Happy Birthday, “To Pimp a Butterfly”
By Kaila Cherry
The day before my fifteenth birthday, Kendrick Lamar released his third studio album, To Pimp a Butterfly. When I learned of the album at the time, I felt as if Kendrick had given me a special gift. It was almost as if he, the universe, or whatever entity that is responsible for placing the right things at the right time, knew I needed to hear a project like To Pimp a Butterfly. In the four years since the album came into public consciousness, I have found myself revisiting To Pimp A Butterfly ever so often. And with every listen, I am once again fascinated, enthralled, and utterly enchanted by the beauty of the album and the significance it had not only on me as an adolescent, but on American culture as a whole.
The circumstances of both my personal life and cultural tensions within the country primed me to have a deep connection with To Pimp a Butterfly. Although I spent the majority of middle school enveloped in the alternative music sphere of Arctic Monkeys and The 1975, I was slowly beginning to broaden my horizons musically. For several years, I was turned off from rap genre. This was due to being solely exposed to songs and artists I thought were profane for profanity’s sake, songs that lacked lyricism, creativity, and meaning. In eighth grade, however, I had the ability to discover music on my own terms. With an iPhone and an iPad, I used Pandora, Soundcloud, and Youtube religiously. It was through these platforms that I was exposed to my first rap obsession: Tyler the Creator and the Odd Future collective. I identified with his brazen anger, his goofy attitude, and his struggles with his mental health. Yet, Tyler was not a conscious rapper. He was not one to talk about politics or the ways in which institutionalized oppression affected him. This where Kendrick Lamar becomes so important to me.
At age fourteen, I, with the rest of the country, saw the disenfranchisement and slaughter of black bodies on the news in a cycle that felt so constant it was beginning to become the norm. With the murders of black men like Mike Brown and Eric Gardner getting tons of media attention, 2014 was a time where I began to understand the implications of being black in America. It was a time where being black was especially precarious, a time where fear for my and the safety of every black person in my life felt so incredibly insecure. Being black and experiencing blackness at the time was exhausting. I needed to be empowered by something. I needed to be empowered by someone.
Like most, my first introduction to Kendrick Lamar was his hit single “Bitch Don’t Kill My Vibe” released in 2012. It took a while for the song to grow on me. But once it did, I found myself delving deeper and deeper into his discography. I began to develop an affinity for his first album, good kid, m.a.a.d city. His narrative of life as a gangbanger in Compton hit close to home for me. Having lived in Baltimore, Maryland prior to coming to California, I had heard many stories of gang violence. Even living in the county as opposed to the city, there were still certain places that were unsafe for me to go. My older brother had to use the address of my grandmother in the city to go to a better high school because the one in our neighborhood was academically subpar and had a reputation for being dangerous. Good kid, m.a.a.d city was the first piece of art I was able to see aspects of my life and the environment I grew up in being documented in a way that was genuine and uncontrived. The vulnerability Kendrick showed on tracks such as “Money Trees,” “Sing About Me, I’m Dying of Thirst” and “Real” touched me deeply. Even at fourteen, I knew that Kendrick was more than just a rapper. He was an artist, an activist, a provocateur, an undeniable force in the cultural landscape of both music and politics. To see someone be so open and honest about the struggle of being black in combination with living in the hood made me feel seen in the most essential way possible. By the end of 2014, Kendrick Lamar had become my inspiration.
With the release of To Pimp a Butterfly, I again felt that my life was changed. I had never heard a rap song like “Wesley’s Theory” before and do not think I have since. The album’s opener is unapologetic. The vocal refrain “Every Nigger is a Star” is a sample from the Boris Gardner song of the same name. This establishes the album as a celebration of blackness in all its complexity, especially as it intersects with fame. Throughout the album, Kendrick struggles with his rising fame and how it has effected his connection to his community and his personal wellbeing. He is being tempted by money, by the devil (whom he calls “Lucy”) and by Uncle Sam. To Pimp a Butterfly is an expose on how Kendrick is attempting to navigate within the American landscape as a radical black man who came from nothing who has now become something. And with his growing success, more bulwarks are placed in front of him to throw him off the path to prosperity. The only way he is able to stay sane within such a landscape is to unapologetically reclaim his hood (“King Kunta,” “Hood Politics”) and his blackness (“The Blacker the Berry,” “i”). In reclaiming these aspects of himself, he is simultaneously reclaiming his identity. To Pimp a Butterfly is a bold declaration to the anyone who has eyes on him: No part of Kendrick Lamar will be suppressed for the appeasement of others.
Such a message was invaluable to me. At fifteen, I was in a stage in my life where I was beginning to be told by society what I was supposed to be as a black person and a woman. It was communicated to me, both through subtly and overtly, what parts of my identity were acceptable and what parts were not. As a black girl, I was not supposed to be eloquent. I was not supposed to be interested in art or writing. I was not supposed to like anything deemed by the community as “white.” I was not supposed to see myself in white spaces, like higher education. My academic prowess and multiplicity of identity were chastised from all directions. When I heard To Pimp a Butterfly, it was as if all the pressure I felt from society telling me that something was intrinsically wrong with me dissolved. By the end of my first listen, I was in tears. Never had a piece of art made me feel more validated as an individual. The tenacity in which Kendrick expressed his self concept on the album immediately transferred onto me. For the rest of my freshman year of high school, I listened to songs from To Pimp a Butterfly everyday.
Four years later, To Pimp a Butterfly has not faltered. To this day, it is still my favorite Kendrick Lamar album. I do not own a record player, yet I do own a vinyl of To Pimp a Butterfly that has sat perched on the same spot on the dresser in my bedroom for the past three and a half years. The influence the project holds is so visceral that having the physical record in the same space as me is enough to make me feel good. To Pimp a Butterfly taught me the power in being unapologetically myself, unapologetically black, and to never let my sense of self be watered down by the expectations of others. And for a young black girl, the importance of realizations like those are vital to our survival in a world that does not value us.
To the album that changed my life:
Happy anniversary, To Pimp a Butterfly.
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