Though Kendrick’s friend Jay Rock was angered by Ice Cube’s comments, Kendrick eschewed acknowledgments from older MCs like Cube, DJ Quik, Snoop, and the like. “Do I need a cosign from Dre or Jigga?” he asked on the EP track “Celebration.” “They can make me much bigger, but do I need ’em, though? / I just need a flow / The type of shit that make you think you seen Pac ghost.” For the vets to give a thumbs-up would’ve been substantial, but Kendrick knew he wasn’t like those who’d come before. He was a nuanced mosaic of varied influences, pulling into one body the lush humility of southern rap stalwarts like OutKast and Goodie Mob, the lyrical dexterity of Nas and Eminem, and the straight-ahead tough talk of Pusha T and Killer Mike. He also had a golden ear for all kinds of instrumentals—from the off-kilter soul of J Dilla and Madlib to the jazz-based orchestration of the Roots. Kendrick wasn’t classically trained, but he had instinctive musical awareness; he just knew what sounded good, and he knew how to articulate his vision for his art, no matter how weird it seemed to others. Though he didn’t play traditional instruments, he turned his voice—a nasal, almost childlike timbre—into its own instrument, sliding up and down the register like a singer to convey the right emotion. Critics of hip-hop like to chastise rappers because they’re supposedly not musical, that maybe they can’t pluck an upright bass or tell you what key the composition is in. Such thinking isn’t fair; it takes tremendous poise to spin words into vibrant poetry. Kendrick was theatrical in that way; listeners never knew what they’d get from one verse or song to the next.
He didn’t close himself off to disparate art to hold up some make-believe narrative of Compton rappers being drawn only to gangsta shit. And that was why, ultimately, he gained the respect of L.A.’s rap elite, because he had the courage to be himself in a town that didn’t always reward such bravery. Kendrick remained true to the music that he wanted to create; that the rapper stood on his own two feet made him much more intriguing to the artists he admired.
Still, the pangs of his father lingered, and eventually the self-doubt spilled into a song called “Determined,” the closing track from his 2009 EP. Here, Kendrick recalls a simpler time, when he and his girlfriend were splitting a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, looking forward to the days when his name would be mentioned alongside the greats. In those days, Drake was the guy; through his popular single “Best I Ever Had,” the Canadian rapper and Lil Wayne affiliate was quickly becoming the “it” guy in hip-hop. And though Kendrick’s partner was listening to Drake’s music back then, she knew it was only a matter of time before Kendrick’s reign kicked in. “You know you the best, boy, you gotta keep doing it,” Kendrick remembered her saying. “But don’t forget when you do, just keep you in it.”
That plea stuck with Kendrick, and even after he started racking up awards and became a transcendent figure in music and pop culture, he never let fame get to his head. “He’s the same person. Nothing has changed,” the experimental producer Flying Lotus said in 2019. “He [don’t] be coming in no designer shit. This motherfucker came through to the crib a few months ago with the hoodie and some shorts on. Socks and slides on. He’s just the same cat. It didn’t feel any different.” Matt Jeezy concurs: When he worked in a homeless shelter near Skid Row in downtown Los Angeles, Kendrick would come through—at the height of his popularity—without any cameras or an entourage in tow. “He took care of some of the kids I worked with down there,” he recalls. “Even the first time he called, I was crazy busy dealing with some traumatic stuff at the center and Kendrick insisted on coming down to help.”
Though The Kendrick Lamar EP was a breakthrough, the public still wasn’t paying attention. Surely he’d amassed some fans on the road, but Kendrick was still unknown to much of the press and to listeners at large. His name was being whispered on blogs and in underground rap circles, not shouted out loud like Drake’s, Wayne’s, and Kanye’s. But in lieu of critical acclaim, the EP reset the palate of those who may have written him off after C4 and set an emphatic tone for what his career would be going forward. It was the first to display Kendrick as the deep critical thinker, and offered a glimpse into the family dynamic that made up his character. For the first time, Kendrick dropped the veneer of simply being a good rapper and let us into the personal torment that drove his hunger to be the best. Here was where he first let listeners into the depression and nagging self-doubt that haunted him well into his prosperity. But Kendrick never let it define him; instead, he used it as fuel to propel moments of unvarnished truth. This was his narrative, his history, and whether or not he succeeded, Kendrick vowed in 2009 to go out his way and no one else’s.
