If there’s one conclusion to be drawn after listening to Drake’s “Club Paradise,” it’s this: Drizzy is a little homesick.

“Club Paradise”

Drake
Young Money


Keeping on with the heavy lyricism, absence of hooks and atmospheric R&B road that Take Care seems to be cruising down, “Club Paradise” is another self-conscious diatribe about Drake’s internal wrestle with fame and the colossal expectations of his sophomore album. A burner, not a banger (“Over” or “Forever” this is not), it’s debatable whether it will ever see the light of day on the radio. Drooling Drake fans expecting the next “Best I Ever Had” will be a little stumped.

Over a spare 808 and some moody electronic undercurrents, Drake raps diary-style about everything from keeping promises to his mother, to knowing strippers’ real names, to fucking up the “double-cheek kiss” at Fashion Week. For such a self-centered rapper, it’s remarkable that he can remain a relatable and sympathetic figure. But that’s the thing about Drake — he’s so damn sincere, you can’t help liking the guy.

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