Nearly two decades after Drake released his debut mixtape (2006's "Room for Improvement"), he still spends entire albums complaining about women and haters.

As a twentysomething rapper with something to prove, Drake's petty jabs and paranoid delusions made sense. It was actually refreshing for an artist to be so open about his darkest impulses.

But the whole thing is no longer a novelty. "For All the Dogs" was made by a 36-year-old father, and it makes his rich-kid malaise sound an awful lot like misogyny.

As Nadine Smith wrote for The Independent, Drake's toxic masculinity has become "increasingly hard to ignore."

"'For All the Dogs' sees him step into a role that's nauseatingly patriarchal and almost abusive," Smith wrote. "He wants to handcuff them on 'Fear of Heights,' then whip and chain them like 'American slaves' on 'Slime You Out.' When he raps that he 'packs them into my phone like sardines' on 'First Person Shooter,' his outright contempt for women stares you directly in the face."

Beyond the blatantly sexist lyrics, "For All the Dogs" is an inconsistent, aggravating, and derivative album. (It's also way too long, which is a complaint you'll see a lot in this ranking.) Drake promised a return to form, but unfortunately, the charm that made him a superstar only appears in fickle bursts.

The rest of the 23-song tracklist is full of try-hard trap music and eye-roll-inducing lines: "They say love's like a BBL, you won't know if it's real until you feel one," "Feel like I'm bi 'cause you're one of the guys, girl." Drake's target audience these days seems to be exclusively frat boys, but I still have to ask: Is this your king?

"Her Loss" seemed like Drake's attempt to course-correct after "Honestly, Nevermind" didn't receive rapturous praise from his fan base. He took the one classic rap song on the tracklist, "Jimmy Cooks" featuring 21 Savage, which debuted at No. 1 on the Billboard Hot 100, and tried to clone its success 16 times.

This was a disappointing decision. "Honestly, Nevermind" wasn't a flop; it was a thrilling departure from the standard Drake formula. It signaled that he'd found the courage to try new things, to execute new visions, to create true albums instead of glorified playlists.

"Her Loss" erased that progress. The album feels sloppy and scatterbrained, especially compared to the cohesive club vibe of its precursor. It's peppered with unnecessary jabs at famous women (Megan Thee Stallion, Ice Spice, Serena Williams) that serve only to spark discourse on Twitter. It lacks any sense of gravity.

"It's yet more evidence that Drake's art is suffering under the strain of his obsession with churning out as much music as is physically possible," Fred Garratt-Stanley wrote for NME, while Rolling Stone's Mosi Reeves put it even more bluntly: "Drake's error is that he unintentionally reveals himself as a self-centered jerk who refuses to grow up."

Like the majority of Drake's albums, "Certified Lover Boy" would have benefited from several tracklist edits.

But unlike "Scorpion" and "Views," it doesn't have the standout cuts and certified bops to justify its obscene length. The only memorable moments are the cringey ones: the Right Said Fred sample on "Way 2 Sexy," for example, or the entirety of "Girls Want Girls." And don't even get me started on "F*****g Fans."

Put simply, "Certified Lover Boy" is swollen and boring, a watered-down collection of Drake tropes. I listened straight through the album exactly once and never returned.

Drake's long-rumored collaborative album with PartyNextDoor, who is signed to Drake's boutique label, OVO Sound, is thankfully more R&B-forward than much of his recent work. In the words of Kendrick Lamar, "I like Drake with the melodies, I don't like Drake when he act tough."

Speaking of Lamar, how could we not? It's impossible to divorce this album from the insults and drama swirling around it, as much as Drake would like us to.

"$ome $exy $ongs 4 U" was released just one week after Lamar's hate parade at the Super Bowl. Lamar took a risk at the big game by performing "Not Like Us," a hit song full of unsavory claims about his nemesis — particularly that Drake "likes 'em young" and hangs out with accused sexual predators, among others.

Drake alludes to Lamar in "$ome $exy $ongs 4 U," but for the most part, he conducts his business as usual. It's framed as an album "for the girls," not the beef-obsessed rap bros. This strategy makes logical sense, but it's still unsatisfying. Drake has decided to lean on lawsuits to save him instead of artistry.

At this point, I would consider Drake's artistry missing in action. With the exception of "Honestly, Nevermind," it feels like Drake has been releasing the same album over and over since 2021, ever confident that people will listen, even if it's bad. (Alas, he's right. "$ome $exy $ongs 4 U" debuted at No. 1 on the Billboard 200.)

"$ome $exy $ongs 4 U" isn't bad in the same way that "For All the Dogs" is bad. But the album is persistently uninspired — yet another hour-plus slog that lacks enough intrigue or emotion to justify its existence.

There's a reason Drake is a commercial titan. He tosses out hit songs and record-breaking collections with staggering informality.

"What a Time To Be Alive" is one such example. Drake's 2015 collaborative mixtape with Future was famously written and recorded in just six days. Unfortunately, it shows.

These songs don't quite suit him. Drake takes a backseat throughout the 11 tracks, on which much of the production and many of the lyrics are undercooked.

The chemistry between these two rappers just isn't strong enough to sell the concept — which may explain why nearly a decade later, Drake and Future are so on the outs that Future allowed Lamar to insult and provoke Drake on his own album (2024's "We Don't Trust You"), leading to the most sensational rap beef in a generation. In "Not Like Us," Lamar also accuses Drake of exploiting Future for clout.

"Thank Me Later" satisfied both critics and fans at the time of its release. But beyond serving its purpose as a hype-fulfilling studio debut, it falters when compared to many of Drake's subsequent projects (even though "Find Your Love" has remained one of his strongest songs).

At least no one can accuse Drake of coming out of the gate too strong and never living up to his potential.

For those who worship Drake as a rapper, rather than a pop star, "If You're Reading This It's Too Late" is the holy grail. It sees him at his most forceful and most boastful, rapping over minimal beats and industrial sounds for 17 straight tracks.

But Drake didn't become Drake because he's a great rapper. I mean, this is a man who actually said, "Got so many chains, I feel like chain-ing Tatum."

Drake is capable of delivering strong bars, to be sure, but he's at his best when he blends his bars with moody R&B, decadent production, and melodic vocals — when he blends his narcissism with his jealousy, longing, melancholy, and regret, confronting many moods in a way that feels universal.

"If You're Reading This," by contrast, is unceasingly paranoid, aggressive, and single-minded. Save for "Know Yourself" and perhaps "Jungle," it lacks that intimate translation of memories and emotions that make people feel connected to Drake as an artist, rather than Drake as a brand.

Drake continues to insist that "More Life" is a "playlist," not an album — perhaps as an attempt to exempt it from lists like this one, since it's so difficult to compare to his other works.

The triumph of "More Life" is its ability to absorb many different sounds and spotlight many different artists. With its rich production and fun list of collaborators, it has plenty of bright spots, particularly "Passionfruit," "Get It Together," "Portland," and "Fake Love."

But if Drake's most consistent critique is that his albums are too bloated, too sprawling, and too uneven to make it all worth it, then "More Life" fails spectacularly.

It doesn't even feel like a Drake album because it's 80 minutes of other artists showing him up, from Jorja Smith to Young Thug — 80 minutes of genres and styles that only work with him as a feature. It lacks a central genius, as well as many of the quirks that make Drake, well, Drake.

I was primed to enjoy "Honestly, Nevermind," firstly because its release was announced mere hours in advance. This weakened the risk of New Drake Hype eclipsing the album itself, which several of its predecessors fell victim to.

Secondly, with 14 songs spanning just 52 minutes, this is Drake's shortest album since "What a Time To Be Alive." After the absolute slog of "Certified Lover Boy," the world deserved that.

But most importantly, "Honestly, Nevermind" is fun to listen to — a cohesive, focused package of tropical beats and atmospheric production.

Especially as a surprise drop, this made for a fascinating change of pace. There aren't any Drake-isms, quippy lyrics, or unfortunate outliers. This is an album for feral summer nights at the coolest club in town.

One staff writer at Rolling Stone described this effect as "'More Life' on molly." Another popular tweet compared it to the groovy jellyfish music from "SpongeBob SquarePants." Both are compliments, and both are correct.

"Honestly, Nevermind" is so smooth that it runs the risk of passive vibing and mindless head-bobbing. Luckily, highlights like "Sticky" and "Overdrive" serve to pull the listener back into their body. When 21 Savage arrives to deliver closing statements on "Jimmy Cooks," I never quite feel ready to leave the dance floor.

Drake is famously unable to refine a tracklist. But at the time "Scorpion" was released, that gimmick hadn't gotten old yet. As Rolling Stone's Rob Sheffield wrote, "With this guy, way too much is the point."

It would be fair to assume most people don't commit to a front-to-back listen of "Scorpion." At 89 minutes, it's his longest project ever.

But that's just one way to listen to an album, and it's clearly not the way Drake would prefer.

A lot of music traditionalists would argue that you can't judge an album by cherry-picking its highlights. But Drake doesn't care if you replay the full album. He only cares if you love pieces of it, and on "Scorpion," there are plenty of pieces to love.

You'd be hard-pressed to find a fan who doesn't have at least one or two "Scorpion" songs on repeat, even now. The album boasts some of Drake's most likable songs yet, whether it's his genius Mariah Carey homage "Emotionless," his meme-able "In My Feelings," his emo-synth jam "Summer Games," or the ultimate summer bop "Nice For What."

Concluding with "March 14," an open-heart rumination on being thrust into fatherhood, is the icing on the cake. You're left feeling like you understand Drake better than before, a feat that many of his newer albums lack.

Plus, there's something to be said for a man who has remodeled the system in his own image and broke multiple Beatles records in the process. With "Scorpion," he makes sheer magnitude work in a uniquely Drake-y way. 

In 2016, many fans and critics found "Views" underwhelming, largely due to the feverish anticipation that preceded its release.

But in retrospect, it may be the best representation of Drake as we know him now: the eclectic, confident, irritated, unabashedly corny, taste-making icon.

In the words of The Ringer's Virali Dave, Drake spends the entire album "reveling in all his absurdist, quippy glory" — and that's exactly what we love him for.

The 80-minute tracklist has something for everyone. Drake's purist rap fans have "Hype" and "Still Here." His "Marvin's Room" die-hards got a new crying-in-the-club anthem with "Feel No Ways." And all music listeners should be thankful for the album's string of undeniable bops: "Hotline Bling," "One Dance," "Pop Style," and "Controlla." In short, "Views" holds up.

All these years later, it remains Drake's most divisive project. But for all the ways critics slandered "Views" as a flop, everyone has sure streamed the hell out of it. It spent more than 100 consecutive weeks on the Billboard 200 chart; it's one of the biggest hip-hop albums of all time.

Only Drake could build a tracklist that includes a timelessly seductive love song ("Hold On We're Going Home"), career-defining hype anthems ("Worst Behavior," "Started From the Bottom"), emo slow jams ("Own It," "Pound Cake / Paris Morton Music 2"), and an audacious six-minute intro ("Tuscan Leather") and somehow turn it into his most solid, coherent album ever.

"Nothing Was The Same" is a true standout in Drake's catalog because, as Andrew Unterberger wrote for Billboard, "The LP in its entirety is stronger than just its highlights in isolation: It's the Drake album with the most consistent vibe throughout, the one where the songs most feel like they're all stemming from the same moment."

"Take Care" is Drake's masterpiece. It saw him step into his role as the High Priest of our generational oversharing: He's processing his memories in real time, collapsing a myriad of modern experiences and complex emotions into his most immersive listening experience.

It can be difficult to remember how risky "Take Care" was for Drake at the time — to release such a self-conscious, gothic record when everyone wanted classic rap songs for the radio.

"Making an album this outré demonstrates a perverse sense of confidence, and also ignores the received wisdom about consistency and incremental change," Jon Caramanica wrote for The New York Times in his review.

"'Take Care' isn't a hip-hop album or an R&B album so much as an album of eccentric black pop that takes those genres as starting points, asks what they can do but haven't been doing, then attempts those things," Carmanica continued. "In the future an album like this will be commonplace; today, it's radical."

He was right. "Take Care" was criticized by Drake's peers who said it wasn't "real rap." Now, it's what you'd put in a time capsule for future generations to understand why rap hasn't been the same since 2011.