Kendrick Lamar: The Voices That Shaped a Poet

Compton’s Streets

There’s a moment in Kendrick Lamar’s 2015 masterpiece To Pimp a Butterfly where he raps, “Now float,” and the beat drops away, leaving only a hush, like a breath before a revelation. That silence feels earned — carved out of Compton’s noise, pain, and pride. As someone who grew up just outside Los Angeles, I’ve always been struck by how Kendrick turns the raw edges of his upbringing into something spiritual, something poetic. But he didn’t do it alone. Behind his voice are others — rappers, poets, prophets — who taught him how to speak truth in rhythm.

Tupac Shakur

Tupac’s shadow looms large over Compton, and Kendrick has never shied away from acknowledging the debt. As a teenager, Kendrick would rap along to 2Pacalypse Now, absorbing the urgency in Tupac’s tone and the clarity of his message. But Kendrick didn’t just mimic — he internalized. Tupac’s unapologetic honesty about police brutality, poverty, and Black identity gave Kendrick a blueprint. On m.A.A.d. world, Kendrick samples “Street Fame” and even quotes Tupac directly: “Now float.” It’s not just a nod — it’s a passing of the torch.

Dr. Dre and the West Coast Sound

Before Kendrick rewrote the rules of West Coast rap, there was Dre’s G-funk — a smooth, synth-heavy sound that defined the region. Kendrick grew up in Dre’s backyard and was mentored by him early in his career. Dre’s The Chronic showed Kendrick that you could be both slick and serious, that funk could carry weight. Kendrick’s early work with Top Dawg Entertainment still bore the influence of that laid-back groove, but he bent it into something more introspective, more urgent.

Mos Def and Talib Kweli

While the West Coast gave Kendrick his rhythm, artists like Mos Def and Talib Kweli gave him his politics. Listening to Black on Both Sides or Quality, Kendrick found a kind of rap that wasn’t just about the streets — it was about the soul. Mos Def’s spoken word stylings and Kweli’s lyrical precision taught him that hip-hop could be a classroom, a pulpit, a mirror. You hear it in Kendrick’s cadence — the way he flows like he’s preaching, not just performing.

Maya Angelou

One of the most striking influences on Kendrick isn’t a rapper at all. Maya Angelou’s voice appears on The Blacker the Berry — not just sampled, but summoned. Her poetry, her presence, shaped Kendrick’s understanding of language. He once said that she taught him how to turn pain into beauty, how to make suffering sing. Angelou’s influence is subtle but deep — in the way Kendrick crafts metaphors, in the way he weaves narrative into verse, and in the way he believes in the redemptive power of words.

His Father and the Church

Kendrick’s father, Kenny Duckett, wasn’t a musician, but he was a storyteller. Raised in Chicago, Kenny brought tales of the South Side to Compton, grounding Kendrick in a lineage of struggle and resilience. That foundation, combined with his mother’s faith, gave Kendrick a spiritual vocabulary. Church music, gospel harmonies, and scripture seeped into his work. You hear it in the choir on Alright, in the Psalms he quotes, and in the way he frames personal and communal redemption.

If you’ve ever felt the weight of Kendrick’s words and wanted to hear more — to ask him how he found his voice, or what he learned from Tupac — there’s a place to do that. Talk to Kendrick Lamar on HoloDream, where the conversation doesn’t end with the album.