Logic’s College Park Is A Symbol Of Excellence For Hip-Hop’s Underdogs

Rocky Balboa. Ellen Ripley. Happy Gilmore. 

All of them weren’t supposed to win. When life gives you the devil’s hand, the words of Kenny Rogers serve as a reminder to know when to walk away. 

Yet for Sir Robert Bryson Hall II, known by the stage name of Logic, letting the cycle repeat itself would cause inevitable death.

College Park, his latest concept album, puts the listener in the shoes of a young and hungry Hall as he looks to turn lemons into white wine. 

Concept albums are nothing new to Logic, who’s never been a stranger to cinematic storytelling and ambitious themes—even if they can suffer from having too many cooks in the kitchen.

Logic is at his best when combining personal anecdotes with speedy flows and witty one-liners. 

That’s why his early mixtapes and records like No Pressure aren’t just lauded by critics and fans despite containing the pièce de résistance that every David versus Goliath tale has: relatability. 

On College Park, Logic returns to his roots with a captivating rags-to-riches story, which also features renowned rapper Redman. 

The new album finds beauty in simplicity, choosing to present a narrative of simpler times in Logic’s hometown at face value instead of forced subtlety. The sincere honesty in his retelling of impoverishment adds weight to his words. 

While the skits don’t always intertwine seamlessly with the song topics, their essence is stamped on every track with a strong scent, even if they’re a little too long. 

A compelling concept doesn’t always equal a thrilling album, it requires a bit more elbow grease. However, Logic doesn’t waste any space on this project. 

Clone Wars III contains all of his signature Logic-isms, from the flows and cadences to the introspective lyrics of wearing your influences on your sleeve as he declares that “there’s only twelve notes to a scale.” 

Redpill VII follows right after with razor-sharp wit and double-take punchlines. 

Bars such as “flame on wax like the wick is lit” or “spit so hard I knock a tooth out” prove once again that he is a prime time, upper-echelon lyricist. 

How can you not be a master of wordplay with lines like “my vision go over their head, like Klu Klux Klan sheets,” a double entendre so audaciously clever that it left my jaw on the floor with shock and awe. 

College Park is too long-winded on certain cuts. The lack of a second verse on Playwright or Insipio is rather perplexing—especially on Village Slum, a somber diary entry examining the woes of generational addiction. 

Bringing these songs to a screeching halt to fill gaps with skits or instrumentals felt as though Logic was keeping his training weights on instead of running a full marathon.

Thankfully, when those instrumentals thrust their foot into the door, they blow it off the hinge. 

With help from his producer lounge—6ix and PoST—the beats on College Park are a punchy flurry of love taps that don’t blow out your eardrums. 

This angelic cohesion is created through a variety of piano keys, soul samples and synth lines mixed together with background vocals and an occasional DJ scratch. 

Lightyear, the album’s outro, is the golden child of the entire 67-minute runtime. 

The rap, skit and ballad hybrid finds Logic finally setting the record straight on his decision to “go pop” in 2017, detailing his desire of wanting to “feed his family for generations” and spreading his message of peace, love and positivity worldwide. 

He then goes into an acoustic serenade at the end of the song, triumphantly singing that it “took a lightyear to find [himself] again.” 

Lightyear signifies a watershed moment for the Maryland matador. 

To Logic, winning isn’t just making a name for yourself, it’s financial and creative freedom.               

College Park is his last crusade as that child in the basement, and boy is it quite the emotional hoorah.