But now he was out front, and whether he liked it or not, success meant greater visibility, nonstop touring, and less time for himself. The album good kid wasn’t the only reason he was a star; a certain verse had something to do with that. In August 2013, Kendrick appeared on a track called “Control” with rapper Big Sean and spit a potent rhyme that called out nearly every MC who was popular at the time: J. Cole, Jay Electronica, Drake, Pusha T, and Meek Mill, among others. It was a bold move at a time when hip-hop wasn’t so bold; the diss resembled an action from the genre’s history, back when hip-hop was still finding its way, when Ice Cube tongue-lashed N.W.A, and KRS-One battled MC Shan about the best borough in New York City. The verse set off a firestorm: some felt attacked by Kendrick’s words; others applauded the tactic. “KENDRICK!!!!! Ohhhh Shiiitttttt,” Diddy tweeted. “I don’t feel like @kendricklamar dissed anybody,” rapper Trinidad James tweeted. “He just has moved up to another level.”
On the road, Kendrick would write rhymes on his phone and record music on a tour bus equipped with a mobile studio. These were less-than-ideal circumstances for his meticulous creative process, but for almost three years—including his own touring schedule before connecting with West—he had made the most of his time, pulling inspiration from the road. In December 2013, during a tour stop in Atlanta, Georgia, he found himself weighed down by his newfound prosperity. By then, he’d been on the road for four consecutive months, performing almost every night, aside from a few dates when Busta Rhymes, A Tribe Called Quest, and Pusha T opened for West instead. He was homesick and somewhat disillusioned by the massive universal impact of his music. Sure, listeners around the world connected with it, but did it have the same resonance in his hometown? Kendrick felt guilty for making it out when his friends—some of whom were talented musicians in their own right—were either in prison or gunned down. Three of his closest companions had been murdered between 2013 and 2014. He felt he needed to be home with his family and the loved ones of those who were lost.
Kendrick didn’t just want to be a voice of reason; he needed that voice to assuage this bout of survivor’s guilt. The shooting death of Chad Keaton—his friend’s little brother—hit him the hardest. On the evening of July 12, 2013, Keaton was walking down the road when a white sedan darted past him at the corner of Comstock Street and Parmelee Avenue. Shots rang out and wounded Keaton, who never recovered from his injuries. He died in the hospital thirty-one days later. Kendrick was close with Chad’s older brother, who was incarcerated and had asked Kendrick to make sure the younger sibling stayed on the right path. Chad was a good kid who had ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ravaged by all the despair back home, Kendrick started screaming in his hotel room; later, he’d use the incident as the basis of a poem woven throughout his 2015 album, To Pimp a Butterfly. “It was something that just accumulated,” Kendrick told the Guardian at the time. “I was able to bottle that moment and put it on record.”
Despite his ascension, he rapped about depression and an inferiority complex. Compton—and Los Angeles as a whole—was chock-full of great lyricists with something viable to say, so what made Kendrick the one to rise above it all? It was a question with which he openly wrestled. “I find myself to be quite confident as a person,” he continued, “but you’re going to have that piece of doubt in the back of your head because we’re human.” Kendrick faced a great deal of pressure to top good kid, m.A.A.d city, a widely heralded classic that forced some to dub the young rapper the King of West Coast Rap. Mind you, Kendrick likely wasn’t thinking about that, or if he was, he wouldn’t say so publicly. For him, the art was first and foremost, and as long as his music came from an honest place, the accolades were a plus.
South Africa gave Kendrick a chance to reset and be one with his own thoughts. He went to the blighted neighborhoods away from the tourist-centric parts of Cape Town, Johannesburg, and Durban. He spent time with the children who actually lived there, using the trip as an opportunity to learn about the plight of their communities. His time on the continent set the foundation for Butterfly, a record that was as much about South Africa as it was about his own fight to deal with burgeoning fame. “I felt like I belonged in Africa,” Kendrick later told the Recording Academy. “I saw all the things that I wasn’t taught. Probably one of the hardest things to do is put [together] a concept on how beautiful a place can be, and tell a person this while they’re still in the ghettos of Compton. I wanted to put that experience in the music.” Throughout the album, one can hear subtle nods to both the beauty and conflict seen throughout South Africa. On “Complexion (A Zulu Love),” Kendrick wanted to celebrate the various shades of black women. In the States, some black people were trained to value lighter skin over
