Editor’s Note: This article is a review and includes subjective thoughts, opinions and critiques. 

On Friday nights at Stanford, rap is rarely background noise. Lyrics are shouted across dorm rooms, blasted through speakers in Row houses, and circulated on Fizz the next morning. “Never going back to Phi Psi if they play that same Drake set again,” someone comments. Even in Green Library, late at night, you can catch a hook slipping out of someone’s headphones. Moments like these make it clear that rap is not just party music. It’s woven in students’ everyday lives.

When J. Cole dropped his album “The Fall-Off” on Feb. 6, that same energy carried into everyday life. At the Computing and Data Science complex (CoDa), conversations between problem sets drifted toward track rankings and favorite bars. Online, YouTube reactions appeared within hours, TikToks highlighted standout lyrics and Reddit threads expanded with competing interpretations. That instinct, to pause the beat and analyze the words, reveals that beneath the beat, rap has always been a lyrical art form. Even in an era shaped by streaming algorithms and social media engagement, lyricism still drives listener connection and relatability. 

To understand why listeners are instinctively drawn to lyrics, it helps to look at the history of the genre. In  the 1970s Bronx, DJs like Kool Herc looped breakbeats and emcees narrated neighborhood realities over them, describing poverty, violence and everyday resilience.

With the early 2000s came greater commercial polish. Artists like 50 Cent paired glossy production with radio-ready hooks while collaborations like “Yeah!” by Usher and Ludacris blurred the line between rap and pop, pushing hip-hop deeper into mainstream culture.

The 2010s ushered in the rise of melodic rap, exemplified by songs like Juice WRLD’s “Lucid Dreams,” where a guitar beat loop and drawn-out vocal delivery make the song drift between singing and rapping. The rise of streaming platforms reshaped song structures. Labels, producers and artists began optimizing tracks for algorithm-driven listening environments where “replayability” affected chart performance and revenue.

Alongside these structural and commercial changes, the style of lyricism itself also shifted. 

Earlier generations prized dense wordplay and intricate rhyme schemes that rewarded close listening, as heard in the works of artists like Nas and MF DOOM. Today, minimalism carries its own emotional force. Just look at how fans gravitate towards Kendrick Lamar’s line “We gon’ be alright” from the song “Alright”: a simple phrase grew larger than the song itself and became chanted during Black Lives Matter protests against police brutality to convey a sense of hope. 

But is the genre ultimately defined by its sound, or by its lyrics? This is where lyricism becomes more than a technical skill; it becomes a question of authenticity. When listeners are pulled toward artists like Cole, it is rarely just about the music’s flow; it is because their lyrics feel personal and are grounded in real experience. In his song “Love Yourz,” Cole raps: “There’s beauty in the struggle, ugliness in the success.” The line is simple, but it cuts deep, challenging the idea that achievement automatically equals fulfillment.

That sentiment of finding meaning within struggle feels particularly relatable at a place like Stanford. Here, success is both visible and measurable through department-specific research grants, summer research internships, and acceptances from programs like the Rhodes or Marshall Scholarships. 

But the pressure underneath that visibility is rarely visible to others. It shows up in the habits people rarely talk about, from studying into the late hours of the night to projecting effortlessness in a way that echoes Stanford’s “duck syndrome.”

Conversations turn into subtle comparisons about how many units someone is taking this quarter, about who secured which internship for the summer. People celebrate their wins publicly, but process their doubts privately. LinkedIn highlights the offer letter, not the rejection that came before it or the anxiety that lingers even after success arrives. Cole’s line, “There’s beauty in the struggle, ugliness in the success,’’ resonates because it reframes ambition, suggesting that struggle is not a detour from success, but part of it. On a campus defined by aspiration, that reminder matters.

Further, appreciation for meaning becomes especially visible in social spaces like parties on the weekends. The bass hits, the chorus echoes and the song becomes an atmosphere. But even there, words are not irrelevant. Students shout entire verses in unison, and the fact that some can even recite them without flaw, suggests that lyricism still anchors connection, even when the primary mode is celebration.

Ultimately, lyricism endures because listeners still seek authenticity and relatability. Even as production trends shift, the pull towards honest storytelling remains. Lines that articulate pressure, uncertainty and hope travel with students from crowded Row houses to quiet walks home, lingering long after the music fades. At its core, rap becomes a relatable friend to the listener. Beats may draw listeners in, but words are what make them stay.