Kendrick Lamar Has a Right to Be Mad at GQ

The magazine praised the rapper, but it also endorsed the stereotypes he's trying to subvert.
GQ

Listening to Kendrick Lamar is like “putting on the illest 3-D glasses in hip-hop,” Steven Marsh writes in a new GQ profile of the 26-year-old musician. Marsh is right: Lamar’s songs really do describe the world in such a way that it’s like you’re standing by his side, watching the struggles he’s rapping about happen in real time.

That’s a compliment, but on Saturday, Lamar’s label boss released a statement blasting Marsh’s article, which accompanied GQ naming Lamar one of its “Men of the Year.” What “should have been celebrated as a milestone,” Anthony “Top Dawg” Tiffith of TDE Records wrote, had been ruined by the “offensive” story’s “racial overtones” and focus on “drama.” GQ editor Jim Nelson has responded with bafflement, saying the magazine “gave him our highest honor: putting him on the cover of our Men of the Year issue. I’m not sure how you can spin that into a bad thing, and I encourage anyone interested to read the story and see for themselves.”

You can understand Nelson’s confusion at the story’s reception. Marsh indeed wrote “an incredibly positive article,” filled with smart observations that help explain what makes Lamar such a powerful artist. On first read, I didn't quite understand the outrage either.

But that fact shows just how pervasive the problem here is. Even when praising rap, it's easy to reinforce old, destructive stereotypes about it. It's especially unfortunate in this case because Lamar’s whole act helps to remind his listeners that hip hop and the inner city aren’t just pop-culture motifs: They’re real places filled with real people who have real lives.

Check out this passage from Marsh’s article:

Much of Kendrick's music now is an attempt to transcend his ravaged world without separating himself from it in judgment, about somehow gaining control over his household's chaos—some of his uncles were Crips, and his father was reportedly a Gangster Disciple in Chicago before moving to Compton—and over his neighborhood's warped commitment to adolescent pride. It's an ethos that extends to his crew. They have a seriousness of purpose, a rigorous discipline that can feel slightly monastic at times. Kendrick doesn't smoke weed or drink booze. In the time I spent with him, I never witnessed anyone roll even the thinnest spider leg of a jay, nor did I see Kendrick so much as glance at the many, many girls around him.

It’s innocuous until you consider the underlying implications. The description of Lamar’s crew “slightly monastic,” “rigorous discipline” comes from them not getting high and Lamar not being a cad. In other words, being law-abiding and decent—which is only remarkable if we’re assuming the group of people in question to not normally be law-abiding and decent.

There are reasons that assumption exists. One is that, as the article and Lamar himself notes, rap often portrays itself as hedonistic and sex-driven. But that’s performance—an exaggeration in the name of self-expression, entertainment, and commerce. Why would it be extraordinary that a group of human beings, when you meet them, aren’t quite the way pop culture portrays them? Perhaps Kendrick’s crew is “calm” in comparison to other rap clans Marsh has hung out with, but if that’s the case, the reader doesn’t know it. Instead, we’re expected to operate off of stereotypes. The point the piece seems to make isn't that those stereotypes are wrong or even that they describe a complicated reality, but that these particular people are exceptions.

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Spencer Kornhaber is a senior associate editor at The Atlantic, where he edits the Entertainment channel. More

Before coming to The Atlantic, he worked as an editor for AOL's Patch.com and as a staff writer at Village Voice Media's OC Weekly. He has also written for Spin, The AV Club, RollingStone.com, Field & Stream, and The Orange County Register.

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