An Opaque Review of Drake's Take Care
Listen to this while you read this. Thanks.
Drake's Take Care. Lilly. Dander. Cotton. Wine, cheese, grapes, crackers. Bubble bath. Scented candles. Wool scarves. Sing, sing, sing. The belly of a kitten. Laying in the bed in the dark but not sleeping. Staring at nothing. Hugh Hefner's robe. Socrates' robe.
Drake's Take Care. Thoroughly conditioned hair. Or just regular baby hair. Rihanna's skin. Bearskin rugs. Warm towels. Warm wind. Expensive slippers. Expensive gloves. Satin. Butterfly wings.
Drake's Take Care. NBA socks. The way the hides on the girls on the cover of King magazine look. Billowy, pillowy pillows. Chalk dust. If caviar had a philosophic texture. Pimp C's white fur coat. Pimp C's white fur hat. A tempur-pedic mattress.
Drake's Take Care. The way it feels right before you're about to drink too much. Tablecloths in a restaurant that requires you to wear a coat. What it probably looks like in a rich, lonely man's living room. The way it looks right after a woman has her eyebrows waxed. Cashmere. The way it smells inside of nice stores. More cashmere.
[Note #2: Take Care is very good, if not altogether sing-song-y great. Drake's whole Woe Is Me, My Bank Charges Me An Unreasonable Fee To Hold My Millions Of Dollars And Too Many Women Want To Give Me Unsolicited Blowjobs shtick seemed strange -- and maybe even a little annoying -- when he first broke nationally, and Thank Me Later, his debut album, reflected that. Here, his schema has been sharpened to an entirely interesting, entirely convincing existential crisis. Or, rather, again, that's what we might say had we heard it already.]