Mid is a perfect bit of new slang for a culture in which quantity is crushing quality, in which you can stream endlessly and feel nothing. What’s also fitting is that the word has become a favorite diss in the rap world, the musical genre that has helped pioneer what mediocrity means today. To be clear: Hip-hop is our era’s most dynamic art form. But it’s also a content template, an expressive mode, that invites anyone with a mic and some talent to spam the internet with raw thoughts set to beats. According to some accounts, the term mid jumped from weed slang to the mainstream in 2021, in reaction to one of the many overlong and underdeveloped albums that Drake—the Spotify era’s defining rapper—has released like so many tadpoles into a lake.

Kendrick Lamar has long styled himself as an enemy of midness. The 37-year-old Pulitzer Prize winner makes statement albums thick with meaning and detail. He tells cohesive stories by unpredictably varying his flow, voice, and production ideas; he challenges audiences with noise-jazz interludes and intricate wordplay. This musical ambition matches his persona: that of a disciplined justice seeker taking on the wickedness within himself and in the world around him. When he missteps—as he did in parts of 2022’s sprawling Mr. Morale & the Big Steppers—it’s from caring too much, trying too hard, and losing the listener while chasing difficult truths.

The expectations he’s set for himself make his new, sixth album a bit surprising. Released without any warning on Friday, the 12-track GNX is terse, punchy, and, to an almost disconcerting degree, easy to digest. It polishes familiar Lamarisms and West Coast hip-hop touchstones—wheezing keyboards, drawling flows, the brittle bounce of Bay Area hyphy. The results come off as populism with a point: Lamar slightly compromising his standards in an attempt to raise everyone else’s.

The album can’t be understood without revisiting his battle with Drake, which unfolded earlier this year. The two rappers volleyed unverifiable allegations of pedophilia and domestic abuse in scathing diss tracks, but beneath that was a war about aesthetics. Lamar portrayed Drake as a vapid, exploitative pop star. Drake labeled Lamar as an egghead: “You better have a motherfuckin’ quintuple entendre on that shit,” he taunted. Lamar answered with “Not Like Us,” a witty and wild takedown that became a radio smash and arguably the song of the summer. Its killer ingredient was its catchiness, proving Lamar’s skills not just as an egghead but also as an entertainer.

GNX’s opening track, “Wacced Out Murals,” surveys the aftermath of that episode in a tone of despair, accompanied by baleful mariachi singing and strings. Lamar was widely celebrated as the victor over Drake, but he feels that the compliments he received were “back-handed,” and that the lessons of his victory—basically, be better, morally and artistically—went unheeded. “All of y’all is on trial,” he says, clocking hip-hop’s present surplus of artists with private-life skeletons and “old-ass flows.” The most surprising line: “Fuck a double entendre, I want y’all to feel this shit.” Clearly, he doesn’t want his message to be lost this time.

[Read: It’s not a rap beef. It’s a cultural reckoning.]

To that end, he styles himself as a sage, “writin’ words, tryna elevate these children”—meaning both his fading peers and the younger generation who might build on his legacy. The chorus of “Murals” preaches hard work and self-determination to an imagined striver who wants to achieve Lamar’s success. Later on the album, he advises listeners to turn Madden off, not get lost to social media, and handle disagreements in private. The final song, “Gloria,” scans as a love song about a relationship’s ups and downs—but he’s actually rapping about his own romance with his pen. At a time when literacy rates are falling and mumble-rap reigns, Lamar wants to make writing sexy again.

The album’s straightforward sound serves that mission. Adopting an amusing variety of delivery techniques—rasping staccato on “Peekaboo,” Snoop-like butteriness on “Man at the Garden”—Lamar blasts through verses and hooks that will sound great at the Super Bowl halftime show next year. He alternates among jittery bangers, swaying R&B anthems, and big-important-message songs with cinematic orchestration. On “Squabble Up,” the beat bubbles like a witch’s cauldron as Lamar reworks a classic call-and-response refrain. “Heart Pt. 6” glides through Lamar’s early-career memories over a shimmering neo-soul sample. In the instant classic “TV Off,” Lamar shouts out Mustard in the manner of a soccer announcer bellowing “gooooaaaal.”

Some of the music, however, comes off like a diet version of Lamar’s best work. Many of the beats have a pillowy, thudding quality that might be attributed to the involvement of pop’s vibes mastermind, Jack Antonoff. Certain lines rely on overly clunky allusions, half-baked metaphors, or both. “I put a square on his back like I’m Jack Dorsey,” he raps, a lyric that wouldn’t be out of place on one of those Drake albums that Lamar disdains.

The tensions of the album’s approach are exemplified by “Reincarnated,” on which Lamar imagines himself having lived a series of past lives as brilliant but doomed musicians. As Lamar raps in furious counterpoint with a sizzling Tupac sample, the music telegraphs big drama ahead. But ultimately, the track feels minor in the larger context of his career. The concept he’s using—staging an intense inner dialogue about the state of his soul—has previously pushed him to heights of extreme emotion and thematic knottiness. Here, the payoff is oddly tidy: “I rewrote the Devil’s story,” Lamar concludes, summarizing what he just said for anyone who didn’t get it.

Still, if the album’s goal is to fortify Lamar’s standing and evangelize his values, then it’s mostly a success. He’s still an agile, characterful rapper who’s able to dart among styles and land punch lines. Most hearteningly, some of the album’s best moments belong to relatively obscure L.A. rappers given a moment to flex. Each of them has a distinctive sound—Peysoh murmurs murderously; YoungThreat whispers off the beat—and delivers bars that hit as hard as any of Lamar’s. Their presence makes the case that his ethos can be passed on, and that we are not doomed to a future of pure mid.

This is an edition of The Atlantic Daily, a newsletter that guides you through the biggest stories of the day, helps you discover new ideas, and recommends the best in culture. Sign up for it here.

Welcome back to The Daily’s Sunday culture edition.

Thanksgiving means sharing food with friends and loved ones, which also means that many potluck guests will spend the next few days scouring the web for easy and last-minute recipes. To help inspire readers looking for suggestions, The Atlantic’s writers and editors answer the question: What’s your go-to dish to bring to a potluck?

There is a calculus to potlucks. The dish you bring must be not only tasty but also impressive, affordable, transportable, easy to serve, and not overly time-consuming—not to mention thematically appropriate. Years of doing the math led me to a simple solution: No matter the party, I bring meatballs. Roll them, bake them, and serve with toothpicks—and don’t forget the dips.

The great thing about them is that they are endlessly adaptable. A fancier gathering might call for veal-and-ricotta balls with a spiced tomato sauce; kids might prefer chicken balls with ketchup. And, of course, they can be made vegetarian.

At a previous job, I was asked to contribute to a cookie-themed potluck. Anxiety struck; I’m a deeply mediocre baker. But the math saved me once again. As I set down a plate of beef-and-pork balls next to trays of whoopie pies and chocolate-chip biscotti, my bemused colleagues waited for an explanation. I pulled out a label: “Meat truffles.” By the end of the meal, not a single one was left.

— Yasmin Tayag, staff writer

***

A staple of my family’s Thanksgiving dinners and summer barbecues is a painstaking mid-century masterpiece we call “rainbow Jell-O”: layers of red, orange, yellow, and green gelatin, partitioned by sweetened condensed milk and cut into bite-size cubes. Making the Jell-O is an all-day affair; each level needs to set in the fridge before the next can be built on top (we skip blue, indigo, and violet as a practical matter).

The recipe, scrawled by my grandmother on a now-yellowed piece of paper, comes from the Japanese American side of my family, which traces its roots through Hawaii, where rainbow Jell-O is sold in convenience stores. The origins of the Jell-O are unclear, but if I had to guess, it might be born of the islands’ unique culinary tradition of drawing magic from shelf-stable foods and wartime rations—in the spirit of Spam musubi.

Is making the Jell-O worth clearing an afternoon and a shelf in your fridge? That perhaps depends on your tolerance for wobbly foods. When one of my college roommates was passed the plate of Jell-O squares on his first Thanksgiving visit, he watched them quake from side to side and politely declined.

— Andrew Aoyama, deputy managing editor

***

I’m a self-conscious cook, even in private; I prefer to stick with minimal ingredients for my meals instead of experimenting with my seasonings and, inevitably, my sensitive stomach. My palate is pretty limited, probably as a result of my boring diet—so I also have no idea if anything I eat tastes good to the average person.

That’s why, when I’m invited to a potluck, I designate myself the Prepacked-Snacks Person. But I make it fun by leveraging my experience as an Oreo connoisseur: My potluck contribution is whatever wacky, seasonally appropriate Oreo flavor is on the market right now. It’s both something you know everyone is somewhat familiar with and more exciting than showing up with the basic snacks you get at the bodega. Plus, I would rather have my friends taste and judge my Pumpkin Spice or Coca-Cola Oreos than watch them pretend to like my homemade chili.

— Allegra Frank, senior editor

***

I’m pretty sure I first made caramel rolls for my mom’s birthday when I was in high school, but I started sharing them at a Friendsgiving potluck in college. They are basically cinnamon rolls, but instead of topping the buns with frosting, you drown them in a caramel sauce, creating a dish that is soft, sticky, and supremely sweet. Although you can use an online recipe for the bread portion, I use my grandmother’s recipe for the caramel, which lives on a bright-blue note card in a wooden box at my parents’ house, along with all of the other cooking instructions we inherited after she passed away. I’ve heard that caramel is notoriously hard to make, but I’ve never had an issue with hers, which includes two whopping tablespoons of white corn syrup. Her side of the family—my mom’s side—comes from North Dakota, so I always feel like I’m sharing a dish that’s a little folksy: simple and delicious. Caramel rolls don’t just work as a hefty addition to potlucks and as a dessert for any occasion; the leftovers can be breakfast too!

— Elise Hannum, assistant editor

***

I am a man of vanity who likes to appear impressive in mixed company; I am also a man of convenience who likes to expend as little energy as possible, if possible. In a potluck scenario, the latter instinct takes over—largely because there’s just less time and attention to spend on any one dish.

Hence my love of making pulled pork, which maxes out several factors: cheapness of ingredients, ease of preparation, quantity of yielded food, wow factor with friends. The recipe I use is perhaps not the best recipe; it is, however, one of the first recipes I found when I Googled best pulled-pork recipe a few years ago. You can really blow people’s minds by bringing along the appropriate accoutrement—pickles, barbecue sauce, buns—but even by itself, the meat goes with anything.

I first made pulled pork for a Super Bowl party, when I had a sneaking suspicion—informed by my expansive curiosity about flavor combinations, and my history of alcohol consumption—that it would pair well with chips and beer. I will be honest: Despite the ease of “slather in spices and hit the slow-cooker button,” I somehow kind of screwed it up—the cut of meat was too large for the lid to fully cover, and I didn’t let it cook for long enough. But even made poorly, pulled pork is a novel delight—everyone loved it, even as I was mildly ashamed of this inaugural effort. Made well, you’ll be the talk of the party.

— Jeremy Gordon, senior editor

***

This season of life doesn’t seem to afford much time for hobbies, but I do love baking, either solo or with the “help” of my 6-year-old daughter (she is an expert sugar sprinkler). My favorite—and most consistently delicious—thing to bake is challah. I got the recipe, adaptations, and all relevant advice from my sister; it has completely ruined all those dry store-bought versions for any purpose but making French toast.

I learned the art of baking challah during the pandemic, when everyone else was busy with their sourdough starters. Back then, my husband, my daughter, and I had no choice but to eat it all ourselves—fortunately, this recipe freezes well. That was by far not the worst part of COVID, but I prefer to share challah; Jewish food is always best enjoyed in the company of others. I never mastered the traditional braiding of the dough, so I mostly shape it into large, fluffy buns—all the better for tearing apart with your hands. Try topping the challah with everything-bagel seasoning, za’atar, or something more creative. Then bring it to a communal Shabbat or a holiday meal, and enjoy watching your loved ones go back for just one more hunk of soft, warm bread, and then another, and another.

— Janice Wolly, copy chief

Here are three Sunday reads from The Atlantic:

The business-school scandal that just keeps getting bigger Three ways to become a deeper thinker The Atlantic gift guide

The Week Ahead

Moana 2, an animated sequel about a village chief’s wayfinding daughter who must travel into the dangerous waters of Oceania (in theaters Wednesday) The Agency, a thriller series starring Michael Fassbender as a CIA agent who is ordered to leave his undercover life (premieres Friday on Paramount+ with Showtime) This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, a collection of short stories by Naomi Wood about motherhood, femininity, and modern love (out Tuesday)

Essay

Illustration by The Atlantic. Source: Getty.

Your Armpits Are Trying to Tell You Something

By Yasmin Tayag

The last time I sweated through my shirt, I vowed that it would never happen again. Sweat shame had dogged me for too many years. No longer would armpit puddles dictate the color of my blouse. Never again would I twist underneath a hand dryer to dry my damp underarms. It was time to try clinical-strength antiperspirant.

Read the full article.

More in Culture

The thin line between biopic and propaganda How Jimmy O. Yang became a main character Cher has a history lesson for us all. The most coveted screenshot in the literary world What the men of the internet are trying to prove “Dear James”: I used to have friends. Then they had kids.

Catch Up on The Atlantic

David Frum: A good country’s bad choice The Trump-Trumpist divide Inside the mind of Pete Hegseth

Photo Album

In a protest demanding action on climate change, members of Indigenous organizations hold large cutouts of world leaders’ heads above the waters of Botafogo Bay. (Tuane Fernandes / Reuters)

Check out these photos of the week, showing a climate-change protest, a mummified saber-toothed kitten in Russia, a virtual taekwondo championship in Singapore, and more.

Explore all of our newsletters.

When you buy a book using a link in this newsletter, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.