#lyricism

#lyricism

Cole remains a technically strong rapper but often gives the impression he's reading directly out of a notebook. His verses on "Run a Train" sound like they were designed for one of those videos mapping out MF DOOM rhyme schemes in different colors of highlighter. Strange concepts, like the FaceTime call through time on "Bombs in the Ville/Hit the Gas" and the necromantic Tupac and Biggie dialogue on " What If," aren't any smarter or better executed than his straightforward raps; they're just overwrought.

Best known as a memoirist, Morrison returns to poetry after 11 years with a masterclass of lyric distillation and charged observation, demonstrating that nothing is beneath poetic deliberation. His subjects range from social and political justice to meditations on poetic heroes such as Elizabeth Bishop and sonnet sequences elegising the writer's sister. The interwoven specificity and occasional nature of the poems is captivating:

At first listen, "The Great Divide" doesn't find Kahan crossing some yawning sonic gap between his breakout effort and this effort. Acoustic strumming drives towards an anthemic moment of a bridge-chorus combo, perhaps with fuller supporting production thanks to producing partners Gabe Simon and Aaron Dessner. But what has connected Kahan to his massive fanbase has less to do with his compositions (attractive if simple as they can be) and more with his lyricism.

The essence of "Gravity Freestyle" lies in Banks' ability to completely absorb a beat and make it his own, often more convincingly than the original artist.

Tyler Okonma seemed keen to deflate the kind of anticipation that arises when your last three albums have all been critically lauded, platinum-selling chart-toppers full of big ideas.