Drake - Nothing Was the Same Review

Six minutes of pure writing exercise over three beat transitions so subtle you barely notice them happening. Drake catalogs his rise from the bottom with the kind of specific detail—Grammy night announcement, Hidden Hills move, the basement in Toronto—that turns autobiography into argument. The flow never breaks, just adjusts to each new production shift, moving from the quiet piano loop to the Whitney Houston sample to the Curtis Mayfield closer without pausing for breath. It is the thesis statement and the flex at once, the moment where Drake announces he can do this for as long as he wants and dares you to get bored. You do not get bored. The lack of a hook is the point: this is not a single, this is a mission statement. Best opener in his catalog.

The album's most obvious two-part structure: a slow-burn meditation on distance and fame that suddenly shifts gears halfway through into a more propulsive flow, though the melancholy never lifts. The production from 40, Hagler and Jake One keeps the mood submerged even when the tempo picks up. The trick is that both halves are about the same thing—being too far from where you started to go back—but the delivery changes to match the realization. Works better as a mood piece than as a song you would return to on its own.

The origin myth as a nursery rhyme, built on a Bruno Sanfilippo ambient sample and the simplest possible hook. Mike Zombie and 40's production strips everything down to 808s and negative space, letting the repetition do the work. The writing is deliberately vague—what bottom, what top, how did we get here—which is why it became an anthem: anyone can project their own journey onto it. A smarter song than it appears, though the smartness is in what it refuses to say rather than what it does. Overplayed to death by 2014, still undeniable when you hear it now. The music video's Toronto specificity—the Degrassi set, the old neighborhoods—adds the detail the lyrics avoid.

A Wu-Tang tribute that samples It's Yourz and then spends three and a half minutes doing everything Wu-Tang never would: singing, introspection, luxury melancholy. The irony is intentional, Drake using the reference to highlight how far his version of rap has traveled from the East Coast rawness the Clan represented. The 40 production is gorgeous, all twilight synths and distant drums, but the writing is some of the most self-involved on the album, circling the same thoughts about women and success without landing anywhere new. Works as a production showcase, less so as a song.

Detail and 40 try to build on the Wu-Tang Forever melody and end up with the album's most obvious filler. The writing is pure flex without the specificity that makes flexing interesting, the kind of expensive-sounding track that signals ambition without delivering it. Feels like it is here to fill space rather than to say something.

DJ Dahi's hardest beat on the album, all lurching bass and off-kilter drums, with Drake delivering his most aggressive performance over the top. The hook is a taunt aimed at everyone who doubted him, the verses are a victory lap that earns its arrogance by being specific: the Grammy win, the doubters from the early days, the people who wanted him to fail. No singing, no introspection, just pure shit-talk over a beat that sounds like it is caving in on itself. The Rube Goldberg production—layers clicking and shifting in the background—gives the aggression a surreal quality, like hearing someone flex in a nightmare. Essential.

The closest the album comes to a traditional love song, with Jhené Aiko providing the warmth Drake's verses refuse. He is trying to explain why love is not the priority anymore, why success and contentment have replaced the need for romantic validation. The 40 production is lush and patient, giving both voices room to breathe. Aiko's hook is the emotional center, her voice cutting through the murk to remind you there is a world outside Drake's head. The writing is self-aware enough to acknowledge the selfishness without quite apologizing for it, which is as close to growth as this album gets.

Drake's purest pop moment and his most successful crossover, a Majid Jordan and Nineteen85 collaboration that plays like a long-lost Janet Jackson cut filtered through 40's production haze. The yearning is direct and unironic, the hook is undeniable, the whole thing sounds like it is playing through a frosted window at 3am. No rapping, just singing, and it works because the melody is strong enough to carry the emotion without the lyrical specificity Drake usually requires. The music video's Miami Vice homage adds a layer of camp the song itself does not need. A perfect song that somehow fits on an album full of twilight moodiness, probably because the moodiness is in the production rather than the lyrics. Still his best single.

Hudson Mohawke and 40 strip the drums away for long stretches, leaving only synth pads and vocal samples hanging in silence. The writing tries to address connection in the age of success and ends up saying very little across five minutes. It is beautiful as a production exercise, the kind of negative-space experiment that makes sense on a playlist but not on an album where momentum matters. Skippable.

Boi-1da's beat is a neck-snap groove, all synth stabs and hard drums, with Drake delivering some of his tightest writing about reclaiming his position in the rap hierarchy. The cadence is the hook, the flow switching pockets every few bars without losing the groove. No one believed the rumors that this was aimed at Kendrick Lamar's Control verse, and Birdman's denial confirmed it, but the energy feels like a response to something even if the lyrics never name a target. The song works because it is specific about what Drake does well—making hits, moving units, setting the tempo—without overstating the case. One of the album's best pure rap songs.

Detail's second appearance, and the album's weakest track by a wide margin. The Miami references are too vague to land, the writing is pure filler, the whole thing feels like a contractual obligation to Detail that no one's heart was in. Skippable without hesitation.

Sampha's ghostly vocals anchor the most emotionally direct song on the album, with Drake addressing his mother's expectations and his father's absence over Nineteen85 and Sampha's skeletal production. The writing is plainspoken in a way that still feels radical in rap: no metaphors, no posturing, just the acknowledgment that success has not solved the family issues that fame was supposed to fix. Sampha's sample and his sung contributions give the track a lightness that keeps it from sinking into self-pity. The vulnerability here feels earned because it is specific rather than vague, naming the people and the conflicts rather than gesturing at them. One of the album's most replayable deep cuts.

The two-part closer, with Pound Cake featuring Jay-Z over a Boi-1da flip of C.R.E.A.M. and Paris Morton Music 2 serving as a solo epilogue. Jay's verse is the album's best guest appearance, an older rapper acknowledging a younger one's ascent without conceding the throne, the generational handoff made explicit by the Wu-Tang sample that connects both their careers. Drake's verses are solid, the kind of technically proficient rap-writing he can do in his sleep at this point, but Jay is the reason to return. The transition into Paris Morton Music 2 is abrupt, Detail's production taking over for a slower, more introspective sequel to a Take Care leftover. It works as a comedown after the Jay verse, though the album might have been stronger if it ended with Pound Cake and saved Paris Morton Music for a deluxe edition. Still, the C.R.E.A.M. flip and the Jay feature make this one of the album's essential moments.

A deluxe-edition bonus that sounds like a Take Care offcut: pretty 40 production, decent melody, no reason to exist beyond filling out a tracklist. Skippable.

The posse cut, with 2 Chainz and Big Sean trading punchlines over Key Wane and 40's murky production. It is fun in the way a victory lap with your friends is fun, all three rappers in a good mood and playing off each other's energy, but it is inessential next to the album's more focused material. 2 Chainz gets the best line, Big Sean holds his own, Drake plays host. A solid bonus track that did not need to be on the main album.

The best of the bonus tracks and one that deserved a spot on the main album. Sampha and 40's production is lush and patient, Drake's writing about distrust and paranoia at the top is sharper than similar attempts elsewhere on the album, and the whole thing has a forward momentum the back half of the standard edition lacks. A better closer than Come Thru or even Paris Morton Music 2, though the decision to bury it as a Best Buy exclusive suggests no one realized what they had. Seek this one out.