The Butterfly Effect

first verse is easily the most sobering: he rhymes from the perspective of a friend named Dave, whose brother was killed and Kendrick was there to see it. The friend was in the streets, still trying to find a passion that could take him away from that life. But he was in too far at that point, and just couldn’t change his ways. If Dave died, he wanted Kendrick to memorialize him and his brother in a song. Sure enough, Kendrick’s friend was shot and killed before good kid, m.A.A.d city dropped. The second verse revisits “Keisha’s Song (Her Pain)” from 2011’s Section.80, where Kendrick details the story of a prostitute who was raped and killed by a john; it was a tragic tale that Keisha’s younger sister didn’t want to be told. “I met her sister and she went at me about her sister Keisha,” Kendrick once told MTV News, “basically saying she didn’t want [me] to put her business out there and if your album do come out, don’t mention me, don’t sing about me.” Going against the demands of Keisha’s sister, Kendrick rapped the second verse from her vantage point, his voice defiant, then fading away. On the third verse, Kendrick raps from his own perspective as he tries to comprehend his own demise and what that could mean in the afterlife. At that point, he still hadn’t found the God he sought, but with death chasing him so steadily, he put his burdens in the hands of Jesus Christ, dousing himself in figurative holy water before it was too late. In this moment, Kendrick was physically and spiritually drained; he’d been running down his dreams so fervently that he truly needed rest. He let those emotions build up, taking each murder, every jailed friend and relative, and putting it all on his back. He was determined to carry the load and somehow make it better for everyone. But that cuts both ways: With Kendrick looking out for so many people, how could he possibly look out for himself? The third verse is prayerful and carried by Kendrick’s inferiority complex. “Am I worth it?” he asks. “Did I put enough work in?”

The song’s second half, “I’m Dying of Thirst,” gives Kendrick the cathartic release he needed. A riveting gospel-focused cut with haunting choral moans and cascading bass drums, the track is vengeful at first, and represents the moment when fight or flight kicks in. Everything in Kendrick says, Go kill the niggas that killed my friend, but a chance encounter with an elder changes all of that. “I don’t want to say she was religious, but she was a spiritual lady who broke down what life is really about to us,” Kendrick told Complex in 2012:

“I’m Dying of Thirst” represents being in a situation where all this happens throughout the day, but at the end of the day we run into this particular lady and she breaks down the story of God, positivity, life, being free, and being real with yourself. She was letting us know what’s really real. Because you have to leave this earth and speak to somebody of a higher power. That song represents being baptized, the actual water, getting dipped in holy water. It represents when my whole spirit changed, when my life starts—my life that you know right now, that’s when it starts.

The woman is calm, resolute, and a blessing, not at all intimidated by the fury of the young men. She settles their spirit and makes them recite a prayer to wash away their past:

Thank you, Lord Jesus, for saving me with your precious blood In Jesus’ name, Amen

Without that elder, who knows what would’ve happened. Maybe Kendrick and his friends kill the dude who smoked one of their own. Maybe they get away with it or maybe they don’t. Maybe their friends come back and pop more of Kendrick’s friends. Or maybe they pop Kendrick. Then there’s no mixtapes, no tours with Tech N9ne and Drake, no meeting Dre and Snoop, no record deal, no good kid, m.A.A.d city. He’d be just another dead black boy in a city and country that doesn’t care about black life. He’d be another statistic, one more cold body beneath a thin white sheet. More important, Kenny and Paula’s son would be gone. Despite his dad’s loving real talk and his mom’s wide-eyed optimism, it took the voice of a person outside the home to set Kendrick on the right path. The elder was there just when he needed it and saved his life as a result. His parents guided him, but she was the angel that arrived at the very second things could’ve gone horribly wrong.

The next song, “Real,” represents Kendrick’s divine awakening. This is where the rapper understands—with the help of his father—that running the streets didn’t make him cool, that “realness is responsibility, realness is taking care of your… family, realness is God…” If “I’m Dying of Thirst” was Kendrick’s baptism, “Real” is the moment he rose from the water, fully anointed as a new man, much to his mother’s delight. “Tell your story to these black and brown kids in Compton,” Paula implores on his voicemail. “Let ’em know you was just like them, but you still rose from that dark place of violence, becoming a positive person. But when you do make it, give back with your words of encouragement, and that’s the best way to give back to your city… And I love you, Kendrick.” Songs like “Sing About Me, I’m Dying of Thirst” and “Real” fulfill the prophecy of “Jesus Saves,” a one-off tune floating around the internet. On it, Kendrick wondered why his God kept blessing the song’s protagonist, even after he’s cussed out his mother, hit his girlfriend, and fired a handgun. As the song plays, his voice cracks, sobbing through his testimony while a good friend suffers through a string of bad luck.

The good kid album ends with “Compton,” the vaunted Dr. Dre and