On Redemption, a return to Toronto provides an opportunity to bitterly protest that a girl he used to fancy now has a boyfriend – which seems a bit rich given the non-stop display of Olympic-standard sexual athletics that apparently constitutes his own love life – and to complain about the various friends that have let him down: “This year for Christmas I just want apologies.”Īnd then there are the ladies, all of whom seem to be bad news in one form or another: if they’re not after his money or shagging him in order to sell their story, they’re insufficiently motivated – “There’s more to life than sleeping in,” he harrumphs at one point – or they’re complaining about the constant presence around the house of his homies, who, in fairness, sound a bit much: “The definition of alcohol and weed addiction.”īy track two he’s knocking back the sleeping pills by track seven, he’s got the vodka bottle out and he’s having a little cry. He can’t tell you how successful he is without also complaining about his peers, an overwhelming sense of touchy paranoia heightened by the fact that never mentions anyone directly, leaving the audience to speculate who might have cheesed him off: candidates include the Weeknd, Meek Mill and fellow Canadian rapper/singer Tory Lanez. Inside, he offers an inventory of miseries so lengthy it takes the best part of 90 minutes to get through them all. On the cover of View, he sits disconsolately atop the CN Tower in his home-town of Toronto, his legs handing over the ledge as if he might be about to chuck himself off. What’s beyond question is that his vast influence over pop music doesn’t seem to have made Drake any happier. Whether this is laudable evidence of artists having become unafraid to show their vulnerability or merely a load of unbearable whining is a matter of some debate. It’s that his patent brand of melancholy, poor-me solipsism seems to have become pop music’s default mode of expression. It’s not just that he features on three singles in this week’s Top 40, one at No 1, another a former No 1 and the third – a gloomy confection of off-key synthesizer and muffled female vocals erroneously titled Pop Style – a track so uncommercial that it’s tempting to wonder if it really has any business being in the charts at all. It’s a statement that’s hard to disagree with: at 29, he could make a reasonable claim not merely to be the biggest crossover star in hip-hop, but the defining pop artist of the moment, citing the current singles chart as evidence. By his own account, he is a man apparently troubled by many things, but a crippling sense of modesty has never been among them. This counts as one of Drake’s more understated assessments of his own talent and success. The musical backdrop is sparse and eerie – its two-chord hook marooned over a scattering of vaguely gothic-sounding electronics – but the mood is self-congratulatory: “Doin’ well, dog,” he keeps repeating, with the air of a man who might be nodding his head and smiling as he says it. You may have to select a menu option or click a button.M idway through Drake’s fourth studio album comes a song called Still Here.