Rappers who come up through the mixtape circuit have two choices when it comes time for their major label debuts. On the one hand, they can try to please their core fanbase by sticking to their established sound. The downside of this approach is that it may stunt their ability to grab a larger audience. (It also leaves them open to accusations of asking fans to pay for a record that is basically a well-mastered mixtape.) The other option is to go full pop and embrace the new collaborators and sounds that a big budget has to offer, a path associated with disrespected sellouts (B.o.B.), MCs mired in self-loathing (Lupe Fiasco), and rappers that tried to go pop and failed anyway (Wale's first act).
There are exceptions. Artists like Drake and J. Cole have made better, more accessible versions of the early songs that first got them buzz, and Nicki Minaj plays both sides of the field. Waka Flocka Flame was smart enough to capitalize on his timing simply by turning a proposed mixtape into a debut album, and, most recently, Kendrick Lamar used his unwavering artistic vision to essentially subvert this game entirely. But this is still a thin line for artists to walk, one so difficult that good-to-great major label rap debuts now feel like a minor miracle.
So maybe Dreams and Nightmares is something to celebrate, even though it's imperfect. After navigating that push-pull, Meek Mill has emerged with an album that is distinct in both voice and sound and also plays to his strengths. It is tense and dramatic, with variations of piano constituting the bedrock of the album and Meek rapping passionately even by his own standards.
His music channels pain, anger, empathy, and glee into a wave that hits immediately and forcefully, especially on the album's first two songs. On the opening title track, he raps unabated for nearly four minutes, tracing lines from his come-up in Philly to strip clubs in Miami and back, over a beat that morphs into menace halfway through. It's a track that best distills Meek's singularity; hurt oozes from his voice and words, illustrating rap's literal and spiritual roots.
Rap is often about contradiction, of wanting to stay humble and true while still stunting. Sneering talking heads and confused elitists use that struggle as a weapon against the music: How can this music, and these artists, be taken seriously when they brag about throwing money at strippers? The genius of Meek's music is that he embodies, fleshes out, and answers the rapper's dilemma.
Struggle and triumph, are palpable and plainly articulated in his music, and it makes the best of Dreams and Nightmares (including "In God We Trust" and "Believe It") feel eminently vital. He is as much a truth-teller as lyricist, and this singular viewpoint and delivery have both been carried over from his mixtapes. It extends to "Traumatized", a track where Meek addresses his father's killer while illustrating exactly how treacherous his upbringing was for him and those around him. Where some rappers coast, Meek's mere existence feels earned.
Unfortunately, the album loses steam with a quarter of the way to go. "Tony Story Pt. 2" is the follow-up to the stunning storytelling track from Dreamchasers, but this version lacks its precision and is bogged down by a chintzy Boi-1da beat. "Who You're Around", featuring Mary J. Blige, marks the point where the album becomes syrupy and maudlin. Some songs that appear earlier on the album ("Maybach Curtains", "Young Kings") borrow the orchestral bloat of Rick Ross, and could've been replaced by up-tempo bangers à la "House Party" or "Burn" on which Meek has made his name.
Still, Meek has made the move from mixtapes to the majors with a solid vision. Whether he can maintain or strengthen that in the future is an open question, but this is music that immediately hits emotionally and physically while lingering in your thoughts long after you turn it off. Dreams and Nightmares is the type of thing rap will always need, even when it's in flawed form*.*
