Author Spotlight
Donald Glover is the only guy in Hollywood who can find sophistication in a fart joke. As a stand-up comic, the nappy-haired 20-something has a vocabulary so dense yet so juvenile, it seems like he could be either the second coming of God, or a potty-mouthed nobody. His writing has the angsty joy of a pubescent boy filling out a mad-lib with expletives—hilarious in a youthful kind of way. From his stand-up to his role of Troy on the NBC comedy Community, he has proven that he is one of the most energetic, different up-and-comers in Hollywood, with an Eddie Murphy-in-Raw youthful edge.
It’s almost easy to forget about his rapping career.
With Donald Glover’s, a.k.a. Childish Gambino’s, first fully released studio album “Camp,” he proves that he is the only man in Hollywood who can pull off the actor-to-artist crossover and not be marred with embarrassment. In an age where all it takes to become a bona fide actor-turned-singer is a dash of auto-tune and a drunken dance floor anthem, Gambino is an artist. “Camp” deftly blends his comedic, quick-witted charisma with considerable emotional poignancy. This is shown in the opening song “Outside” where he sets the tone for the rest of the album, rapping “I used to dream every night / Now I never dream at all / I hope it’s cause I’m living everything I want.” Solemn words from a guy whose first EP mainly consisted of verses about his genitalia.
And therein lies the biggest and most welcome surprise of the album: it isn’t merely a collection of running gags or cocky braggery. Even though there is a fair deal of self-perpetuating boastful talk, the album is really an honest telling of what it’s like to be thrown into stardom at such a young age. His young-blooded, high-pitched voice describes his fight against adulthood—his whiny vocals sound like he is talking to you rather than shouting to a jam-packed arena. Songs like the harmonic and epic “Bonfire” as well as the synth-heavy, commercial friendly “Heartbeat” exhibit this stripped and bare lyrical approach, as he rants about sexual misadventures and people dissing his rapping ability.
While other rap artists in today’s industry have a tendency to hide behind a fabricated layer of street cred and gold watches, Gambino addresses insults with a laid-back grandeur. He rants and rhymes during the church choir-esque “Backpackers” that he is a “well-spoken token that ain’t never been hurt / the only white rapper who’s allowed to say the n-word.” His honesty is noteworthy; he never twists and turns to fit the mold of the modern rapper.
Throughout the album, Gambino doesn’t run away from his suburban past, he embraces it. Gambino uses “camp” as a metaphor for his innocence and helplessness, painting an image of a wide-eyed, backpack-wearing kid who’s too scared to talk to girls. The subtle, tour-de force closing song “That Power” may be one of the best tracks on the album, exemplifying this theme and featuring a 4 minute 29 second monologue in which Gambino tells the oddly tragic tale of saying goodbye to his camp buddy-turned-love interest at the bus stop. The song ends beautifully, as he speaks in a monotone voice “The truth is, I got on the bus a boy and I never got off the bus / I still haven’t.” It’s a big leap of faith to include such a sentimental, eye-roll-inducing subject as the dramatic conclusion to the album, but oddly, it works.
With his sentimental yet hard-edged approach, it’s natural for Gambino to draw comparisons to acts like Kanye West. His quick-witted rhymes and emotional storytelling showcase a man who is confused and alone like Mr. West—but furthermore, the album’s rich female harmonies and distorted vocals seem to be in the vein of his style. The brass-heavy “You See Me” has a similar sound to Kanye’s “All Of The Lights,” with a repetitive trombone oscillating and blaring like a blow-horn.
And although he’s miles away from Kanye West, “Camp” is a surprisingly solid debut album that doesn’t get lost in the heap of Top-40 synth-rock drivel. Despite all the skepticism surrounding Gambino, it is a shockingly good disc.
If Donald Glover’s comedy is like Eddie Murphy, then this album should have been in the same conversation as Murphy’s squeamish attempted hit “Party All The Time,” in which he sings in an open breezeback about a non-stop groove-fest. However, it actually is a piece of work that stands on its own, and asserts him as a real double threat. I think Gambino says it best during “Bonfire,” as he raps “Man how come every black actor gotta rap some? / I don’t know, all I know is I’m the best one.”
And Gambino, after all, is nothing if not honest.
Three out of Four Stars
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