Was Homer the first rapper?
Just as ancient Greek audiences heard Odysseus's harrowing journey sung by bards, modern listeners trace Kendrick Lamar’s journey through Compton—facing monsters no less deadly, temptations no less seductive, and a homecoming no less hard-won.
artwork by Asher stone
A conflicted protagonist, trials and tribulations, voices from the beyond, and a dramatic return home. You might think I am describing The Odyssey, but I am actually talking about Kendrick Lamar’s good kid, m.A.A.d city. Now flip it: oral storytelling, expressive performance, and a rhythmic cadence. Am I talking about another rap album? No, I am describing The Odyssey. What many people fail to realize is that The Odyssey was meant to be enacted and sung, not just read. That’s more than just an interesting fact; it’s evidence of a connection between these two works which runs deeper than you might’ve ever imagined. These parallels reveal something powerful about how we define epic storytelling—and what makes one a hero.
When people tell me they don’t like rap, one of the most common reasons I hear is that they feel like someone is just “saying words at them.” Setting aside the tired “rap isn’t real music” debate, I think it’s totally fair to have that reaction. But if that’s the case, it’s pretty hypocritical to turn around and say you enjoy The Odyssey—or really, any poetry. This contradiction points to a deeper, systemic bias: a cultural instinct to uphold traditional forms of poetry while dismissing rap as somehow lesser.
You might try to argue that The Odyssey is simply more sophisticated, more artfully written than something like good kid, m.A.A.d city, but even a surface-level analysis of Kendrick’s album reveals just how wrong that is. The preference for The Odyssey isn’t really about complexity or craft—it’s about whose stories we’re conditioned to value. Kendrick’s narrative is rarely allowed to just be a great story; it’s treated almost exclusively as a social document, a poetic expression of the struggles of growing up in Compton. Even when celebrated, the album is usually framed as powerful because of how it confronts systemic issues—not because it’s an epic in its own right. This reflects how institutions and audiences often commercialize the pain of marginalized people while pretending to care. The truth is, stories like Kendrick’s are only taken seriously when they serve as case studies in suffering. They’re not allowed to be mythic. They’re not allowed to stand next to Homer or Virgil, because that would require seeing someone like Kendrick not just as a victim or activist, but as a hero. And that’s a kind of recognition many still aren’t willing to give.
By comparing The Odyssey and good kid, m.A.A.d city, it becomes clear that Kendrick’s album deserves to be celebrated not just for its activist power and sonic brilliance, but also for its masterful storytelling.
Both works begin with a clear call to adventure: a departure from home that sets the protagonist on a journey filled with trials, transformation, and eventual return. In The Odyssey, Ithaca is more than just a place Odysseus wishes to see once again; it represents his identity, his role as a father, a husband, and a king. Similarly, in good kid, m.A.A.d city, Compton is more than Kendrick’s neighborhood; it’s the backdrop against which his morality, manhood, and self-worth are tested and defined. Both Ithaca and Compton serve as symbolic homes, not just in the literal sense, but as anchors of identity. Leaving them isn’t just physical—it’s spiritual. The protagonist must leave in order to grow, but what they return to isn’t quite the same, and neither are they.
In both The Odyssey and good kid, m.A.A.d city, temptation is constant. For Odysseus, it’s women, riches, and food. For Kendrick, it’s sex, alcohol, and crime. The trials don’t just show up as big events; instead, they creep in, disguised as fun or freedom. The robbery scene presented in “The Art of Peer Pressure” on good kid, m.A.A.d city is tense, reckless, and almost cinematic, but it’s also a turning point. Before that, Kendrick is being pulled in every direction, giving in to the rhythm of peer pressure. His “homies” want him to prove himself. Girls want him to flex. The temptation to abandon what he believes in feels stronger than his values at times. Like Odysseus with Circe, Kendrick doesn’t fully resist; he messes up. But that’s what makes him human. The temptations are real, and the consequences are too.
“Swimming Pools (Drank)” makes for an incredible parallel to the Sirens in The Odyssey. The song is hypnotic and catchy; people frequently mistake it as a party anthem, but that’s just a facade. Just as the Sirens lured sailors to their deaths with beautiful voices, Kendrick describes how drinking culture seduces people into addiction and destruction. What makes this even more interesting is that Kendrick doesn’t yell at you to stop drinking. He whispers. The message is subtle, but it hits harder because of that: “Pour up (drank), head shot (drank) / Sit down (drank), stand up (drank) / Pass out (drank), wake up (drank).” The rhythm here is clean, simple, almost chant-like. It’s beautiful in the way it mimics oral tradition: it’s repetitive, easy to remember, and designed to live in your head. Like the Sirens’ song, it doesn’t just sound good, it feels good. But that’s what makes it so dangerous.
While Kendrick doesn’t battle a Cyclops or Scylla, his monsters are just as terrifying. In Compton, his threats are real and human: cops, gangs, and friends who turn on you. And then there are the invisible enemies: guilt, doubt, and the voice in his head telling him to take the easy way out. In The Odyssey, Odysseus fights mythical creatures which reflect fear, pride, and temptation. Kendrick does the same, just in a different register. His monsters are often people he knows, or worse, parts of himself. They show up in songs like “m.A.A.d city,” where he raps, “If Pirus and Crips all got along / They’d probably gun me down by the end of this song.” That’s the opening line, and it’s not a metaphor. Death is casual here. That’s how real the threat is. This line sets the tone for an entire journey shaped not by grand quests but the daily grind to survive.
After the failed robbery in “The Art of Peer Pressure,” Kendrick spirals. He loses his moral center. He questions everything: his choices, his purpose, even his worth. It’s not unlike Odysseus getting stranded and drifting for years, unsure of whether he’ll ever see home again. This section of the album feels slower, messier. The narrative rhythm breaks down a bit, which reflects how Kendrick is feeling: lost. In “Sing About Me, I’m Dying of Thirst,” there’s this haunting repetition, a kind of oral rhythm that circles back again and again to mortality and regret. Kendrick isn’t just physically stuck; he’s spiritually adrift. He can’t move forward until something, or someone, pulls him back.
Both Odysseus and Kendrick receive help throughout their journeys. While Odysseus has Athena, Kendrick has his mom, dad, and faith. After everything goes south, a voicemail from Kendrick’s mom urges him to come home and find his purpose: “Holla at me, I love you.” It’s simple, but it’s powerful. It’s like a divine push, a reminder of where he came from and what’s still waiting for him. In The Odyssey, help comes with glowing armor and sacred oaths. In good kid, m.A.A.d city, it comes with love, prayer, and a quiet but persistent pull towards redemption. Divine help doesn’t always have to be loud; sometimes it just sounds like your mom telling you she misses you.
The return is everything. Odysseus comes back to Ithaca older, wiser, and scarred. Kendrick comes back to Compton changed. He’s not just trying to survive anymore; he has a purpose. Kendrick’s journey wasn’t just about getting out—it was about understanding what kind of man he wants to be. The last tracks on the album feel calmer, more grounded. There’s clarity. No bravado or flex, just solemn reflection. Like Odysseus, Kendrick has earned the right to tell his story. He’s seen death. He’s buried friends. He’s come home with a new understanding of what that even means. The album ends, not with a bang, but with a voice. A story, full circle.
edited by James Kim.
artwork by Asher Stone.