Kendrick Lamar trucks in apotheoses. Showmanship. Thaumaturgy. Bluster. Hyperrealism. Mythos. Documentary. To Pimp A Butterfly stirs those modes together to on an album—light on samples, rich in gilt rococo G-Funk—that’s isn’t wholly unimpeachable but at its high points verges on unapproachable. By “unapproachable” I mean in the sense of “being without serious competition.” If you come for the King [Kunta], etc. etc.

Ten years since this album carved a niche for itself in the zeitgeist, its power as a picture of the times hasn’t diminished, nor has its thematic contents waned in the Year of [Oh] Lord 2025. Considering the arc of songs like “The Blacker The Berry,” though, maybe it would be nicer if the trauma, losses, and cruelties TPAB catalogs were less legible with age.

Nonetheless. I don’t feel I have much new to add that hasn’t been covered by other reviewers. I will note that the transition between “u” and “Alright” feels more deliberate and dramatic now than the impressions I clocked in the moment as a shy college senior. So it goes. Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis, as we pin on Ovid.

It should also be noted, despite Uncle Sam’s promise on “Wesley’s Theory,” Kendrick hasn’t been “Wesley [Sniped]” before 35. As of writing, he’s 38 and ongoing. And Uncle Sam is still sweating the truths Lamar spits as bullets regarding all the riches Black people have made for this whitewashed concern of ours. Some things never change, yet.

I've listened to seven albums and this is the greatest album of all time