Unbest

Kim Huston on Drake’s Take Care (2011)
(iTunes, Rdio, Spotify)

godiminbadshaperightnow:

After awhile girl they all seem the same: Drake, “Take Care,” and the desire to get vulnerable

I have a love-hate relationship with Drake’s Take Care. 

I’ve been hard pressed to understand why since I enjoyed So Far Gone and Thank Me Later. I’m not averse to emotional, introspective or relationship-exploring hip-hop (although 808s and Heartbreak is one of my least favorite records of all time, but Kanye’s “Everything I Am” remains one of my favorite songs). If there is one thing I unquestionably love about this record, it’s the production. Sample choice, the general vibe—Noah “40” Shebib truly set a mood and let Drake tell a story on an original, flowing, cohesive  canvas.

The story that he tells is confessional in a way that makes repeat listens out of the question. I’m a person who liked the Bell Jar; I like sad songs. But there is something about this record that cuts to something so blatant that I can’t help but feeling jarred. I can’t bring myself to listen to his lament of fame and the deterioration of his personal relationships.  I hate this record because it highlights feelings, quibbling worries I wouldn’t even admit to my closest friends. It’s like listening to your own diary with The Weeknd hooks and Nicki Minaj going to town all over it.

Please let me explain.

I know that I deal with change in a poor fashion. Blame it on my Taurean nature, blame it on a life-fearing upbringing or any number of things—but I’m not a risk taker. And this year was nothing but huge life choices after entire years of status quo and keeping the peace. I said yes to Michigan. I quit a job, I started a new one. I left Detroit when everyone, including myself, probably didn’t believe I would until I did.

I don’t think I could ever relate to the life of a multi-millionaire rapper, but Drake makes it easy for me.  It honestly sounds like Drake is more fucked up by change than I am, and that’s really comforting.

I think Drake is addressing and writing about the two versions of introspection that I believe to exist with this record. The first kind is completely steeped in your own beliefs—it’s completely insular and has nothing to do with anyone else. It’s the type that makes 100 pound women think they’re fat—it’s not true, but they can’t hear; that’s their belief. The second has everything to do with everyone else—friends, family and their timelines. “All of my friends are married/getting married/in committed relationships/in their perfect jobs/writing the great American novel. What are YOU doing? Why aren’t YOU there?” It has everything to do about everyone else in your life, whether or not it is relevant to you. No one is saying this stuff to you (or maybe they are), but it feels like they joined a union to write a letter saying “We’ve all agreed you’re a disappointment because we’ve accomplished XYZ and you haven’t.”

“Headlines” and “Make Me Proud,” make me think of the latter type of introspection.

“Headlines” is Drake addressing haters, seeming friends, the press and generally everyone who thinks they know what his next step should be. Where’s the next “Fancy”? What the fuck is this depressing shit? Is the Drake love fest over? These are all questions he answers and while it seems that there are lots of external stimuli affecting this song, it wouldn’t exist if the questions posed weren’t steeped in a middling belief he has that the doubters have a point and that the complete adulation from others might be unworthy. Figuring out how your own narrative and feelings compare to that of your peers falls away as you grow out of your teens and then acutely surrounds you again when you hit your mid-to-late twenties. Drake is dealing with a microscope on his professional and personal lives much more than I am, but I understand the sentiment of how a seemingly innocent question or comment can lead you to writing a song (or an essay about a rap album) that is dramatic and overemotional in an attempt to really have other people understand and validate your feelings.    

Trying to find that validation is tough- but here are Nicki and Drake telling each other in yet another collaborative ode with “Make Me Proud.” Drake has been accused of writing “Songs for Women,” and this is most definitely one, so I want to hate it but don’t. The song is ultimately written to make some woman (me) think that I want to be as proud of someone, and conversely, have someone be as proud of me as Nicki supposedly is of Drake (and I do). This track, as well as the other panty-dropper of the record, “Practice,” acknowledges that the scars and issues that independent people can collect over time can actually be beautiful instead of something that has to be downplayed or hidden from any potential partner. I don’t think it’s gendered in that way—yes, Drake is addressing women, but as humans age and the ability to completely leap or trust erodes, it’s not just women that have trust issues.

Did I mention trust issues? 

“Take Care” is the kind of track that makes me wish I could physically cover my face and hide.  When I first heard the sample of the late Gil Scott-Herron and Jamie XX, I immediately went to a protective place and said “Too soon!” However, this probably remains my favorite sample on the record, so carefully done.  I thought a lot about this song in terms of the Rihanna guest vocal as he’s publicly stated that she broke his heart. In that estimation, it makes the song extra heartbreaking (if that’s possible). I guess I could write a lot more about this song, but honestly I think all you’d have to do Is ask any of my exes and they’d tell you “dealing with a heart I didn’t break,” would tell you everything you’d need to know.

The following track “Marvin’s Room,” (an amazing transition between the two songs) makes me cringe in a way that I can’t fathom.  When I hear it, the song taps into a kind of embarrassment and shame that you can only understand if you’ve ever called someone in the middle of the night after a bottle of wine and laid into them with a fusillade of love and inexplicable, profane regret that would make a slut blush blue. If you understand that feeling, you probably hate “Marvin’s Room” as much as I do.

The entirety of the record wrestles with the whole idea of past and present—specifically, before and after fame. Do the people who know you before you are successful love you better than someone you meet after you’re famous? Can someone truly know you and love you after you’ve loved and been hurt? I sure as shit don’t know and it seems like Drake doesn’t, either. The track “Look What You’ve Done” is a tribute to those who helped him get to where he is now—his mother, grandmother and uncle. Familial love is a constant and can be the thing that keeps a person grounded, especially when they go through things Drake sings about.

The reason I hate this record, I’ve discovered, is that I’m tired of lamenting. I’m  tired of being introspective. I need change. Most importantly, I want it. I want to love in a way that the person I was when I was 24 (Drake’s age) wouldn’t or couldn’t understand; she wouldn’t be emotionally intelligent enough to navigate. She wouldn’t understand, be supportive or give in the way that could support anyone other than herself.

This record, despite being one that I can hardly listen to, is proof that Drake is also ready to claim the crown that everyone preemptively placed upon his head. He’s introspective and clever enough to make a record that is this smart and interesting.

Drake sing-raps “I love a woman with a future and a past,” to Nicki Minaj. We all have pasts and futures—it’s just a furious balance of whether or not we let our pasts get in the way of what comes next.

To the 24 year-old me and Drake: I’m so proud of you. It’s going to be OK.

Kim Huston writes about music, jokes, basketball, social issues and sometimes feelings here.