to gain traction with listeners beyond Southern California. The year he arrived, rapper Ice-T released a song called “6 in the Mornin’ ” that detailed the life span of a hustler selling crack cocaine. Through its vivid, lyrical imagery, the track opened a window into the perilous nature of life as a young black man in President Ronald Reagan’s America, where a so-called “War on Drugs” implicitly targeted and jailed inner-city minorities. Following Ice-T’s lead, in 1988, Compton quintet N.W.A (Niggaz Wit Attitudes) released its debut album, Straight Outta Compton, which cast a vicious light on civic despair and the police department’s rampant abuse of power. The pioneering L.A. group introduced a wave of rap that went deeper than the materialistic flash that emanated from New York at the time. Sure, the crew flaunted a little on Straight Outta Compton, but N.W.A wanted to address real issues in the harshest language possible. It was crude, raw, brutally honest, and shocking, but it also became a massive global phenomenon and set a benchmark for what gangsta rap would be compared with for years to come. “It’s the world before N.W.A, and it’s the world after N.W.A,” group member Ice Cube once told Kendrick in an interview for Billboard.