The 50 Greatest Kendrick Lamar Songs

Kendrick samples a famous recording from the late artist Dash Snow for this mixtape cut that served as an introduction to his talents. It’s a fitting pairing. Like Snow, Kendrick would emerge as one of the culture’s most uncompromising voices. On “The Heart Pt. 2” he’s painting a vivid and urgent portrait of an artist coming into his own. His voice grows palpably intense at moments, a glimmer of the freewheeling verses he’d soon deliver on studio albums. The track feels like discovering, in real time, a once-in-a-generation talent. —J.I.

“Keisha’s Song (Her Pain)” is an epic portrait so haunting it sticks with you long after you’ve stopped listening. Kendrick Lamar’s empathy makes this tragic tale go over like a soothing balm. Keisha’s in the neighborhood doing what she does. But only he really sees her: She’s someone’s daughter or little sister. He honors her, observing, “in her mind, she made it where/Nothin’ really matters.” Keisha’s demise at the end also feels, chillingly, like her redemption. —W.D.

In retrospect, Kendrick Lamar’s highly anticipated collaboration with Dr. Dre sounds like a commercial path he ultimately didn’t take. But it helped introduce him — mostly considered a critic’s darling at the time — to the radio kingmakers who ultimately determine whether a rapper scores major chart hits. While Lamar’s work can be impressively dense, there’s nothing confusing about the woofer-rattling bass, mic-trading boasts, or “Recipe” chorus that ends, “What more can I say? Welcome to L.A.” —M.R.

“I don’t give a fuck about no politics in rap my nigga,” Lamar tells us on the 10th song on To Pimp a Butterfly. Taking cues from Notorious B.I.G.’s “Notorious Thugs” and Jay-Z’s “Imaginary Player,” his rap State of the Union offers an omnipresent view of the game as he casts his lens from Compton to Congress, riffing on Democrats and Republicans alike (“Demo-Crips and Re-Blood-licans”), and describing a summit with Jay himself. —J.B. 

With BJ the Chicago Kid on the hook, the neo-soul vibe of “Kush & Corinthians” neatly encapsulates Kendrick Lamar’s concerns: fear of impromptu street violence, a yearning for deeper spiritual commitment, and questions about life and society. “I wonder will the eyes of the Lord look at me,” he admits. “Ride to it, because you never know/When a bullet might hit and you die to it.” —M.R.

While not as celebrated as his later work, the penultimate cut from Kendrick Lamar’s self-titled EP marks an important evolution — and, by extension, a generation of L.A. rappers breaking away from the region’s storied gangsta-rap past. “I grew up with killers, man/People who killed, man/But my character could never be like them, man/And they respect that/Say that I’m real, man,” he raps over the lengthy track, which has a melancholy, introspective sound typical of “blog rap” during that era. —M.R.

Kendrick’s breakthrough mixtape, Overly Dedicated, pulls beats from midperiod Roots albums and the aesthetic waters of L.A.’s storied alternative-rap scene, with somber tones and hints of jazz. “Michael Jordan” is a lone concession to the maximalist streak that ruled rap production circa 2010, Kendrick and ScHoolboy Q’s playfully clipped vocals dancing on top of Sounwave’s massive beat. —P.T.

“I’m going through something in life/But pussy and Patrón will make you feel alright,” harmonizes Kendrick Lamar on what may be his first viral hit. It’s a lush melody that’s marked by anguish: He opens with a story about getting beaten up and nearly killed, then asks why people use sex and alcohol to cope with the pain of existence. Since Kendrick Lamar EP isn’t available on streaming platforms, listeners may be more familiar with the track’s Overly Dedicated sequel, “P&P 1.5.” —M.R.

Not a salute to the school-to-military pipeline, but an ode to every time a passionate person almost stumbled into some reckless shit — the times when you’re one call away from the worst best decision of your life. Here Kendrick evokes his own years spent on that edge, evoking his own restless hunger in a series of tragic images and tempted thoughts. When BJ the Chicago Kid comes in singing the chorus of Common’s “The Light,” it’s a salve for the real. —M.P.

In the essay collection Promise You Will Sing About Me: The Power and Promise of Kendrick Lamar, Ann Powers writes that Lamar projects “an appealing masculinity that doesn’t seem to be tragic, or deeply harmful to women — you might even, at times, call their music feminist.” While less-forgiving critics might object to Powers’ view, “She Needs Me” and the way Lamar frames a woman’s attraction in humanistic terms shows how, at best, he presents a more complex perspective on male-female relationships than his most of his peers. —M.R.

Kendrick’s poetry drops into the middle of “For Free? (Interlude)” like a floating dolly shot — cool, spacey, and artfully subversive. He’s overcharging Betsy Ross’ Stars and Stripes for all the unhealed wounds left on the backs of his ancestors. “Evidently, all I seen was Spam and raw sardines,” he tells a frustrated woman. As long as “the man” can conjure up so-called welfare queens, he’s gonna have to put up with some shit talk. —W.D.

Produced by L.A. jazz linchpin Terrace Martin, “Ab-Soul’s Outro” could be a Freestyle Fellowship song — a freewheeling, six-minute odyssey about imminent martial law and Sisyphean student loans. Ab-Soul is positioned as the star, but Kendrick steals his own song with a second verse that builds to the mission statement that defines his career: “I’m not on the outside looking in/I’m not on the inside looking out/I’m in the dead fucking center, looking around.” —P.T.

“How Much a Dollar Cost” is “What if God Was One of Us?” but on MLK Boulevard. Like the Richard Linklater stand-in in Waking Life, Kendrick Lamar, in his retelling of his interaction with an unusually persistent houseless man, seems to ask, “What if life is one big test to see if we’re ready for heaven?” We never are. Weighty philosophy and concern with final things are on Kendrick’s mind. He makes them relatable and engaging. —W.D.

Though good kid, m.A.A.d city wasn’t released until 2012, Kendrick had been using a variation on that title phrase in his music for years. “Average Joe,” from 2010’s Overly Dedicated, embodies the concept, telling the story of a gang shooting Lamar narrowly escaped. “Thought about that so long/I had failed my finals,” he states, punctuating the scene. —P.T.

Rapping over the beat from J. Cole’s “A Tale of 2 Citiez,” Lamar riffs on everything from his status as the new rap superstar to Kanye West’s presidential campaign to how much lawyer fees now cost. The track was released alongside Cole rapping over Kendrick’s “Alright,” but Kendrick got the upper hand on his remix. “Every time I start writing, I get sentimental,” says the Compton rapper, and then he starts crying and rapping at the same time. Don’t get it twisted: He still does this better than anyone. —J.B.

“Complexion (A Zulu Love)” is like a jazzy vignette that might appear in an underappreciated gem from Black cinema. Kendrick and a firing-from-all-cylinders Rapsody make the thorny topic of colorism sound playful. Like a swap-meet iteration of Ossie Davis, Kendrick tells his would-be Ruby Dee, “Beauty is what you make it/I used to be so mistaken/By different shades of faces.” Rapsody responds with, “I love myself/I no longer need Cupid.” The many shades are an oasis. —W.D.

“I wanted that shit to sound just as crazy,” producer Mike Will Made-It told NPR. “I wanted it to sound like he’s battling the beat.” “DNA” is a blunt-force trauma in musical form, with Kendrick recounting where he started from and how he’s now stunting. Using a Fox News clip that criticizes his music, he attacks everyone from all angles. He is fighting the beat. The outcome: a song that is used in commercials, pregame intros, and bumped in the streets all over the country. —J.B.

Is it possible to lose innocence when you’re Black? How often have you lied so you can go kick it? Kendrick is immaculate at setting scenes, at painting details a listener knows perfectly. Even if they’ve never balled at that park, or flocked their neighbor’s home, we’ve all had friends that get us in more trouble than we’d manage on our own. “The Art of Peer Pressure” is a testament to the perils of masculinity and proximity; a near-death portrait where everyone goes home. —M.P.

The Black man’s Butterfly Effect. Whether you believe in coincidence or not, every action comes with consequences. By the record’s end, we know Kendrick wouldn’t exist if shit went another way in that KFC way back. This is Dot as a vessel, channeling two pivotal figures of his life into an autobiographical current that weaves all three stories into one. You hear where they come from, and what they’ve become. Another storytelling masterclass, with a twist. —M.P.

Kendrick Lamar’s not one for his own oversimplification. He’ll offer an elegy for the dead as quickly as he’ll kill you himself. Peep how he says the word  “conscious” with such disdain here, scoffing at the reductive qualifiers of early adopters. No, this is Compton, and Kendrick is well aware of reveling in all that comes with it. Boisterous and dazzling as ever, this record was early confirmation that Dot was not the one to trifle with. —M.P.

“Shit don’t change until you get up and wash your ass nigga,” says Bilal on this ode to hard work, being trapped inside of systemic racism, and doing good in life. It has Snoop Dogg interludes, first-person narratives from Kendrick Lamar’s friend, who feels like a fish out of water at the BET Awards, and the psyche of your homies referring you to as a god. —J.B.

Named after actor Wesley Snipes and sampling Boris Gardiner’s 1973 song “Every Nigger Is a Star,” the opening track on To Pimp a Butterfly sees Lamar ruminating on Black celebrity from the perspective of his teenage self. “Wesley’s Theory” let everyone know that his new magnum opus would not be good kid, m.A.A.d city, with an underwater groove from funkmasters George Clinton and Thundercat propelling him into his new groundbreaking phase. —J.B.

Many folks didn’t know what to make of the advance single from To Pimp a Butterfly. What did Kendrick Lamar mean by “I love myself?” Heard now, it sounds like a tribute to self-love and self-worth that was ahead of its time. The album version of the track adds further context: There are audible nightclub noises as Lamar struggles to make his message of positivity heard above the din. —M.R.

An unflinching examination of a Compton mind run ragged by a fame that’s absorbed it and the pain it can’t evade. Here, Dot drags us lower than ever: We hear his thoughts, his people, and his bottle taking turns telling him he ain’t shit. We’re viscerally present as he wallows in absence, asking all these questions without answers we can hear aloud. After four minutes, one wonders if Kendrick even made it out of the booth. —M.P.

The list of sought-after reference tracks for Dr. Dre is long — no one has heard Jay-Z’s demo of “Still D.R.E.,” nor the Eminem versions of songs he wrote for 2001 — but “Look Out for Detox” is something else entirely, a promo song so virtuosic that the legendary producer could never cut it himself. —P.T.

Sampling “So[rt]” by Knxwledge, the ninth song on To Pimp a Butterfly is a list of Kendrick Lamar’s virtues, and an image of his trip to Africa. Kendrick knows everything: Compton, street shit, consciousness, highs, lows, and not caring about receiving recognition for his goodness. With this deep cut, he also deepened his critical acclaim. —J.B.

Lamar’s habit of picking apart his weaknesses sparks this highlight from DAMN. When he raps, “I can’t fake humble just ‘cause your ass is insecure,” he could just as likely be talking about himself. But unlike the hit single “Humble,” there’s no rousing chorus to lessen the tension; instead, Lamar just harmonizes, “Maybe I wasn’t there” as his voice drifts off. What initially seems like another dive into Lamar’s doubts eventually focuses on the personal costs of not sharing love and empathy. —M.R.

“Poe Man’s Dreams (His Vice)” is a stylized everyman’s slice of life. Kendrick Lamar’s worldview is that of a sympathetic auteur’s. Every detail is on granular display — you can all but feel and smell the half-eaten chicken boxes and the reek of humanity off the folk in line at the check-cashing spot. He observes, “But anyway, this for my pops/On his lunch break eating in that parking lot.” The languid beat hits a chill, egalitarian sweet spot. —W.D.

By the early 2010s, the turn-of-the-century soul-sampling aesthetic in rap production had been pared down to where the seams in beats were more visible. It sounds as if Canei Finch’s beat for “Westside, Right on Time” is being played live on a sampler as Kendrick and Jeezy trade irresistibly low-stakes verses. —P.T.

Over a slow-rolling sample of the 24-Carat Black’s 1973 single “Poverty’s Paradise,” Kendrick takes an experimental approach to excavate his subconscious. As a songwriter, the rapper is skilled at the art of the perspective shift, imbuing songs with the kinds of narratives fit for an analyst. Here, we trace the development of fear —  from a childhood fear of parental retribution to adult fears of financial collapse — taking a germ of a feeling and unearthing a world of feeling. —J.I.

Over O.C. Smith’s much-sampled song “Stormy,” Lamar raps, “Ain’t nobody prayin’ for me,” on the fifth song on DAMN. It’s a list of all the issues that are on his mind; Kendrick sounds ferocious as he alienates himself from the rest of the world, including his family and friends. —J.B.

“I’m willin’ to die for this shit,” Lamar screams on this competitive rap track from DAMN. First introduced by LeBron James on Instagram, the song riffs on Kendrick being the best in the rap game, his daddy’s jail money, and his fights in front of his mother. Produced by James Blake, this track planted K.Dot’s flag as the best rapper alive, without a doubt. —J.B.

Kendrick is in a universe entirely on his own when it comes to vocal agility. Across his verses, there’s a dynamic cadence that refuses stagnation, floating between pitches and tempos with unimaginable ease. On “Untitled 07” he’s elastic and fluid stretching lines like “life won’t get you high,” like they were Play-Dough. His voice draws out, long and expansive, before he quickly collects the slack, twisting another lyrical knot. The track closes on a softer, almost jazz-like sensibility. It’s almost unfair how good he is.  J.I.

Paranoia, filtered down into a long hit of something strong. A horror show, live from the back seat. It’s the continued building of Kendrick Lamar as witness and participant, secrets kept tight until the silence is so loud. Connect that with MC Eiht, and two generations link up for more of the same: casualties of capitalism and state intervention, leaving working folks riddled with bullets and needles. Chaos is the constant; everyone else varies within it. —M.P.

Made with L.A. legend DJ Quik, “King Kunta” is Kendrick Lamar’s effective stab at G-funk, a sound he has largely bypassed since early collaborations with the likes of the Game. It’s a raucous, hard-funkin’ party track that finds the newly crowned GOAT declaring supremacy. “Bitch, where was you when I was walking?/Now I run the game, got the whole world talking,” he brags. —M.R.

As on “Money Trees,” Kendrick builds tight constraints around his verses on “Cartoon & Cereal,” confining each to a careful meter and controlled momentum to set up a showstopping climax by a guest star. This time it comes from Gunplay, the uncontrollable Florida rapper whose outburst is pure, furious catharsis. THC’s beat is perhaps the most innovative Kendrick has ever rapped on, through, deep inside of. —P.T.

Despite his greatest gift being his ability to craft delicately intricate maps of his inner self, Lamar Kendrick isn’t necessarily a didactic or “conscious” rapper. He’s too dynamic to be pinned down by an easy categorization. He’s also just too damned good at making straightforward pop hits. Take “Loyalty”: The Rihanna-assisted track on 2017’s DAMN. has all of the ingredients of a bonafide hit, and Kendrick takes it into a new realm with his inventively acrobatic cadence. Naturally, the lyrical depth is there, but Kendrick is as good as any rapper at having a good time, too. —J.I.

“I’m sick and tired of being tired,” Kendrick croons at the start of “Untitled 02,” before imploring in the song’s otherworldly refrain for someone to “get God on the phone.” There is indeed something mystic underpinning much of Kendrick’s output. You get the feeling that these are songs intended to access something beyond, or at least something deeper. Here, he might as well be a prophet. The layered texture of his vocals lands like hearing someone imbued with a spirit. For what it’s worth, Kendrick seems right at home. —J.I.

“I’m African American, I’m African, Black as the moon,” raps Lamar in a frenzied, sharp flow. With a roaring chorus from dancehall artist Assassin and a thumping jazz-funk rhythm led by Terrace Martin, this is a forceful in-your-face statement. Lamar evokes the fiery, pro-Black rhetoric of the Panthers, despite a curiously poetic admission that “I’m the biggest hypocrite in 2015/Once I finish this, witnesses will convey just what I mean.” —M.R.

“Sing About Me (I’m Dying of Thirst)” legit sounds like a Faulkner title. And unsurprisingly, Pulitzer Prize winner Kendrick gives us something worthy of the literary greats. His questions to himself (about why he chooses to immortalize his close friends in his songs) feel as poignant as the dialogue from a timeless unreliable narrator. If Kendrick has doubts about his responsibility as an artist, we have none about him being the best of his generation. —W.D.

“Aiming at your celebrity/This is studio felony,’’ says the young upstart from Compton on “Rigamortus.” Recorded in three takes, with Kendrick rapping in a double-time flow over a taut, jazz-inflected beat, this highlight from his first album, Section 80, got him on Drake tours, made him a new Interscope signee, and had people thinking about changing the name of their favorite rapper. —J.B.

“Ronald Reagan Era (His Evils)” is about the first generation of crack babies. Kendrick, who was born at the peak of Nancy Reagan’s “Just Say No” initiative, details how it felt to live in Compton during that hellish period. “1987, the children of Ronald Reagan/Rake the leaves off your front porch with a machine blowtorch,” he deadpans. He’s too young to remember smiling pictures of the former B-list actor turned right-wing demigod, but he’ll never forget those battering rams in his hood. —W.D.

Partly inspired by piano-driven hip-hop classics like Marley Marl’s “The Symphony,” “HUMBLE.” finds Kendrick Lamar at his crowd-pleasing, arena-rap peak. Its chorus, spoken with a cadence akin to a head nod, is instantly memorable, while Mike Will Made It’s beat pushes along with a hard pulse. However, Lamar’s lyrics caused controversy: When he rapped about being “sick and tired of the Photoshop,” he was accused of being misogynistic about how women choose to present themselves. —M.R.

This appealingly jazzy outtake from the To Pimp a Butterfly sessions finds Lamar and Co. at their loosest. He drops a verse about a troubled man “living with anxiety, ducking on sobriety,” but it sounds casually tossed off, like a freestyle. Anna Wise offers a dreamy chorus about someone jumping into the pit of hell; Top Dawg Entertainment head Punch makes a rare vocal appearance; and Jay Rock and Lamar close with a verse that brings the song’s theme of crisis into sharper perspective. —M.R.

Here K.Dot is in the corner of the function tryna’ politic, party, and parlay, but never in the same order. Section.80 found him zeroing in on this balance, and “A.D.H.D.” gave the strongest glimpse into his future of crafting anthems from collective trauma and overindulgence. These remain salient callbacks, much like his penchant for tilting pronunciations into earworms. Is it “Fuck that” or “Fuck thought”? Kendrick loves leaving us options. —M.P.

Lamar’s call for inner peace despite being “a sinner” remains one of his most soulful tracks. Producer Sounwave’s warm grooves include samples from Boom Clap Bachelors’ “Tiden Flyver,” a canvas on which Lamar raps about scarring changes in his life. Remixes and alternate versions with Emeli Sandé, Jay-Z, and surprisingly, Lady Gaga abound, but the album edition with frequent collaborator Anna Wise on vocals is arguably the best. —M.R.

Addiction and escapism are as old as the vices they’re associated with. But on “Swimming Pools (Drank),” Kendrick taps into how he and his generation are affected. How did kids in the meme era escape the moment? Here, over moody keys he admits, “Some people wanna fit in with the popular, that was my problem.” Kendrick doesn’t wanna go where everybody knows his name; he just wants to “see the crowd mood.” —W.D. 

“All my life, I want money power,” Kendrick Lamar repeats on the chorus of this good kid, m.A.A.d city highlight. “Respect my mind or die from lead shower.” Hit-Boy’s beat, originally made for Ciara, offers Kendrick a wealth of tools. As one of the most dexterous vocalists in rap history, the almost freewheeling melody lets him run loose, experimenting with a dazzling variety of tempos and vocal registers, making for his most purely exciting verse yet. In interviews, Kendrick has said that the verse was modeled from the cadences of Eminem. Kendrick sounds like only he can, though, and this track is dazzling. —J.B.

Shortly after its released, “Alright” became an anthem for the emerging Black Lives Matter movement, chanted at marches and protests. But to call this the “new civil rights anthem” only gets at part of its greatness. The brilliance of Kendrick is in his obliqueness. So why did this one resonate? “Alright” is what the movement looks and sounds like. Pharrell’s hook is not lofty — it doesn’t conjure up the divine, per se. It’s just a hands-on-your-shoulders-to-straighten-you-out affirmation. Fatigued from murder after senseless murder, Kendrick gave us all a triumphant moment to breathe easier. —W.D.

Listen to the way Lamar Kendrick raps “Ya bish” on his 2012 single “Money Trees.” It’s a syrupy, effortless drawl that lives on as one of the most enduring turns-of-phrases in modern pop culture. He’s rapping over a warped sample of Beach House’s dreamy indie-rock hit “Silver Soul,” courtesy of producer DJ Dahi. And the song, a benchmark for Lamar as a songwriter, finds him at his sharpest. The “Money Trees” in question are the trappings of success, and in what remains the best execution of his career, he confronts the demons that linger beneath ambition, and how the cost attached to reaching the top never seems quite worth it in the end. He measures his elevated skill without compromising any depth. It turns out that Lamar thrives in dichotomies, in the space between two poles — in the real world. —M.P.