Whatever You Do, Don't Check In to Tyga's "Hotel California"

Pay attention, hip-hop world. There's a young performer from Compton who is blowing up and is the most creative and talented rapper in years. He's currently on a college tour and generating widespread publicity wherever he goes.

Unfortunately, that's all the space I really have to talk about Kendrick Lamar. This review is dedicated to Tyga, who shares Lamar's youth, trade, and hometown, but basically nothing else. You've probably heard that Tyga is misogynistic. This is true. He is also vacuous, talentless, and devoid of personality. His latest album, "Hotel California," reflects how little he has to rap about, and how bad he is at doing it.

Tyga claims that he is well-endowed throughout the album, but his scope is tiny. His whole credo can be summed up by the chorus of “Hijack”: “Money pussy weed got all that.” Each song is a barrage of clumsy bravado about what he drinks, smokes, earns, steals, defeats, and has sex with. His whole act is two-dimensional, and his choruses are probably a step below that: “Bitch I’m all you need”; “All my shit dope”; “Real shit I ain’t never been a liar.” Perhaps the worst of the bunch can be found on “Hit ‘Em Up,” a shameless appropriation of a 1999 C-Murder/Snoop Dogg song: “Fuck them other niggas cause I’m down for my niggas / Fuck them other niggas cause I’m down for my niggas.” It doesn’t help that the beat is significantly less funky than the original, or that Lamar recently quoted the hook ironically as part of a narrative condemning the “hood” lifestyle.

Tyga, on the other hand, seems to genuinely believe that he’s capturing Compton life in his lyrics—which is unfortunate, because his rhymes are about as lifeless as he claims his many enemies are. Sometimes, he doesn’t even try: “Ain’t no place I’d rather be / I’m right here with you in LA / Yeah it’s real shit.” He also rhymes “important” with “annoying.”

Other times, he shows that he has a vague conception of how to write a verse, but hasn’t quite put it together. He knows he's supposed to make references to the classic greats of the genre, but he doesn’t know how to make them smooth or clever: "Got shooters like the Heat / Real motherfuckin’ Gs / RIP Eazy E." His attempts at wordplay similarly founder—though he seemd aware of the basic concept, Tyga can’t break the surface level of meaning: "Bitch I'm the bomb, call me the unabomber." And he vaguely knows what a simile is: "Niggas wanna stop me like the Nazi." There aren’t too many lines on the album that don’t induce a cringe, or at least a grimace.

Admittedly, there are many current rappers whose cringeworthy lyrics help fuel the opinion that hip-hop is in a deplorable state right now. What sets Tyga apart from even them is his utter lack of personality or joy. There is nothing original, charismatic, or alluring about Tyga’s act. He’s a cookie-cutter impersonation of the larger-than-life presences who came before him, and he even pales in comparison to the other bad rappers on this album, who at least bring some swag. While Tyga solemnly announces that he “got bitches like Hooters” on “Hijack,” 2 Chainz saves the song and practically the back end of the album with pure idiotic enthusiasm: “If you believe in having sex, say me too! / I'm riding in my roof look see-through / I got fours on the big like preschool.” There are few who would argue for 2 Chainz’s lyrical genius, but at the very least he brings diversity to the genre by way of energy and idiosyncrasy. There isn’t one defining trait of Tyga other than that he’s a thin representation of some sort of problematic and nonexistent hip-hop ideal.

Moreover, Tyga’s foremost idols and influences line up one by one on “Hotel California” to show us just what Tyga is missing. Lil Wayne, Rick Ross, and Jadakiss are all immediately recognizable from the first lines of their verses; they each bring their trademark cadences and wit to remind us why they are (or once were) important in hip-hop. In contrast, there is nothing important or unique about Tyga. This album is a collection of uninspired and unfounded bragging. Do yourself a favor and try Shea Rose instead.

—Staff writer Andrew R. Chow can be reached at andrewchow@college.harvard.edu.

—Staff writer Andrew R. Chow can be reached at andrewchow@college.harvard.edu.