A brand new excuse ain’t nothing to me. See I made my moves, with shackled feet.
I [may] understand why Kendrick Lamar did an album without naming any songs. He started where he was by speaking his mind and his heart at that given time. What he had to say could not be named, could not be captured by a succinct statement and was left with namelessness as its name.
His music covers a lot: despair, pride, racism, sex and sexuality, money and power. It seems to capture life itself, in its shades of beauty and shame. To have named the songs would have been to insult their integrity, like calling a diamond a shiny stone.
I do not quite get his message, coasting on the beats and the lyricism, I forget that his music is conscious and full of social commentary. I love how he does not care what people think of him.
He goes at it and his audience finds him. He is acerbic and witty, irreverent and angry, and from that organized chaos, there wafts a sense of hope and renewal. That is my feeling when I listen to Kendrick Lamar.
Due to laziness, I have left many of my pieces untitled. It is bad form. I am not a Grammy Award-winning musician so I may not get away with this. My works may be diamonds, but I still have to cut and etch markers to identify them.
How would one go about finding a story they liked if it is unnamed? If my own edginess is anything to go by, I doubt anyone would be patient enough to scroll and read until they find what they are looking for.