MAID OF HONOUR

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The part in Kendrick Lamar’s diss tracks that really shattered Drake’s ego—more than “The Epstein Angle,” the accusations of ironed-on abs, or losing custody of DeMar DeRozan—was framing him as a hip-hop Christopher Columbus. “No you not a colleague, you a fuckin’ colonizer,” barked Kenny on “Not Like Us,” beating Drake at his own game of creating a monocultural rapalong. I didn’t think the Super Bowl halftime performance would be the end of Drake’s run as a massively popular rapper, but I did think the shame would lead to him falling deeper into the boring-ass pit of misery and revenge he’s been stuck in for all of the 2020s. This is pretty much the case with ICEMAN.

What I didn’t expect was MAID OF HONOUR, Drake’s fuck-it club-rap record, an album that shows he’s desperate to pick up the pieces and reclaim his title as hip-hop’s ultimate hitmaker. I wouldn’t blame you for comparing the upbeat bounce to the yacht-party vibes of Honestly, Nevermind, but that album was always a slightly enjoyable yet one-note sidequest that could have been made by anyone. In comparison, MAID OF HONOUR is considerably more intricate and inspired. It’s a maximalist riot where he doesn’t just leech off musical trends but absorbs them into the kind of insecure, heartfelt, drained, and charmingly corny Drake party songs that are in short supply these days. If More Life was the globe-trotting playlist, then MAID OF HONOUR is Drake’s restless 45-minute DJ mix, one with such a burning hunger to run just one more summer that he’s willing to risk further embarrassment.

For instance, if Drake were in full control of his narrative, the crazy fun of “Cheetah Print” might never have left his drafts. It’s easy to clown on the Peggy Gou-sampling hip-house joint turned wildly drunk Sexyy Red reimagining of the “Cha Cha Slide” as twerk commands with an Ibiza-ready, fist-pumping finale. Goofy? Of course. But also personalized with robo-rap vocal effects that make him sound like he’s out of his body, and a glazed flow with lyrics that acknowledge his wounded self-esteem: “I need a bad bitch to come take my innocence/Remind me that I’m him again.” You also wouldn’t be wrong if you cracked jokes on “Stuck,” an unexplainably random new jack swing joint. It would sound like a Mint Condition parody if Drake’s slightly pitch-shifted wallowing about being caught in limbo—mashed into a New Orleans bounce outro—didn’t seem like such a pure reflection of his whacked-out mindstate. He sounds like your boy after a devastating breakup that starts skydiving and training for an Ironman just to feel something.

But Drake was always better when he yearned for approval from the kingmakers, when he was an underdog driven by the myth that fame would make all of his insecurities go away. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t actually believe that Drake, in 2026, is an underdog, but I do believe that Drake believes he is an underdog, and that if he can be the soundtrack of the hottest parties co-signed by the hottest girls, everything will just go back to normal. God, he wants it so bad. He will do whatever it takes.

The Jamaican patois is back on the Popcaan dancehall cut “Amazing Shape,” and while they’ve made better songs together before, the groove is smooth and he’s got just the right amount of dick puns: “You could make a dead man rise,” Drake sings, a little flat but still catchy. He found a new muse via his TikTok For You Page in viral rapper Stunna Sandy, who I never thought of as anything more than an Ice Spice variant, until “Outside Tweaking,” where she sounds like a star flirting with Drake over the lush Jersey club breakdown like he’s the middle-aged trick at the bar buying all her drinks. No idea why he’s wailing over distorted guitars about his girl getting too fucked up and passing out on the bathroom floor on “Princess,” like a 16-year-old with an XXXTentacion poster on his wall, but I take it as Drake putting his my dreams of being cool forever are slipping away anxieties on wax. I approve of dropping coming-of-age whinefests at almost 40.

I won’t even bother listing all of the producers on MAID OF HONOUR because it seems to have been made by an entire roster led by Gordo, but with so many contributors reinterpreting all of these regional dance trends, some of the sounds are flattened. The Brazilian funk of “Q&A” has none of the edge, sounding more like the sexy drill rip-offs; with his unlimited budgets, he could surely fly out DJ Ramon Sucesso or whoever and get the real thing. The same for the Chicago juke rap of “True Bestie,” where the tempo feels far too slow.

Surprisingly, that’s not a bigger issue, for the most part, the beats scrap together samples and loose instrumental parts into collagist club beats that remind me of reading about the early ’80s Miami park battles of Uncle Luke’s Ghetto Style DJs. Back then, Luke’s trick was stitching together elements of the music they sponged up all around South Florida into their mixes to try to shock the crowd: Latin music tempos, reggae basslines, and eventually, the booming 808s passed down when Queens production pioneer Marley Marl came to town.

Even if it isn’t Drake turning the knobs himself, the production seems personal and specific to him—it’s also completely unpredictable. The moody So Far Gone-era atmosphere of “Hoe Phase” that erupts into a high-octane sample of Afro-Rican’s “Give It All You Got,” and then finishes with a spooky Afrobeats rhythm; the near-Mantronix electrofunk pulse of “BBW” that incorporates a blown-out techno palette Drake might have picked up at his night out at Berghain. This is the music of a man with nothing to lose, who feels the end of the run coming for him and is trying to stave it off, just a little longer, by any means necessary. He gets at that notion on “New Bestie,” a classic Drake breakup anthem that could be interpreted to be about his crumbling relationship with hip-hop: “I don’t know when and how to tell you goodbye,” “You make me do things that jeopardize my pride.” He sounds more hurt by the possibility of losing his spot than he ever did about losing Lorraine or Bria or Erika. It’s ridiculously over the top. Unearned self-pity that is as manipulative as it is a little moving. That might not be the Drake we get so much of anymore, but that’s the Drake I’ll remember.