Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly is the most-praised album of the year, but a good-time barrel of laughs it is not. One of the most prominent issues it wrestles with is depression. If you thought dominating hip-hop in the past few years would have put Lamar in a good mood, you’d be wrong. As he raps on u, referring to himself: “You ain’t no brother, you ain’t no disciple, you ain’t no friend/ A friend never leave Compton for profit or leave his best friend.” Such feelings are natural and healthy, considering, as Lamar has explained in interviews, his “survivor’s guilt” about getting out of his hometown while others he’s close to have suffered.



Then there’s i, To Pimp a Butterfly’s counterpoint to u, which is filled with confidence. (“I love myself!” goes the chorus.) Tracks like “i” - full of self-love and celebrating making it out of dire circumstances - have long dominated hip-hop. This narrative remains a part of rap’s DNA, as common as the 12 bar chord progression is to blues music. But, as u indicates, rapping about one’s low moments has become increasingly popular. MCs like Earl Sweatshirt, J Cole, and Drake are going to emotional places where rappers once rarely ventured.

Earl Sweatshirt’s I Don’t Like Shit, I Don’t Go Outside sets the tone with its title. Having dealt with the death of his grandmother, substance issues, medical problems, and general growing pains that come with getting successful at a young age, he probes deep within himself on the album, particularly on tracks like Grief: “Lately I’ve been panicking a lot/ Feeling like I’m stranded in a mob, scrambling for Xanax out the canister to pop.” Considering his previous albums, his collaborations with the oft-mopey Tyler the Creator, and the fact that Earl is 21 years old (a traditionally introspective age), this vein isn’t surprising, but it’s indicative of a hip-hop landscape where rappers are no longer shy about crying on the listener’s shoulder.

It wasn’t always like this. As Combat Jack has said on his show, therapy has often gotten a bad rap in the black community, which may be why rappers tend to portray themselves as emotionally impenetrable, whatever pain may lay beneath the surface.

Sure, rappers like Tupac expressed self-doubt. His 1995 album Me Against the World came out at a time when criminal cases were being stacked against him and he had good reason to be rattled. Its title track contains lines like “No one in the world loves me/ I’m headed for danger, don’t trust strangers.” But on his records, revelations like this are usually balanced out by bravado. And then there’s Eminem, who similarly hasn’t been afraid to reveal his darkest fears, and to go all the way when it comes to self-loathing. But it would be a stretch to say that Eminem’s main artistic focus is working through his mental issues; he seems most interested in putting on a good show (and he usually succeeds).

Indie hip-hop is traditionally where rappers express self-doubt. Artists like Serengeti, Eyedea, Grieves, and El-P have been masters of relentlessly critiquing themselves, in search of broader truths. On a mainstream level, “sad robot” rappers like Kid Cudi and Future have taken expressions of longing and ennui to glorious heights. Their work has surely been inspired by Kanye West’s 808s & Heartbreaks, which is perhaps the greatest and most fully-realized vision of grief ever auto-tuned. In some ways, Kanye is the bridge rapper who has taken hip-hop from the i era into the u era; he’s certainly never been shy about trumpeting his greatness, but he’s almost equally adept at dissecting his failings in song. Without 808s it’s hard to imagine the success of Drake, who spends much of his time chronicling his emotional turbulence.

Maybe all of this just means that your favorite rapper needs Lexapro. But I for one applaud this turn towards introspection in hip-hop. It’s undoubtedly made for rap that’s more genuine and more “real” even, to borrow a shopworn rap phrase. I can’t say I’ll be mad when things inevitably take a turn back toward Lil Jon/Waka Flocka Flame-style irrational exuberance, but for the time being hip-hop’s psychotherapy era seems to be bearing fruit. Sad, tender fruit that bruises easily, maybe, but fruit nonetheless.