Drake had the courage to lean into his biography, and his life as a text and he chose the perfect moment in rap to do so. I’m going to write this once because I think at this point we’re all numb to this and it bears repeating: Drake shattered the concept of what a rapper is and what a rapper can be, but more importantly, who a rapper can be. At the time, it would’ve made perfect sense. Had I been advising his career, I would’ve urged him to scrub the existence of Degrassi from the internet and pass himself off as an up-and-coming Houston rapper under Wayne’s Young Money imprint. That Aubrey Drake Graham opted to put himself front and center in his music is as unlikely as his meteoric rise. The point is that album cover, like its accompanying album, and like the entire body of work of its author, has always been about Drake. And the point is where Public Enemy saw a tool for social change and Biggie saw an opportunity to critique society and culture, Drake looked at the rap album and saw a mirror. He’s pensive, deep in thought and unhappy, despite the privilege he’s surrounded by and covered in. In the center of the composition is Drake, swaddled in black cloth and chunky gold jewelry, looking down, both literally and figuratively. The walls are covered with watercolors in thick, ornate frames. In 2011, a half Jewish, Canadian, middle class child actor hunched over a table adorned with gold trinkets. Ready to Die was bleak and nihilistic, an indictment of the callous and racist society that child would be raised in and the bleak, nihilistic, callous young man that society produced.
In 1994, a toddler sat alone in a white void. It perfectly matched the angry, gritty, militant work contained on the cassette within, lashing out against late term Reaganomics, Ronald Reagan and the country he ran. In 1988, Chuck D and Flava Flav defiantly glared through prison bars. Sometimes, you can judge an album by its cover. Please support Passion of the Weiss by subscribing to Patreon.įuck that “Abe Beame, you gotta chill” shit.