Vince Staples never did optimism, and he’s never been Mr. Sensitive. Dating back to his maiden mixtape, 2011’s Shyne Coldchain Vol. 1, the West Coast rhymer used irony and a poet’s perceptual lens to frame harsh truths in blunt observations. To Staples, you can fight the power, but only if you fight the ops, first. You can catch a vibe at Long Beach block parties, but you can catch a stray bullet, too. Vince typically faces these realities with a phalanx of defiance and sardonicism, but he lowers his shield on his sixth album Dark Times, a project that trades in his steely gaze for spurts of surprisingly bleary-eyed reflection. Here, sarcasm recedes into world-weary malaise and a search for hope. Vince is going through it, and he’s got no problem letting you know it on the most vulnerable LP of his career.
While his snappy persona’s still there, tracks like “Shame on the Devil” scan as abruptly human. “I long for lovin’ and affection,” Vince begins, channeling his inner LL Cool J. It’s a casual admission that’s as unguarded as it is unambiguous — beneath all the snarky put-downs, Vince needs a hug, too. Navigating astral production, he reckons with honesty, betrayal and damaged love. He generally keeps his cadences slow and deliberate, with his bars trickling out like lingering thoughts he’s too self-aware to escape.
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Floating across a disembodied sound bed for “Justin,” Vince unspools a tale of a romance that almost was. The dream-like instrumental underscores the idea that true love is only a fantasy, and Vince’s naked honesty gives the impression of someone who’s looking to buy into the delusion: “Started talking ’bout the future and the ever-present past / Awkward silences and laughs got me feeling like we on the path to something.” It’s an earnestness that 19-year-old Vince might have made fun of, with the outcome of the story being a dramatic example of why. But Vince left his armor at Ramona Park.
The outright humility can feel jarring, with the run between “Justin” and “Nothing Matters” being devoid of Vince’s customary jokes. On “Radio” he remembers crystalline innocence before recalling a moment he broke his lover’s heart and asking the DJ to play something to fix it. It’s a refreshing perspective that only adds dimensionality to his story. That’s not to say he’s never been emotional, but it’s never felt so ordinary and warm. It’s a striking about-face for an artist who’s rapped about love getting you killed.
Vince gets tender again for “Government Cheese.” Rapping in a tone that sounds like resignation, he sorts through the logistics of comforting an incarcerated homie through a phone call. He knows reality isn’t always good enough when you’re behind bars. “Asked how I was, he seen me on ABC / Told him that I was good, I wonder if he believed / Couldn’t tell him the truth / What kind of homie would I be?/Knowing these 15 minutes the only time that he free,” he spits over a squealing West Coast synth that colors the overcast piano. Equal parts bleak and merciful, it’s a tightrope act that plays out as a sullen version of 2Pac’s “Keep Ya Head Up”; Vince says you shouldn’t forget to smile, but his tepid delivery doesn’t convince you it will do any good.
He’s more convincingly upbeat on “Little Homies,” where denounces the virtues of crashing out. It could be corny, but Vince’s humor makes it all feel less heavy-handed. He also makes time for commentary on a world that’s oddly infatuated with gang culture and how much money you’ve got: “They arguing about my net worth over the net / They wanna find everything I ever did for the set / When every nigg* living for it’s still living in debt.”
Though Vince is more sincere than usual, his technique and all-around intentionality are as sharp as ever, even if you might wish there were a “Lemonade” or “BagBak” to break up an effort that could use a splash of color. Vince’s subdued delivery matches the pensiveness of the project, but when combined with a lack of sonic variance, it can feel a bit monotonous in the middle. It’s a touch his pal ScHoolboy Q mastered with Blue Lips. Still, it’s a potent exercise in nuanced songwriting, even if the hooks aren’t always optimally distinct.
Swirling dreary beats with even more overcast thoughts, Dark Times is a lucid snapshot of melancholy. It lives up to its name. It’s dark out, but Vince presents a meticulous portrait of someone with just enough reason to wait for sunrise.
