Like Tupac, Lamar could effortlessly juxtapose his feelings of worthlessness with a bravado that was magnetic, inspiring. His rapping was so virtuosic that he almost seemed bored by his own skill, trying out new styles just because he could during guest appearances on other M.C.s’ albums. Most important, he had that rare blend of raw talent, empathy and confidence that made every song, no matter how sad, ring with the kind of hope that you felt as a knot in your chest. Nas, in his prime, had the talent, Tupac had the empathy, Rakim had the confidence. In Lamar’s songs – like “Sing About Me, I’m Dying of Thirst,” maybe the finest the form has ever produced – you could hear all three knocking together.

“good kid, m.A.A.d city” was not only nakedly emotional, but also unexpectedly self-aware, with Lamar probing what his inevitable celebrity might mean. On the track “m.A.A.d city,” he raps:

“If I told you I killed a nigga at 16, would you believe me? Or see me to be innocent Kendrick you seen in the street With a basketball and some Now and Laters to eat If I mentioned all my skeletons, would you jump in the seat? Would you say my intelligence now is great relief? And say it safe to say that our next generation maybe can sleep With dreams of being a lawyer or doctor, instead of a boy with a chopper.”

These lines laid the groundwork for Lamar’s new album, “To Pimp a Butterfly.” He anticipated his messiah status even before it was bestowed on him and pushed back against the social burden placed on artists who, by virtue of their talent, are expected to lift up their communities. At the same time, he acknowledged the reality of this responsibility.

In the final moments of the “good kid, m.A.A.d city” track “Real,” we hear a phone message from Lamar’s mother. “Tell your story to these black and brown kids in Compton,” she says. “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.” In “m.A.A.d city,” Lamar seems to imagine himself as the local bard, one who doesn’t have to answer to the white world or the music industry. He doesn’t seem to want a wider, ambassadorial role, doesn’t want to be the artist whom white kids play for their parents — the rapper whose “intelligence” is a “relief.”

On “To Pimp a Butterfly,” Lamar steps into a new role, one that feels shaped, in part, by the burdensome expectations placed upon him as a hip-hop messiah. In some ways, this was inevitable – every anointed rapper eventually has to move away from the memories of childhood to tell other kinds of stories. But few have done it as abruptly, and with as sharp a move from the personal to the explicitly political.

The new album is a thicket of inspirational, historical references; you’ll find critical race theory, George Clinton, Nelson Mandela, Richard Pryor, Exodus 14, respectability politics and six separate levels of meta-analysis about the meaning of Lamar’s success and messiah status. It seems almost designed for parsing in a college classroom. As Clover Hope pointed out in an excellent essay for Jezebel, the accumulation of all these black references washing over the listener creates its own mood, its own emotional timbre. But what you won’t find on “To Pimp a Butterfly” are the engaging storytelling and descriptive eye that brought Lamar’s Compton to life on “good kid, m.A.A.d. city.”