Stardom is a fleeting concept, one that we’ve seen play out with the biggest of stars over time. Even without outright missteps, artists often find themselves scrutinized by the masses for reasons entirely unrelated to their work. More often than not, this pressure either drives them to prove their worth to a finicky fanbase—one that will jump ship the second something else catches their attention—or pushes them back into obscurity. This isn’t an immediate outcome; for the most part, such downward spirals unfold over months, if not years.
For Chance The Rapper, everything that transpired between his debut album, The Big Day, and his sophomore album, Star Line, cast doubt on his place in the broader hip-hop landscape. Following the astronomical success of Coloring Book, he embraced a bible-thumping, family-oriented transformation, distancing himself from the high school stoner persona he portrayed on his breakout mixtape, Acid Rap. It’s an understandable pivot for a fresh-out-of-high-school artist marked for international success, grappling with the temptations of the music industry, to find something that grounds him. Yet everything that followed—from the widely circulated video of him celebrating Carnival to the confirmation of his split from the mother of his two children, and the $3M lawsuit involving his former manager Patrick Corcoran—has undoubtedly burdened him with challenges that make Star Line feel like both a return to his roots and a record hardened by conviction.
The album’s title alone signals its ambition, drawing from Marcus Garvey’s Black Star Line, a shipping line central to Garvey’s Back-to-Africa movement. Chance’s travels to Africa, specifically Ghana, and to Jamaica, along with other global destinations, anchor this latest body of work while paralleling struggles back home. Over the meditative backdrop of “No More Old Men,” with Jamila Woods’ ethereal vocals, Chance reflects on generational shifts, personal growth, and the socio-cultural challenges that young people in Chicago face without proper guidance. Similarly, “The Negro Problem” offers a sobering look at systemic issues confronting Black Americans, most striking when he raps, “The judge said, ‘What? I don’t see no problem’ / the world said, ‘Yup, that’s the negro problem.’” BJ The Chicago Kid’s emotive vocals amplify the track’s call for empathy and attention to Black struggles, grounding the message in both artistry and social consciousness.
Addressing these issues has been a motif in Chance The Rapper’s catalog, but Star Line also offers actionable reflections, not merely gestures that cater to the white gaze. On the fiery “Letters,” Chance, a devout Christian, targets mega-churches and the exploitation of religion, building intensity across three verses that collide imagery of Bibles and firearms. “Just A Drop,” featuring Jay Electronica, explores scarcity, spiritual yearning, and human rights, drawing parallels between displacement in his own community in Chicago in a way that feels like it strongly alludes to Israel’s occupation of Palestine and their genocide against Palestinians. Jay Electronica’s spiritually-bound verse channels these ideas with Biblical references and nods to the Nation of Islam and Louis Farrakhan, navigating controversy while emphasizing resistance as a force against oppression. These moments highlight Chance’s growth: applying hyper-focused observations to a broader societal picture, aligning with the album’s title, and embracing the pursuit of justice by any means necessary—a worldview that at times mirrors the militant-mindedness of Malcolm X.
Beyond the political weight, the six-year wait since The Big Day allows Chance’s personal grief to surface. On the minimalist, spacey “Link Me In The Future,” he mourns lost loved ones, while on “Pretty,” he confronts loneliness and divorce with the stark lines, “Sometimes I think she was the love of my life / So, when I'm alone sometimes I think that I'm dead.” This heartbreak represents a complete 180 from an album focused on his wedding day, but it is precisely this honesty that allows the album to flourish.
Sandwiched between emotional and political moments, Chance doesn’t shy away from bangers and bars. “The Highs & The Lows” pairs him with Joey Bada$$ in an excellent lyrical exchange. Chicago’s rising talent BabyChiefDoIt delivers a standout verse (even if penned by ChatGPT) on the blistering drill track “Drapetomania.” Young Thug and TiaCorine complement the pop-leaning “Gun In Yo Purse,” while “Burn Ya Block” channels Jamaican influences in a style reminiscent of Yeezus rather than traditional dancehall.
Perhaps a bit more jaded than he once was, yet firmly entrenched in his convictions, Star Line feels like a natural progression from the missteps of The Big Day. It is both a return to form and an evolution, building upon the foundation Chance created while asserting a broader, more mature worldview. At its core, this album revolves around lifelong struggles—for love, justice, and self-definition. Chance The Rapper may never replicate the acclaim of Coloring Book but the numbers and narratives fade in comparison to a work that prioritizes clarity, cohesion, and a purposeful step forward. In Star Line, Chance The Rapper charts the difficult terrain of love, justice, and selfhood, crafting an album as restless and resolute as he is.
