Dr. Dre, by contrast, is more concerned with atmosphere, mood and texture. He has a production credit on about half of the songs on this album — and he uses samples elegantly, a dying skill — but he was involved with mixing all of them, and that’s a more important detail. They all share a tactile physicality. Ever since “The Chronic,” it’s been clear that Dr. Dre’s real peers are film score composers — say, John Williams or James Horner — who communicate emotional direction with broad, legible strokes that set the tone for the details sprinkled atop.

Because of that, Dr. Dre’s albums have always felt as if they were about something other than the man himself. “The Chronic” was Snoop Doggy Dogg’s coming-out party, and “2001” was partly a showcase for Eminem, but also for plenty of others (Knoc-turn’al, Hittman). Whether it’s out of generosity, reluctance, fear or habit, Dr. Dre rarely, if ever, wants to stand alone.

Mainly, though, what “Compton” shows is that Dr. Dre isn’t racked by self-doubt. He merely needs some kind of muse, something bigger than himself to believe in. In this case, the muse is both the city and the history on display in “Straight Outta Compton.”

On “Talk About It,” he raps, “I remember selling instrumentals off a beeper,” and on “Talking to My Diary,” he recalls his early days in N.W.A. A sample of Eazy-E’s voice appears on “Darkside,” and “For the Love of Money” borrows its hook from Bone Thugs-n-Harmony, who were signed to Eazy-E’s label, Ruthless. Ice Cube appears, somewhat clumsily, on “Issues.” Dr. Dre’s former protégé Snoop Dogg (many years past the Doggy) is here, as are the established Los Angeles rappers the Game, penetrating on “Just Another Day,” and Xzibit and Cold 187um (of Above the Law), who both shine on the ecstatically thumping “Loose Cannons.” Eminem is reliably crass on “Medicine Man,” including one particularly toxic line about rape.

In light of the recent agonizing over the use of ghostwriters in hip-hop, it’s worth noting that Dr. Dre has long been understood to use young talent to contribute to his rhymes. Read the credits while listening to his verses, and it’s possible to make some educated guesses about who’s doing the puppeteering, whether because of the content — there are more flickers of political stridency than usual — or because of the flow, with Dr. Dre rapping in tricky syllabic patterns that his voice clearly doesn’t feel comfortable with. He tends to take on the qualities of whomever he’s sharing the song with, an odd concession from such a singular talent.

That’s a form of hiding, too, though. And on “Compton,” he has at least one good reason to fade into the background: Mr. Lamar, who appears on three songs. Mr. Lamar is the photo negative of Dr. Dre — he’s a dense lyrical technician who can be all trees, no forest. As strong as his albums have been, he’s still needed the caress of a Dr. Dre.