Vince Staples is not the rapper you come to for lyrical stunts. His bars are punchy, jumping between straightforward narratives of gang-related violence and bits of dry humor befitting a Mitch Hedberg set. Both also expand on his presence as one of the internet's favorite rap talkers. can turn an explanation about why he doesn't share his home address with his closest friends into a hilarious exchange—until you stop to think about what exactly makes him so guarded. That honesty helps his stories, his jokes, and his recent Netflix series, which he borrows from the Coen Brothers, The Vince Staples Show, stick to the ribs.
looking back, Dark Times it feels like a logical progression from his latest works. During 2022 journalism Ramona Park broke my heart, Staples admitted he was ready to move on to creating “an anthology of my neighborhood and my past,” a promise he often bends to fit his needs. Dark Times he has a lot of trauma, but the difference is that it intersects more directly with his current life as a celebrity trying to stay off the streets. “Child's Song” hangs early on this idea starting as a rallying cry for a locked-in friend before offering a cold reality check: “Niggas be like 'Aye bro, 'member back when?/Let it go, loc / I'm too rich to be your friend/I'm too enlightened to let you kill me,” he says in his trademark deadpan. This couplet becomes even more elegant when this hook follows just two bars later: “Don't play with my Crippin, go play with your kids, bitch.” He's having his cake and eating it in the most Vince Staples way imaginable.
Staples' monotone voice diluted his more intense songs, but now he just sounds tired of having to read everything and everyone for an angle. After mapping the toxicity of hip-hop in relation to EDM and techno beats (made specifically for sync licensing) in Big Fish Theory and commemorating the California of his youth on his self-titled 2021 album and Ramona Park, who wouldn't be? His greed still leads to tall tales and affirmations of Black resilience, but what once registered as body blows now lands like a firm but loving grip on the shoulder of an older relative.
“Justin” slowly builds romantic tension until its end—the woman Staples is courting suddenly introduces him to her real-life boyfriend as her little cousin—and then shrugs it off, as if Staples is mad at him. himself that he was caught. Other highlights like “Étouffée” and “Radio” recast old encounters and family history as uplifting parables about a stolen youth. In the former, Staples' Louisiana connections inspire him to chart a course from wearing guns in polo pajamas to a place where it's a privilege to be told your music dropped. Later, “Radio” bridges chance encounters with music, from changing his life after hearing Blu & Exile's Under the Heavens to appreciate Brandi and Roberta Flack more after a nasty breakup. Using its concise brevity, these lessons flesh out aspects of Staples' notoriously private life and give credence to motivations like “Little Homies” and the opening verse of “Freeman.” It's easier to follow Staples' advice (“You shouldn't crash for the set, lil homie/Keep your head on the swivel when you step”) and longing (“I'll never find a same mind, I'll settle for the fattest ass”) seriously when he lays out the steps he took to get there.