There’s no denying that Kendrick Lamar is an ambitious artist, but To Pimp a Butterfly is a prime example of an album drowning in its own self-importance. It wants to be profound at every turn, stuffing itself with jazz-fusion instrumentals, spoken word interludes, and long-winded monologues that seem more interested in proving their depth than actually connecting with the listener. While it aims to be a powerful commentary on race, struggle, and the weight of fame, it ultimately feels like an exhausting lecture that goes nowhere. The album is so caught up in presenting itself as high art that it forgets to be engaging, making for a bloated and self-indulgent listening experience. Beyond the message, the biggest issue is the hypocrisy baked into the industry that produces this kind of music. To Pimp a Butterfly critiques the system, but it’s still a product of that same system, repackaging pain, struggle, and rebellion into something that record labels and streaming services can profit from. The cycle of “f**k the police” has been going on since the late ‘80s, and instead of finding a new way to break through, this album just repaints the same old message in abstract, overwrought colours. Worse still, it’s weighed down by the contradiction of hip-hop’s commercial machine—artists who claim to be against the system while thriving within it, benefiting from the very thing they condemn. Even if the message was delivered better, the music itself just isn’t that good. The production leans too heavily into chaotic, messy jazz and awkward funk grooves that feel more like an art school experiment than an album meant to be listened to. The beats lack cohesion, the hooks are weak, and even Kendrick’s rapping, is often buried under clunky arrangements or forced theatricality. Instead of being a timeless classic, To Pimp a Butterfly is an overcooked, self-indulgent, and ultimately forgettable album that collapses under the weight of its own ambition.