Why is Drake so upset? By the end of this review, we'll attempt to establish what's happened. Despite his seemingly exponential success in the rap game both critically and commercially something - something deep - has cut him up a little to the point that the name of his third LP is steeped in such existential, teenage angst ridden emotion Nothing Was The Same. The kind of statement you'd say to your mum when she'd caught you crying in the dark alone after a second shitty date with that first shitty guy.

"Dry your eyes mate," the lyrics of the most inferior, most commercially successful Streets song, seem fitting in parts on this record, which sees a break from the experimental nature of Take Care and the vacuousness of his debut, Thank Me Later. But the tears he's crying are angry ones, the ones that come out without warning, while in a fit of abject rage. On album opener 'Tuscan Leather', he's in a Mike Tyson boxing stance, itching to bite someone's ear off - maybe a conservative hip-hoper that pokes fun at his softness (he has a lot of emotions), maybe a fashionista that laughs at his choice of knitwear (he has a lot of jumpers) - but especially his own.

He's never properly addressed the fact that he doesn't fit into hip-hop's urban demographic; it's always been a pretty apparent point of self-loathing though, hence the backlash to the albeit stand out track 'Started From the Bottom'. He is a middle class Jewish boy, who despite 2-stepping at his Bar Mitvah has never been quite able to connect with those same hip-hop purists that laughed at the Beastie Boys in the 90s. Still, the fact remains he's far and deservedly more accepted than Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch were. He makes reference to his "borough niggas" on the album's sample-based, Kanye-esque opener and how he was fortunate enough not to grow up in the 'hood, but have 'friends that stayed there' on the controversial but most experimental track on this record, 'Wu-Tang Forever'. That's something, right?

Sometimes this defensiveness feels a bit disingenuous though, especially on bravado-ridden YMCMB-dna'd tracks like 'Connect' and 'The Language'. What irks people about him won't have changed come this record. He's still the guy that'll say the things you want to hear to get into your clique. But when he uses his outsider mentality to his benefit - recognising that to feel threatened, you must be threatening - he's on point. Being the guy that gets you into hot water from your girlfriend for 'not expressing your feelings enough', 'Too Much', is an introspective track perfectly complimented by Sampha's fragile vocals and the understated potency of the track. 'Hold On, We're Going Home', is a slick slice of 80s pop-cum-contemporary-R&B. It's hard track to shake, even if you're too cool to fully understand why it makes you want to move - even a little bit, even if you can't dance. He's at his best when he recognises that he's the rap game Rory Gilmore.

But there's just one more thing, one string that his added to his bow this time round. He has a venomous streak, that those nerds in American high school flicks have - I guess they call it a breaking point. On 'Worst Behaviour', that sweet sensitive voice that uttered those heartbreaking words "call crazy, shit at least you calling," has broken all over again as he screams, "muthafuckas never loved us." Who are these 'muchafuckas?', well we don't really know, but I dare you to care. The song is more about its visceral energy than its content - from this versatile flow that we've never heard from him to the nod to Mase's verse on 'Mo' Money Mo' Problems (which makes you rue the day he gave his life to God), it's raw and real. On '305 to My City' he works over this beat that's heavy enough to be trap, but dulled enough to be Drake-like. It's odd and jumpy, but good. Gone are the days where Drake was known by the masses for only being White Wine Spritzer music.

Drake's upset because he can't have his cake and eat it too. Until Nothing Was The Same, I'd never understood that phrase. But it's something like never wanting to make a firm decision in fear of losing something else. But when he's being true to himself, it's very apparent on this record, and those moments are golden, whether he's pensive or angry. Nothing Was The Same is a moody record, like a bottomless pit of violent and vocal hormones during puberty. A little confusing, a little stand-offish in parts, but when an equilibrium is reached, virtually perfect.