Drake is McDonald’s
Once a month or so, I creep into the darkness of night, hop into my car and drive to the greasy and salt-filled oasis known as McDonald’s. The closest one is five minutes away in a deserted part of South Philadelphia. No one has to know, except for my wife, who will inevitably give me a death stare when I leave. She decides to love me despite my shortcomings, and for that, I often think about saving her some fries (though I usually don’t). But she’s not addicted like I am. She is one of the lucky ones.
Though I’ve seen Super Size Me, read about and understand the horrible things I’m doing to my body, those chicken nuggets drenched in sweet and sour sauce give me (more) life. Double cheeseburger? I’ll take two, please. I’d like at least one opportunity to replay the orgasmic experience of having my tongue come in contact with the perfect blend of cheese, beef, onions, ketchup, mustard and pickle juice (always take the pickle out and eat it separately, you amateur). And the fries? I’d kill for them. There is an embarrassingly high number of people in my life who don’t know that if it came down to it, I would probably kill them over McDonald’s fries. Not like first cousins, but certainly third cousins and most of my Facebook friends. Look, I never said I was perfect, but girlfriend, work with the kid.
Where did the addiction come from? I blame my parents. With all of their pre-internet, baby-booming wisdom, they thought it would be a good idea to give me this salt and sugar crack once a week after church. As the pastor preached his head would slowly turn into an apple pie; his fingers into crispy french fries. I would stare at the clock — 1 hour and 13 minutes until I’d see the golden arches.
But that was over 20 years ago. Since then, I’ve learned to appreciate higher quality food. I’ve wined and dined at some amazing restaurants in my city, country and world. I know there are healthier, more flavorful options out there that won’t expedite my death, and yet, if I’m honest, McDonald’s is still one of my favorite places to eat. Is it nostalgia? Lack of will power against my evolutionary desire to consume as much sugar and salt as possible? Self-sabotage driven by bouts of existential crises and self-loathing? All of the above? It’s probably (yeah, most definitely) all of the above.
This week I found myself asking similar questions after listening to Drake’s newest album, More Life. When Drake came on to the scene, he was an emotional half black, half Jewish, Canadian child actor with no hood pass who liked to sing. There is nothing objectively wrong with any of these things, except when you’re trying to become a rapper in the mid to late 2000’s.
But Drake had an idea. He decided to rap with the same aggressive bravado of his hip-hop forbears, but instead of talking about hood things he knew nothing about, he would speak intensely about his feelings. With the help of Lil’ Wayne and Rhianna, he would ultimately go on to convince the world — through infectious beats and you-can-do-it-too-singing — that his feelings were hood things, and then later Caribbean and London “tings.”
More Life reminds us of two things: 1) Drake is still the most powerful voice in hip-hop and 2) he’s McDonald’s — an over-commercialized and salty guilty pleasure you consume despite knowing better.
Like McDonald’s, my addiction to Drake’s music began at a time when I was more impressionable. As an insecure and emotionally confused college student, Drake’s music spoke to me as he seemed equally confused about the world and his feelings in it. One second he’s bragging about his ability to have sex with whomever he wants, and the next he’s sobbing and drunk texting his ex, “u up?” from a Cheesecake Factory bathroom outside of Reno.
Since his sophomore album Take Care, I’ve become increasingly disillusioned with Drizzy Drake. As I matured as a person, I expected him to do the same as an artist. Instead, he just got more famous. And so he went from being a staple in my musical diet, to someone I only listen to at the gym or at parties where I have no control over the music. I know there is better quality hip-hop out there that will feed my soul and mind.
And no, I’m not even comparing Drake with rappers from the Golden Age of hip-hop (that’s not fair). I’m talking about today. If you’re reading this, you’re old enough to have lived through Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly. I can’t with a straight face say that More Life is even in the same universe as that album as far as versatility, innovation, and lyricism are concerned. Not to mention To Pimp a Butterfly is layered with reflections and critiques of black America that would take even the most savvy among us years to digest. That’s not to say social consciousness is a perquisite for making good music, but given what’s going on in the world, the fact that Kendrick Lamar is paying attention to and thinking about things other than himself puts him in a league of cultural and historical significance Drake can’t enter.
But Drake, like McDonald’s doesn’t really care, because he’s making a lot of money. He also, like McDonald’s, never said he was more than what he is. He came here to be as commercially successful as possible, and he’s doing it. Even if he were to add a song with the depth and intricacy of Kendrick Lamar, it would probably be bad — like McDonald’s salad bad. Because that’s not his wheelhouse and I’ve accepted that.
Knowing all of this, I will still listen to Drake, and secretly like it more than I’ll publicly admit. Because while a citrus-crusted salmon drizzled in olive oil and basil with a side of roasted potatoes is a nice, tasty, and healthy option, sometimes I just want a double cheeseburger.
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