A Compton-born lyricist named Jayceon Taylor—known creatively as The Game—would ascend to the fore as L.A. rap’s newfound savior. He was considered a throwback, and his arrival recalled the cold-blooded imagery and steely bravado of the 1980s and ’90s. He also had something that very few rappers received in Los Angeles: a cosign from the elusive Dr. Dre. By the early 2000s, Dre was a mythical figure, and to have his blessing was to be touched by the right hand of a divine being. His golden ear was proven: In the early nineties, Dre let a skinny unproven kid from Long Beach rap on a number of his songs—including the ominous “Deep Cover,” “Fuck wit Dre Day (And Everybody’s Celebratin’),” and the silky “Nuthin’ but a ‘G’ Thang.” His name was Snoop Doggy Dogg. Then, in the late nineties, Dre signed an unknown rapper who’d been making waves in the underground circuit as the talented white lyricist with a penchant for tongue-twisting flows and outlandish imagery. His name was Eminem. In 2005, The Game released his debut album, The Documentary, and its commercial success brought renewed interest to gangsta rap in L.A. The glory days were back, and there was a sense that his prosperity would open the door for like-minded rappers to walk through.
The Game served as a mentor to the younger generation of L.A. lyricists, and for a while, he was the main guy looking out for MCs like Kendrick and Nipsey Hussle in the city. The Game was paying it forward, just like the local heroes had before him, and just like Kendrick and Nipsey would do in subsequent years. The Game was an overachiever who believed in hard work as the foundation of everlasting success. Likewise, unfazed by internet buzz and fleeting fame, Kendrick wanted to rule forever, and the only way to do that was to make sure his rhymes were incredibly sharp. He also benefited from the “SoundCloud era” of hip-hop, in which rappers could forgo the old ways of making it in the music industry. Because the internet was the great neutralizer, anyone with Wi-Fi could upload their music to the wildly popular SoundCloud streaming service and find immediate celebrity. The internet offered immediate access to fans without the filter of a record label or some tastemaker to cosign the music first. Kendrick didn’t have to be visible, and that notion would dictate his career.
Observers in the L.A. rap scene were introduced to Kendrick much like the rest of us elsewhere, as the mysterious kid whose sound was incredibly tough to pin down but was remarkably pleasant to the ear. But that aesthetic cut both ways for Kendrick. Yeah, he could rhyme, but who was he really? Which was the real Kendrick? There was no grand breakthrough for him; rather, he rose through word-of-mouth praise that slowly trickled through the community and made him a cult hero. It was better that way, in fact: this approach gave Kendrick the creative freedom to grow authentically in front of the people who knew him best, the local folks who saw him as Kenny and Paula’s son, the quiet, driven boy from the neighborhood. In turn, they wanted only the best for Kendrick, and regardless of the potential fame and fortune coming his way, the people of Compton rallied around the young man—for the most part. Because gangsta rap ruled there, some chided the MC for not honoring the city’s musical lineage. To get love from the neighborhood, you almost had to be a gangbanger, and Kendrick stopped just short of perpetrating the lifestyle.
Kendrick was actually the second musician Tiffith signed to the label. In 2005, Tiffith had signed a guy named Jay Rock, a rapper and fellow Nickerson Gardens native who’d been recording songs with other local lyricists and generated a buzz. Tiffith heard Jay Rock’s music and literally drove around looking for the upstart lyricist to invite him to his studio. “I was chasing him around and he hides, thinking I’m trying to discipline him about some bullshit,” Tiffith told Billboard in 2017. “I finally catch him while he was getting a haircut: ‘Yo, you rap. I’m trying to do this shit. Let’s go.’ ” Jay walked into the deal having known Kendrick from Centennial High School, where Jay had friends and would skip classes at his own school to spend time at Kendrick’s. However, there was slight tension between Kendrick and Jay in the early days, as their respective neighborhoods had beef and the two rappers didn’t know how to respond to each other. “With me being the big homie,” Tiffith once said, “you guys can bridge the gap between the hood, because y’all can speak to the world now. You can get some money and change all this gangbang shit.” The ice soon melted between the two, and soon enough, they spent many hours together in Tiffith’s studio, later dubbed the “House of Pain,” testing each other bar for bar in the tiny, unassuming space. Jay often tells the story of his first creative
