
Tyler, the Creator has never been one to fit into neat boxes, and with Chromakopia, he’s broken down whatever boxes were left. From the get-go, he’s been on a musical trajectory as colourful and chaotic as his signature pastel outfits. Chromakopia isn’t an album you casually toss on in the background; it’s an immersive, whirlwind tour through Tyler’s mind. This is Tyler as a character—a fiction and a reality blending like the neon and sepia tones in a vintage photo booth strip, except the characters are all him, staring back at you from different angles.
Tyler’s always thrived on the chaotic, but here he’s sculpted that chaos into something remarkably controlled yet unrestrained. We kick off with “St. Chroma,” and right away, it feels like entering some sort of surreal, gritty carnival, complete with whispery chants and booming, militaristic percussion. There’s a push and pull here: Tyler is telling you to lean in close, but just when you’re getting comfortable, the beat drops, and you’re catapulted into the next twisted, neon-lit realm.
Now, if you’ve followed Tyler’s career, you might know he loves his alter egos and personas—Igor, Wolf Haley, Ace, and now the masked St. Chroma. Here, Chromakopia is like a gallery of characters he’s painted over the years, each more vivid and bizarre than the last. “Rah Tah Tah” sees Tyler taunting listeners and critics alike, balancing on a tightrope of bravado and vulnerability. It’s as if Tyler’s looking at us from behind that mask, teasing us with fragments of himself, saying, “You think you know me? Think again.”
The features on Chromakopia bring their own layers to the narrative, feeling like oddball cameos in Tyler’s cinematic universe. Take “Sticky,” featuring GloRilla, Lil Wayne, and Sexyy Red—a track that swaggers with enough attitude to make even the most stoic listener crack a grin. It’s like Tyler took a detour through an HBCU homecoming, sampling that blaring horn section and giving us a crash course on swagger. Tyler’s skill here is making these songs feel like a party, but not just any party—the kind where you know something unexpected is going to happen, like someone setting off fireworks indoors or a late-night confession over lukewarm punch.
Then there’s “Judge Judy,” a song that drifts into delicate territory, almost lulling you into a dreamy state. Tyler’s lyrics are playful and wry, yet there’s a surprising tenderness to his delivery. He’s not reinventing the love song here; he’s layering it with humour and restraint. You get the sense Tyler is aware of the absurdity in romance—like he’s whispering, “Yeah, love is weird, and that’s why it’s worth singing about.”
In contrast, “I Killed You” comes in like a one-two punch, darkly humorous and gritty. It begins with Tyler delivering bars sharp enough to cut glass, his voice crackling with menace. Yet halfway through, the track transforms, softening into a smooth, almost jazzy outro with Childish Gambino’s vocals drifting in like a fog. The whole song feels like one of those moments where you’re angry and laughing at the same time—like Tyler’s acknowledging life’s contradictions with a smirk.
Chromakopia isn’t without its contemplative side. In “Take Your Mask Off,” Tyler is at his most introspective, almost uncomfortably so. He takes a swipe at the facades we all wear, each verse peeling back another layer of his own persona. The track has a slinky, retro synth beat that wouldn’t feel out of place in a late-night noir. Tyler’s calling out gang members, preachers, suburban moms—even himself—each hiding behind their chosen identities. But instead of a preachy takeaway, Tyler leaves us in the ambiguity, the silence lingering long after the song fades. It’s like he’s saying, “Look, I’m not here to solve this. I’m just here to ask the question.”
If there’s a thematic core to Chromakopia, it might be Tyler’s ongoing relationship with fame and identity, handled with the same nuance and paradox as a trick mirror. “Noid” captures that paranoia, lacing dark humour into lyrics that wrestle with the fame monster he’s been feeding since he was a teenager. At times, it feels like he’s looking over his shoulder, wary of the shadows that come with celebrity. But he doesn’t wallow; instead, he shrugs and spins his fears into something creative, reminding us that he’s not here to be anyone’s hero or villain.
The album’s quieter, soulful moments, like “Darling, I,” show Tyler wrestling with a softer side, an inner romantic buried beneath layers of bravado. The song is playful yet sincere, almost like an unguarded glimpse into the man behind the masks. Teezo Touchdown’s chorus adds a Disney-like charm, a winking innocence that feels ironic yet genuine. Tyler’s bars are self-aware, laced with a warmth that almost feels… domestic. It’s a strange, tender moment on an album that spends most of its time wading through the murkier corners of his psyche.
Toward the end, “I Hope You Find Your Way Home” brings things full circle, closing the album on a surprisingly uplifting note. Tyler’s mother’s voice crackles to life here, grounding him with her words, a gentle anchor in a sea of chaos. It’s a reminder of where he’s come from, even as he’s leaping headfirst into the unknown. The track feels like Tyler stepping outside of himself, taking a breath, and saying, “This is me. All of it. Messy, complicated, ridiculous—but me.”
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