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.