King Lamar’s magnetic pull keeps his show together

There he is, almost at the end of his concert. The king sovereign and calm in his transparent cube, towering over his fans. Praise is waved with illuminated telephone screens and a full Ziggo Dome chants Ken-Drick, Ken-Drick.

Kendrick Lamar has earned that position. With albums that have all been certified platinum, fourteen Grammys, and even a Pulitzer Prize, he confirmed his status earlier this year with a fifth album. mr. Morale & the Big Steppers was called brilliant. A record in which the conscience of hip-hop puts itself on the rack and raps and sings from a hyperpersonal perspective about issues such as racism, social deprivation and cancel culture.

It’s also a record of sudden twists and turns, and monologues fired in the dark by a troubled mind. He was also called difficult. But then ‘difficult’ as an advance on the possible future assessment ‘masterpiece’. Mr Morale is such an album that you suspect, no hope, that it will reveal its beauty in full width and convince after several listens.

The question was also how Lamar was going to translate those difficult new songs into a live performance. United in Grief for example sounds like high speed spoken-word poetry, fired by a clattering snare drum. Not an obvious concert opener. But a giant white cube steps out of a gigantic white cube, a gold-covered Lamar, in all black and with a belt buckle only seen on boxing champions. A ventriloquist dummy raps along and both demand attention in dramatic close-ups on the screens.

Where a superstar like Kanye West unpacks with all the visual effects you can imagine, Lamar looks for it in simple drama that is magnified on the screens. That big white cube, reminiscent of a negative of the Kaaba, and dancers dressed in black and white. It is visually impressive minimalism. Remarkable: there is no longer even the appearance that music is being made on the spot, as with many hip-hop concerts. Nothing that could indicate that is visible on the stage.

And after the admired stylization of United follows N95 with his hissing trap hi-hats. Lamar advises, in a fast tempo and compelling dance rhythm, to throw off all the superficial fashion phenomena of our modern society. That cycle of admiration and excitement repeats itself throughout the concert.

In Father Time raps an agitated Lamar about his daddy issues on a mellow soul background that seems to want to calm him down. On the side screens, see the human Lamar, casually on a chair, serving as the psychiatrist’s couch. On the main screen a black and white animation of a dreamed youth. Then you as a spectator are hunted again like the older mAd City is deployed. A wave of recognition floods the room. Everyone loudly sings the rhythmic ‘Yawk! Yawk! Yawk! Yawk!’ along, only to end up en masse in a dark stair trance.

There seems to be a natural division of roles for Lamar’s songs. The older songs mostly function as party tracks, while the new ones are more contemplative. But the abrupt alternation between the two breaks up the concert a bit. A chronic ailment of hip-hop concerts also applies here: songs are cut short just when you are in danger of losing yourself in them. This takes the momentum out of the concert and prevents tension from developing. As a result, you experience almost every song individually, not as part of a larger, glorious whole.

It’s King Lamar’s magnetic pull that holds it all together. He doesn’t pop on stage, he strides through his oeuvre. Here a dance step, there a get-together with the audience; the sympathetic but solitary prince of hip-hop does not indulge in nonsense. Not necessarily distant, but a little distant. Masterful, but also a bit difficult.