I first listened to Kendrick Lamar’s good kid, m.A.A.d city in 2020, on a bus ride to a cross country meet where I was coaching during the pandemic. I had enjoyed rap music before, but in that moment something shifted. This wasn’t just entertainment. This was poetry.
From the opening tracks, it was clear Kendrick was not only telling his story but weaving it with beats, rhythms, and narrative threads that felt cinematic. Each song played like a chapter in a larger tale of youth, violence, hope, and survival. I had never heard an album so cohesive, so unified in its vision, and it forced me to reconsider what rap could be.
The album also changed how I thought about race in America. I already had some understanding of the struggles Black communities face, but hearing Kendrick’s story in his own words made that reality more vivid, more personal. Through his lyrics, I caught a glimpse of the weight of circumstance, of the dangers and pressures that shaped his youth in Compton. It was both illuminating and humbling, a reminder that art does not just entertain, it reveals.
Musically, the album is brilliant. Tracks like “Backseat Freestyle” explode with energy, while songs like “Sing About Me, I’m Dying of Thirst” slow the pace to a haunting meditation. It’s a balance of urgency and reflection that few artists achieve. Kendrick’s delivery shifts constantly — sharp, vulnerable, fierce — reminding you that every word matters.
For me, good kid, m.A.A.d city marked a turning point. It opened my ears to rap as a true literary form, a modern poetry that can hold both rage and beauty in the same breath. It made me more attentive, more curious, and more empathetic. That is the mark of great art: it doesn’t just stay in your headphones, it stays in your life.
— Written by William Edward Villano
Find More of My Work
Thanks for reading! You can also find my reviews and reflections across platforms:
- 🌐 Reel & Read Website
- ✍️ Medium
- 📧 Substack
- 🎸 YouTube
- 📚 Goodreads
Reel & Read 