My dad is a huge Rolling Stones fan. He practically raised my sisters and I on Some Girls, among other things, but The Stones have been a major part of his musical education and mine, and shaped a great deal of my relationship with music. And though it pains slightly to acknowledge and accept our similarities, the old man was also a teenage tune junkie at one time; he used to tell me stories in the kitchen of shows he'd seen when he was my age, and rock legends he'd witnessed and narrowly missed (the man saw Prince, for fucks sake, and as of 2021, has also seen The Stones).
One of those stories took place in 1981, concerning The Rolling Stones rolling out Tattoo You, an album that is now considered one of the band's best and one of the greatest albums of all time. The story of that album goes, as I like to mention frequently, that it was comprised of all the songs that didn't quite make the cut on several of their previous albums, making it all the more impressive that the collection of supposed throwaways would become The Stones' eighth consecutive number one album. My dad stood outside at Pop Tunes Records on Shelby Drive for hours waiting in a line that stretched around the building to get that record, the very same one that now sits atop our disorganized collection in the living room.
Now, to the modern listener and nu-groupie, that may not really seem all that crazy, but for a high schooler in the '80's, that was a helluva commitment, and really the way to get new music as quickly as possible. Outside of rock mags and stalking (the Pamela Des Barres approach), the record store was the way to get closer to your favorite bands and artists; in stark contrast to the neo-obsessor's ability to learn everything about a musician with the click of a button, be it through social media or the obscene overflow of personal information present online. The digital landscape gives fans unfettered access to the personal lives of artists, forming harmful parasocial relationships between the listeners and musicians.
I would unfortunately by lying if I said my first introduction to Tyler, The Creator didn't end follow that path. I was first exposed to Flower Boy by my high school friends, the couple gents that I still nerd out with to this day. They were the guys that introduced me to Tyler, BROCKHAMPTON, The Internet, and Frank Ocean, and really ingrained the insatiable desire for new music in me. We grew up in Charlotte at a weird time for pop culture and music. We were still hearing the latest albums and singles on Spotify and all that, and we were able to talk about music and the new artists blowing up at the time in our own little circle, but we were still the weird kids listening to the weird, twinkly, chaotic tunes made by black gay men. It was a point of pride to be a Tyler fan at the time, the music was deeper and more profound than anything booming from the speakers of our classmates' lifted (or god forbid, squatted) trucks; I can't speak for my friends, of course, but it made me feel better than other people. They may have been atop us in the social food chain of Southeast high school, their parents may have made more money or whatever, but I knew what I had in my headphones would always be superior.
But as I grew older, saw more, experienced more, hurt more, I realized I had begun to latch onto Tyler and his music. I had shackled too many conflated emotions and distorted memories to his music, and I began to enjoy his music less and less the more I listened to it, becoming increasingly dissatisfied with the singles between album cycles because they didn't make me feel exactly the same way "Pothole" did when I had first heard it. I had come to resent the music, and in turn, the musician, and needed to take a step back and reassess the condescending approach to listening I had picked up unknowingly. Now three album cycles later, I like to think I've developed a much healthier relationship with Tyler's music, and can in fact be trusted with a new record.
Tyler, The Creator released CHROMAKOPIA, his seventh studio album (or his eighth if you choose to count The Estate Sale as a separate album, rather than the deluxe of Call Me If You Get Lost), bright and early Monday morning, October 26th, at the unconventional hour of 6AM EST, in an effort to avert fans who would "deprive themselves of sleep for something that would be there when they woke up" (but we wouldn't be surprised to learn that a handful of hardcore fans waited up all night anyways). Following the Los Angeles listening event the night before, Tyler had barely enough time to blink before the official release, slinking quickly to his Instagram story to remind fans to keep a clear head upon their first listen, "Make sure you listen in full with no expectations, no distractions," he wrote. "No checking text or social media letting others paint your thoughts on shit before you get a chance."
I like to think I got through my first listen the way Tyler intended, while running two miles and standing around for way too long in between sets during my workout, completely distracted from the task in front of me, locked into the strangely comforting chaos of this new album. CHROMAKOPIA, from a distance, stands atop his discography as the Cali native's magnum opus, a recap of his time in the spotlight and the realizations that present themselves after spending the better part of ten years becoming the figurehead of a generational musical overhaul. It's an incredibly interesting album instrumentally (no surprises here, folks), blending elements of jazz and traditional R&B with a sound that can now only be considered completely and entirely unique to Tyler's music. It's an hour of tumultuous and equally beautiful music, featuring some of the biggest names and hottest rising stars on the scene today, including Daniel Caesar, Childish Gambino, Teezo Touchdown and Doechii; he even packed GloRilla, Lil Wayne, and Sexxy Red together on "Sticky," an energetic standout on the tracklist, akin instrumentally to a holiday parade drum line with Tyler leading the chorus as the drum major.
CHROMAKOPIA is by no means lacking in face value enjoyment, sandwiching ballads, bangers and head-bobbers between endearing memos and heartfelt confessions from Bonita Smith, Tyler's mother. His creative method and execution are undeniably in top form, but Tyler seem to trip himself up throughout the album's overall narrative. CHROMAKOPIA focuses primarily on three main themes, family, fame and loneliness, with each topic bleeding together and exacerbating the other across the record. "Hey Jane," the fifth song on the album, is an excellent example of these themes. The song opens with a word of caution from Smith, warning the listener to "always, always, always wear a condom," cutting out abruptly to wave in Tyler's regretful tale of his time with Jane, a girl he accidentally gets pregnant.
The song follows what sounds like a text chain or a game of phone tag between the two as they calmly panic through the decision to parent the child together and start a family. Neither party is fully prepared to commit, due to their lack of life experience and healthy parental figures in their lives, but Tyler stays optimistic and calm, offering up positives to their stressful situation. Ultimately, Jane decides to raise the baby on her own and keep the situation a secret, turning down Tyler's earnest request to tie it together with her. It's through songs like "Hey Jane" that we see less of Tyler, The Creator and more of Tyler Okonma, pulling back the Converse-branded curtain to reveal his true anxieties, his longing to start a family of his own and his intense fears of not being able to provide a proper father figure for a child, with the character of Jane personifying the perceived consequences of an ill prepared man on a budding family.
While "Hey Jane" shines brightly as an example of authentic Okonma bleeding heart lyricism, the rest of CHROMAKOPIA has a hard time following suit. The narrative seems to flip back and forth between the Tyler Okonma perspective and the Tyler, The Creator persona, in an attempt to cater to both commercial listeners and true fans. While the skewed perspectives are interesting, they have understandably drawn the criticism that the album feels disconnected at times, as if it were instead a collection of songs rather than one cohesive body of work. And while that may work for our good buddies The Rolling Stones, for a more introspective artist like Tyler, that can really throw off the listening experience.
While each song could very well stand on its own, pockets of tracks do sound as if they truly belong on previous works. Songs like the aforementioned "Hey Jane" and "Judge Judy" give the impression that they should have been included on Flower Boy and Call Me If You Get Lost. What ties CHROMAKOPIA together, however, is not the lyricism or the production, it's the imagery; it's St. Chroma himself that makes this record the brilliant character study that it is. St. Chroma, the masked general plastered across every piece of CHROMAKOPIA merchandise and promotional material, plays the part of both the general and the infantry. He personifies the modern role of the musician as a symbol and a mouthpiece for those in need of an idol or a common cause, yet still shackled by the unreasonable and oftentimes sociopathic expectations of the fan base.
St. Chroma is a caricature of the way fans interact with musicians like Tyler. The people want real, but not too real; authenticity packaged in such a way that doesn't convolute or alter their personal perception of the artist and their music. St. Chroma wears his mask for exactly that reason, never changing his expression so as to never skew his followers (the fans) perception of him or his position, and in the case of "Noid," to not be recognized off base by any unsavory types (crazed and/or obsessive fans). Similarly, "Like Him," one of the record's final and more soulful tracks, falls into the greater story as a point of anxiety for St. Chroma.
"Like Him" is a song about young Tyler wanting to know more about his father, building into anxiety about his appearance and the development of parental issues, that Tyler would later come to rectify. As St. Chroma, the argument could be made that "Like Him" is also about the position hastily thrust upon him by old and new fans alike. One side of his fan base wants novelty and constant innovation, while the other just wants to replicate the feeling of hearing Kali Uchis sing the chorus to "See You Again." He's constantly chasing a ghost, never catching up to the image of his father or fitting the pseudo-parental mold his fans have made made for him.
CHROMAKOPIA embodies and embellishes the double-edged role artists face in the modern pop landscape, balancing raw self-expression with fans’ relentless need for celebrity commonality. It acts as a symbol of the pressures that Tyler, and many artists like him, endure, as they are expected to innovate perpetually yet held captive by past works’ nostalgia. From behind the glowering mask of St. Chroma, Tyler further exposes the artist’s struggle to be authentic without losing themselves to the public's desires, forever chasing shadows of what they’ve created.
Rob Lucchesi
Tyler, The Creator