The cover of Iceman, the marquee album among the three Drake released last week, is a picture of a disembodied hand wearing a crystal-studded glove. In 2023, to celebrate matching Michael Jackson’s 14 No. 1 singles, Drake purchased one of Jackson’s signature accessories for a reported $123,000—a move that fits the profile of an artist with that level of commercial dominance. However, the world Iceman inhabits feels darker than the one we knew in 2023: more cynical and transparent in its moral ambiguity. While critics and fans have long noted Drake’s circular writing and emotional stagnation, this new project—comprising Iceman, Habibti, and Maid of Honour—finds the artist spiraling deeper into the ruts that have defined his career for nearly two decades.
This is not entirely a negative development. At times, the neuroses reach an escape velocity that breaks free from his usual preening self-awareness. There are moments of inventive, intoxicating production, particularly on the front half of the dance-oriented Maid of Honour. Furthermore, while his syntax can be exhausting, there are stretches of accomplished rapping across Iceman, and Habibti—which attempts to recapture the gravity of his early R&B records—is notable for its well-curated collaborations. The triple-album strategy functions as a brilliant, airport-bookstore-style Sun Tzu maneuver, providing the first sense of narrative stakes in a Drake project since 2016’s Views. Yet, there remains something remarkably deflated at the project’s core.
The cultural context is inescapable. Universal recently released Michael, an Antoine Fuqua-directed biopic produced in cooperation with the Jackson estate. This arrives during a period of intense public anxiety regarding pedophilia, where public figures have reached unprecedented levels of performative discourse. When shame is discarded entirely, public figures often find they can navigate any controversy, provided they are selling a product the public desires.
It is impossible to ignore that the biggest rap song of the decade labeled Drake a “certified pedophile.” America has always been rife with the sexual abuse of children, and the subtext of recent high-profile performances—such as Justin Bieber’s Coachella set—often highlights the grotesque undertones of commercializing adolescent figures. In the last decade, the fear of pedophilia has been wielded as a political cudgel by both major parties, turning the topic into a central feature of modern discourse.
There are nuances to consider. While the accusations are inflammatory, they have become central to rap beef. Drake’s response, however, was notably smug, suggesting that the “Epstein angle” was expected, which proved to be poor crisis communication. From his debut, the sexual politics of Drake’s music have been scrutinized. In the 2010s, his lyrics were often cast as representative of the “nice guy” misogyny of that era. In the 2020s, starting with For All the Dogs, his music has adopted a bitter, reactionary streak, viewing women as interchangeable and scheming. This trajectory aligns with the rise of the “manosphere,” and while Drake is not unique in this regard, his current creative direction is undeniable.
The women depicted in Iceman and Habibti are familiar tropes: they are presented as foils to his happiness, making the project feel predictable. However, when he leans into seedier territory, as he does on Maid of Honour, he occasionally taps into new libidinal ground. It is inherently strange to release an album focused on sexual exploits—including an opening track titled “Hoe Phase”—while featuring his mother on the cover. Yet, Maid of Honour serves as a circuit-party record, suggesting that the answer to revitalizing his sound was to embrace a more manic, harried, and horny aesthetic. The track “Outside Tweaking” stands out as the most interesting he has sounded in a decade: barely there, yet undeniably alive.