The Butterfly Effect

describe. It had an it factor, and as it played, there was this feeling that you were hearing something familiar and fresh happening at the same time. Artists of his ilk don’t usually create sonically challenging art like this; for the most part, once they find a working formula for their music, and sell a bunch of records as a result, they tend to stay in that lane to ensure their financial security. There’s rarely an impetus for going beyond the scope of what’s expected. So for Kendrick to create such a record was incredibly brave, and it set the course for others to do the same. It gave greater name recognition to the musicians in its liner notes, and because of its dense jazz textures, Kendrick and the jazz experts on To Pimp a Butterfly have been credited with bringing the genre back from obscurity. To Pimp a Butterfly harkened back to the jazz of its heyday—the hard bop of the fifties, and the funk fusion of the late sixties and early seventies—and brought the music to a younger audience. Because of Butterfly’s adventurous nature, and perhaps due to the newfound interest in jazz, Kamasi Washington released The Epic soon after. To Pimp a Butterfly made it okay for Washington to put out such an ambitious project at a time when attention spans were shorter; a three-hour record, of any kind, likely wouldn’t exist before Kendrick’s project. “That record changed music, and we’re still seeing the effects of it,” Washington told Pitchfork. “It went beyond jazz; it meant that intellectually stimulating music doesn’t have to be underground. It can be mainstream. It went beyond everything else, too: harmonically, instrumentation-wise, structurally, lyrically. I feel like people’s expectations of themselves changed, too. It just didn’t change the music. It changed the audience.”

So not only was he changing the world for black people nationwide; he was changing the musical landscape as well. That’s not to ignore the trendsetting black music that came before To Pimp a Butterfly, though: in 2007, long before this album was ever thought of, vocalist Janelle Monáe released an EP called Metropolis: Suite I (The Chase), which blended R&B, orchestral jazz, and science fiction, resulting in a capacious mix of performance art that defined Monáe’s musical career moving forward. Then, in 2014, Flying Lotus released You’re Dead!, essentially a free-jazz album; on it, he and Thundercat explored the spirit’s journey from life to death when the human frame passes away. On a smaller scale, the success of To Pimp a Butterfly opened the door for esoteric black music to get coverage from large rock publications. In the years prior to Butterfly’s release, it was almost impossible to get editors to care about the new generation of jazz artists, but in the months after, everything was a jazz record, and it was easier to get pieces commissioned on Glasper, Terrace Martin, Thundercat, Kamasi Washington, and the like. They carried with them a level of intrigue, and from the To Pimp a Butterfly sessions, the publications wanted to know just what they did to create such a vibrant blend of soul, funk, hip-hop, and jazz. The Butterfly cohort became stars, and with their fame came greater opportunities to push their music even further into the world. Kendrick was being hailed as a jazz savior, and as Glasper points out, the rapper began to appear in the pages of the genre’s top publications. He was casting his net even further, touching bigger audiences and spreading his message. That’s how Kendrick became a leader. “I feel like he’s a rebel,” Lalah Hathaway says. “He could come out and do and say anything. What he’s talking about is what’s happening in the street. His art mirrors his life.”

8

The Night Kendrick Ascended

Around 2016, a harsh reality started settling in. In less than a year, the country’s first black president, Barack Obama—term-limited—would be leaving the White House. And not only were we losing President Obama, we were losing his family, too: First Lady Michelle Obama, and their daughters, Sasha and Malia. The most dynamic first family ever would soon be gone, and all we would have would be memories of the previous seven years. The Obamas had swept into Washington, D.C., in 2008 on a tidal wave of hope and change, and in the black community, there were feelings of euphoria, that the country—which for so long had reminded us that we didn’t belong—was suddenly liberal enough to elect a black man to the highest seat in the land. There was this notion that we had won something: we’d endured the worst of the United States and were somehow moving beyond our horrific past. Just look at the joyful tears the night Barack Obama was elected—the look of pure delight, shock, and bewilderment. Was this the same America?

In hindsight, the notion that we’d moved into some sort of post-racial America was a foolish thought, but we hadn’t seen anything like this—or like Barack Obama—before. He had to be something special to navigate the American political system: equally affable, charismatic, and unflinching, he talked the talk and walked it, doing his best to bridge the gap between Republicans and Democrats while keeping his own transcendent voice. But even that raised this issue: for a black man to be elected U.S. president, he had to damn near walk on water. He had to have the perfect family, the perfect record, the coolest stride, and a smile that could light Times Square. Not surprisingly, Obama faced resistance, but he remained cool in public. Perhaps he knew that he couldn’t show rage, that if he did, he’d come off as the “angry black man” typically decried in public discourse. His cool made the rest of us relax, even if the first years of his presidency weren’t seamless: In 2009, the first year of his first term, Obama inherited an economy on the verge of financial collapse. The stock markets crashed, unemployment was rampant,