But the exercise matters because it reveals a truth about both artists: It’s about the horror of looking at a face you once kissed, or a city you once repped, or a version of yourself you once loved—and feeling absolutely nothing except a dull, metallic ache.
The beat wouldn't be the bouncy, twee xylophone of the original. Mike WiLL Made-It would flip it. That iconic dun-dun-dun-dun would be pitched down into a low, thrumming 808 sub-bass—something that sounds like a panic attack in a car with the windows up. Kendrick Lamar - Somebody That I Used To Know -...
In the Kendrick version, this verse wouldn't be a female singer. It would be —perhaps sampled from a voicemail left by a real person in his past, or voiced by SZA in her most wounded, accusatory register. But the exercise matters because it reveals a
We live in an era of the “mashup” and the “cover,” but some artistic collisions exist only in our collective imagination. One such phantom track that refuses to leave my brain is this: Kendrick Lamar performing a rendition of Gotye’s 2011 indie-pop masterpiece, “Somebody That I Used to Know.” That iconic dun-dun-dun-dun would be pitched down into
This is the genius of Kendrick. He is the only rapper who would lose the argument in the middle of his own song. He would leave the “somebody” with the final word, forcing us to realize: Maybe Kendrick was the toxic one. Of course, this cover will never happen. Gotye is famously protective of the song, and Kendrick is allergic to nostalgia-bait covers. He doesn't look back; he excavates.
