Mick Jenkins Channels His Career Frustrations Into His Best Album In Years On 'The Patience'

Mick Jenkins is done waiting. Fresh off escaping a deal with Cinematic Music Group that kept him in creative limbo, Jenkins feels like he’s free. In recent interviews, the Chicago MC claims his recent output  – though well-received by critics and fans – has been intentionally half-baked. “I wasn’t even trying to do my best for the last five years,” he said in a live stream before the album’s release. So Jenkins waited, biding his time with knotty projects like the Gil Scott-Heron-influenced Pieces of a Man and the vent session Elephant in the Room.

On The Patience, Jenkins’ familiar laidback cool is replaced with an anxious, angry bite. Jenkins is pissed – at the industry, fugazis (“Pasta”), money-grubbing peers (“Guapanese”), and his lack of recognition. A feeling of frustrated stasis is palpable throughout, born out of material recorded while waiting to finish out his CMG contract. His expression on the cover says it all: these songs were crafted during a period of deep frustration, restriction, and helplessness.   

The 32-year-old has always seemed wise beyond his years – a world-weary oracle peering out the window of a rattling L train above Chicago’s streets, spooling out sharp social critiques into the microphone. But on The Patience, Jenkins comes across as tightly wound, a spring that’s suspended in time just before a great leap forward. He sounds downright famished, finally able to unleash his abilities to the fullest after years of chomping at the bit. “I’m hungry as hell,” he proclaims on the triumphant opener, “Michelin Star.” 

Unlike his past work, The Patience has no overarching throughline, no direct message to impart (drink more water,love heals all wounds). The dense philosophical musings Jenkins was known for could sometimes weigh down his otherwise weightless flow. But this album is a filler-less 28 minutes where every word feels purposeful. Jenkins wastes no time repeatedly reminding the world he belongs with the top-tier spitters. Take “Show & Tell,” a boisterous cut where Jenkins spars with Freddie Gibbs, jabbing in and out of a menacing beat fit for a Scorsese flick. While Jenkins’ guest stars usually tread the familiar Chicago hip-hop and R&B scene, these co-conspirators – Gibbs, JID, Benny the Butcher, and Vic Mensa – show the confidence he has to go toe-to-toe with some of the game’s finest.

There’s an unburdened looseness to Jenkins’ flow on The Patience, rooted in the fact that the man can rap better than almost anyone – and he’s well aware. “Ain’t no stoppin’ me/I’m above can’t, we apostrophes,” he spits with a scowl on the Benny the Butcher-featuring album highlight, “Sitting Ducks.” Jenkins plows through the album with rabid intensity, allowing his delivery to do most of the talking. His writing is crisp and to the point, but it’s his voice – the captivating vigor – that dominates each track. 

The music reflects Jenkins’ mood: drums pitter-patter, keys twinkle, bass lines flutter. Producers Berg, VNSN, Stoic, Hollywood Cole, and others provide Jenkins with beats that pull from a similar jazzy palette as Jenkins’ past work, but are a bit more spacious and colorful; more impatient and less hazy. Second single “Guapanese” belongs on the radio of a smoke lounge, while “007”, one of the album’s strongest tracks, closes with a floating saxophone fit for a rainy day. 

Jenkins’ patience may have run thin over the past few years, but he’s embracing the period of progression that followed: “Smoke straight from the farm, I’m on my growth shit,”he boasts on “Farm to Table,” a celebratory track that sounds like the exhilaration felt after hard-earned independence. While his past projects called for judicious editing, a few tracks in the middle stretch of The Patience could use another verse or two – “2004” barely gets going before it’s over and “Roy G. Biv” sketches a neat concept without enough meat.

This project is a career reset – years of being a mainstay in underground circles and garnering acclaim from critics has still left Jenkins feeling overlooked. He’s ready to take his craft to a higher level. The Patience is a rewarding opening chapter, a satisfying burst of fresh air after a period of holding his breath.

He closes the album with a vow: “I’m just now stepping into what I feel like is full agency over my creativity, my artistry, my business, and even myself as a man.” If ThePatience is an indication of his capabilities when given full autonomy, then Jenkins may just be on the brink of a creative resurgence, potentially delivering on the promise he teased back when he was once considered the next great Chicago rapper.