There was a time when Chance the Rapper was in full control of his image. He was a philanthropist, a man of God, a Chicago indie rap giant with the blessing of his idol, a snapback entrepreneur, a happy father, and an even happier husband. Then came 2019’s disastrous The Big Day, a jubilant and righteous celebration of his faith, institutional success, and marriage, with very little depth or detail. In a matter of months, the public took control of Chance’s image and transformed him from Renaissance man to meme.
“Sometimes it feels like you’re holding back,” a long-time friend told Chance in Los Angeles writing sessions, not long after dropping The Big Day, his first solo project to receive widespread public and critical scrutiny. “Specifically on what you speak on and what you want to touch on in your music.” “Well, yeah, I’m a whole fuckin’ dad,” he responded, feeling the pressure. “I’m a husband. I’m a pillar of the community.” Her advice was to jot the thoughts down anyway, even if he never recorded them for the world to hear.
Three years ago, on The Breakfast Club, Chance called that the best rap advice he’s ever gotten. It’s hard to imagine Star Line, his new album, would exist without it, as he attempts to be vulnerable and honest, to balance out his trademark optimistic chirps and writerly customs with all of the life he’s lived in the six-year gap between projects. It went a little like this: He turned 30. He pulled a Nas in Belly and went soul-searching on the continent of Africa, specifically Ghana, where he read up on Kwame Nkrumah and built a deeper bond with his Blackness and the diaspora (the album gets its name from Marcus Garvey’s Black Star Line, a steamship company at the heart of the Pan-African movement in the early 20th century). He questioned the church and his role as a father. He went viral in 2023 for joyfully catching a whine at Jamaica’s carnival, as the internet conversation, unaware that he had been recently separated, used it to debate his phoniness. In 2024, he and his wife officially filed for divorce. It sounded like a time in his life where he was lost, coming apart at the seams, and trying to figure out how to stitch it all back together.
I immediately think of the deflated crooning of 808s & Heartbreak and the therapy-speak blowups of Mr. Morale & The Big Steppers as albums that confront a moment when a vaunted rapper, who reached otherworldly heights, is sent crashing down to Earth. Of course, we’re talking about Chance the Rapper here; Star Line is nowhere near as raw, uncomfortable, or openly narcissistic as any of those. He has more to rap about than ever, but his half-committed divorce album is simply boring, only scratching the emotional surface when he’s not hiding behind technique.
Chance doesn’t seem at ease putting it all out there, which, in a twisted way, only makes me want it more. With his usual mix of sun-kissed melodies and squawking ad-libs, inoffensively sweeping soul beats with gospel touches by his usual production braintrust, he opens up just enough to get the internet off his back. “Some days I just ghost her, some days I’m supposed to/The crib feel like a gunfight, but them strollers, that’s the holster,” he raps on “The Highs & Lows,” the easygoing piano-led beat allows his words to breathe. He sounds a little lonely and sad, like he’s skipping rocks at the lake on “Back to the Go,” as he thinks about the effect his relationship falling apart will have on his kids and having to spend his days in a bachelor pad. It’s his most direct writing and, unfortunately, it’s done over a rock-rap instrumental that sounds like it was ripped from a 2DopeBoyz blog post.
There’s a suggestion that his self-esteem has taken a hit on “Pretty,” where, over a vocal sample pitched-up to Heatmakerz levels, he works through his insecurities in real time: “My mom told me I’m a nice person/I got left but maybe I ain’t find the right person/I got clean, maybe I ain’t get the right version.” There are a few striking moments like these where Chance allows himself to feel unconsciously exposed. But most of the time, it feels like you’re hearing Chance’s emotions once they’ve already been self-consciously processed, which is less personal and interesting. For example, “Space & Time,” a bland and distant ballad where he builds up the maturity to face the crib where he thought he’d raise a family, sounds straight off the Lion King soundtrack.
It’s human to be tentative when writing about intimate experiences, but Chance rarely lets those bits of pure feeling slip through the cracks. His writing feels heavily combed over, and though he calls himself an “emotional rollercoaster,” I only get that because he said so. Otherwise he doesn’t allow himself to be potentially picked apart or embarrassed, like on Acid Rap when he downplays his Blackness to girls in an attempt to get laid. Chance would rather cloak his feelings in his reliable wordplay (“You know it’s dirty when the sink dirty,” he raps on “Negro Problem”) or shift the focus away from his relationship entirely. “No More Old Men,” with longtime collaborator Jamila Woods, is his sweet spot, vividly describing childhood memories (the familial vibe of the barbershop; his uncles on the block drinking beers and betting on boxing matches) as a way of messaging the lack of male mentors in his hometown nowadays. As well as “Letters,” where he calls out the unholy actions of both his local parish and Joel Osteen-style megachurches. Both are solid and impassioned Chance the Rapper songs—he’s bending his voice, toggling between moods—that show the totality of what’s on his mind, but I feel his message more than I actually want to listen to him on the same frictionless, loungey beats that haven’t sounded fresh in a decade.
It’s frustrating that the main goal of Star Line seems to be for Chance to reset the board without getting shit on. That’s an uninspired mission that mostly relies on Chance reverting back to his corny writing exercises (the greek mythology bit on “Space & Time”), trusted lighthearted stoner anthems (“Tree”), and knack for bringing a cross-generational cast of likable characters into his world like he did on Coloring Book: Some work (DJ Pharris’ drop on the intro; BabyChiefDoit’s foul-mouthed drill punchlines; Do or Die’s welcomed nostalgia tour) and some don’t (Lil Wayne in 2025; stale BJ the Chicago Kid parts; a Jay Electronica verse that sounds like it was recorded in a Rothschild family dungeon). It’s rarely bad, just safe, doing more to remind us of the old days than to embrace the musical crossroads he’s at. That feels like a missed opportunity to fill in the blanks that are still there.
