album review
Ever since Fifth Harmony’s Alice in Wonderland-inspired performance of Ellie Goulding’s “Anything Could Happen” at the 2012 X Factor semifinals, Normani’s calm cool and subtle swagger have cut through the noise. Over the course of the decade that followed, that noise evolved — from the racism she faced (from inside and outside of her band) as the sole Black girl in Fifth Harmony to an audience that claimed to support her solo work while refusing to acknowledge the personal circumstances that caused her years of delays.
On the arduous seven-year road to her debut solo studio album, she’s periodically turned up the intensity with breakout moments — like that iconic “Love Lies” performance at the 2018 Billboard Music Awards or her star-cementing first solo music video, 2019’s Ariana Grande-penned “Motivation.” Nonetheless, the sensuous allure of Janet Jackson, Ciara and Aaliyah has always been the anchor of Normani’s artistic profile, and it’s that palette that she meticulously expands upon throughout Dopamine.
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Arriving on June 14, alongside an album photo shoot that pulls inspiration from the dominatrix-lite imagery of Jackson’s 2008 album Discipline, Dopamine finds Normani properly establishing her solo sound for the first time, embracing and amplifying the parts of her identity that were flattened in her output with Fifth Harmony. She paints fearless self-portraits of her sexuality across a soundscape that combines her love for ‘00s southern hip-hop with the intricate vocal stacks of Janet and Brandy, as well as the smooth rap-sung cadences of Aaliyah and Beyoncé.
Relative to her peers, Normani’s social media presence is notably scant; her recent promo run in the months leading up to Dopamine is the most she’s spoken to the public since her “Wild Side” promo run back in 2021, which netted the Cardi B-assisted track a No. 14 hit on the Billboard Hot 100. Instead of playing the forever-doomed game that is the blog circuit, Mani uses her music to issue a public service announcement about who exactly we’re dealing with on Dopamine.
“Bling-bling-blow, that’s all them platinum hits/ Bling-bling-blow, that’s all that Billboard s—t,” she spits on the grimy Starrah-assited opener, “Big Boy.” Across a brooding bassline peppered with funky horns, Normani immediately sets up shop in the South, namechecking icons like André 3000, Big Boi and Pimp C, while boasting about being “cornbread-fed.” Fifth Harmony may have exclusively consisted of women of color, but Normani’s specific identity — ‘00 Southern Black culture – didn’t often get a chance to shine. With Dopamine, Normani makes it a point to center those parts of herself, reclaiming the past ten years she’s spent in an industry that would rather pillage the South for its sound than use their resources to amplify those artists.
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That Southern flair courses through “Still,” on which Mani floats over an atmospheric flip of Mike Jones’ “Still Tippin’.” Lead single “1:59” and de facto ballad moment “Distance” help Dopamine flash forward from ‘00s influences to the late ‘10s by way of a melodic Gunna feature on the former and heavy trap drums on the latter. One of the album’s lyrical highlights, the Sevyn Streeter-penned “Distance,” addresses both an inconsistent lover and the tension that exists between the artist and their fans and the industry at large.
“Distance” also happens to be the one record that might have benefitted from moving away from the dominant synthetic production to give her voice more room to fully display her vulnerable tone. Pre-release single “Candy Paint” is another track with which the vision is clear but the execution falters slightly: It’s a dancefloor-ready banger that doesn’t explode on its final chorus like it should. The missed opportunity doesn’t completely kneecap the song, but it does demonstrate how Dopamine occasionally sacrifices sonic variance for the sake of cohesion.
In the same way “Candy Paint” recalls Ciara’s dance performance-minded hits, Dopamine’s most sensual moments recall the sexual liberation of ‘00s Janet Jackson. Standout “All Yours” revels in lush vocal stacks that build a world in which onomatopoeias of sexual gratification are the dominant language. “In your head like, mm-ah, mm-ah/ In your bed like, mm-ah, mm-ah,” she coos. “Lights On” continues down that sensual path, with Victoria Monét lending her Grammy-winning pen for sly double entendres like, “You’re f–kin’ with a star, give me rounds of applause.” With a seductive spoken interlude to boot, “Lights On” is the progeny of Janet Jackson from its very first second to the last.
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In her quest to carve her own spin on these blueprints, Normani incorporates other sonic influences in a few surprising ways. There are flashes of Rated R-era Rihanna in the rollicking pop-rock of enrapturing album closer “Little Secrets” — “Wild Side” fells like more of an encore – and Grammy-winning cross-genre savant James Blake helps Mani shift her sound toward the chilly electronica of FKA twigs on the hauntingly gorgeous “Tantrums.”
Nonetheless, it is Brandy’s signature ethereal approach to vocal stacks that reigns supreme throughout Dopamine — primarily on “Insomnia,” on which she shows up herself to supply some marvelous countermelodies and harmonies, giving her latest star pupil an official co-sign with her presence.
At times, the wait for Normani’s debut solo studio album threatened to permanently dwarf whatevr pop culture impacct the LP itself would end up making, but Dopamine cuts through the noise by simply firming up the foundational elements of her artistry. There isn’t anything as Top 40-minded as “Motivation” or as pop-facing as “Dancing With a Stranger,” and it’s for the better. Dopamine heralds Normani as an artist with a fully realized sound.
While the record often shies away from exploring Normani the Person – maybe she’s saving some of that for album No. 2 – it unequivocally solves the enigma of Normani the Artist, after years of singles that pointed in myriad different directions. A smooth, succinct listen that feels unique to its artist, Dopamine is both a win for Normani and a victory for the fans who have always believed her capable of crafting such a strong record.
Born Oyinkansola Sarah Aderibigbe, Ayra Starr’s stage name has always been her destiny. Her debut album 19 & Dangerous presented a self-assured teenage star who effortlessly and thoughtfully navigated the transition from adolescence to young adulthood in a specifically Gen Z context. The album spawned a pair of global hits — “Bloody Samaritan” (which earned a remix from R&B heavyweight Kelly Rowland) and the Grammy-nominated “Rush” — that lifted Ayra from local star to international Afrobeats ambassador.
On The Year I Turned 21, Ayra handles that change in status by using it to leverage some big-name collaborations. Through those collabs, she fearlessly blends different genres and languages to color her explorations of the intertwined themes of grief, heartbreak, empowerment and maturity.
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Despite her rich, deep tone being the sharpest weapon in her arsenal, Ayra steps into her rap bag on blazing album opener “Birds Sing of Money.” The London and Marvey Again-helmed track blends stirring strings with a boom-bap inspired backbeat and a melodic Fújì (a Yoruba musical genre) intro, immediately previewing the album’s seamless blend of different sounds across the Black diaspora. When she declares, “I run my city, run my life, run my mind, but I never run away/ I’m so careful with my energy, please never speak upon my name,” she embodies a charismatic laid-back self-assurance that only comes with surviving your teenage years. Dripping with the bravado of Rihanna’s “B—h Better Have My Money,” “Birds” is an instant “bad b—hes get money” anthem, one whose energy courses through several of the album’s tracks.
Pre-release single “Commas” and “Bad Vibes” (with Seyi Vibez) continue the thread of Ayra focusing on getting her money up and rejecting things and people that drain her energy, but she offers more interesting takes on those themes on “Control” and “Woman Commando.” The former finds Ayra flipping the idea of female submission into a song about wanting a man to take the lead by picking up on her come-hither hints; “You know my lips don’t lie/ I want you to take control,” she coos, channeling a Shakira classic.
On the latter, a multi-lingual collaboration with fellow Grammy nominees Coco Jones and Anitta, Ayra delivers a women-empowerment anthem (“Tonight e be ladies night/ I no wan know your zodiac sign”) that sources its urgency and irresistibility from those pounding log drums. Big-name crossover collaborations tend to collapse under their own weight, but Ayra’s ear for vocal chemistry – Coco’s rich tone pairs beautifully with hers and Anitta’s cavalier delivery only intensifies the track’s swagger – is particularly special.
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Of course, all these hymns of independence and confidence exist in conversation with songs exploring the darker parts of Ayra’s early 20s. The cycle of love and heartbreak plays across the album, with the Asake-assisted “Goodbye,” “Lagos Love Story” and “Last Heartbreak Song” (with Giveon), building out a self-contained triptych within the album’s larger narrative. “Goodbye” combines notes of Afropop and amapiano to soundtrack a conversation between two lover who understand that they are no longer compatible. It’s a much more nuanced take on young love than the gorgeous puppy-eyed “Lagos Love Story,” which features one of the most beautiful melodic lines (“I don fall in love”) of the year. “Let’s make babies/ We’re still young, but I dey ready/ Smoke some weed at the beach/ I feel ease when I’m with you/ Prayed Ciara’s prayer, God came through,” she sings, beaming through the studio microphone.
Ayra’s songwriting has always been refreshingly honest, but she taps into level of earnestness here – which is only bolstered by the whimsical intro-recalling background strings – that captures the innate naïveté of young love without embarrassment or shame. Always a dependable heartache crooner, Giveon’s baritone delivers a perfect complement to the Ayra’s deep voice, as the two attempt to convince themselves that this is the last time they’ll waste their lives pining over heartbreak.
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For all of the big-name collaborations and maximalist pop sounds and melodies on the album, the most stirring moments on The Year I Turned 21 lie in the songs where Ayra places her voice and lyrics front and center. “21” is her de facto Adele moment, a reflective, sweeping ballad that’s punctuated with Rihanna-isms like the tongue-in-cheek, “At my grown ass age, damn.” “Orun,” the album’s best song, juxtaposes the jauntiness of highlife with soul-baring lyrics concerned with mental health and depression. “Every day is just the same/ No worries for tomorrow/ I wish I didn’t wake today/ But no, I gotta face my pain,” she muses.
There’s also album closer “The Kids Are Alright,” a classic tearjerker that’s less of a song and more of a compilation of voice notes recorded by Ayra and her siblings dedicated to their late father. When Ayra nails the seemingly endless riff on the last note of “Put in a good word for me” — a reference to her father speaking to God in Heaven – her voice swells not just with grief and loss, but also the catharsis that comes with accepting your circumstances and allowing them to build you into a stronger person.
There really isn’t a low moment of Ayra’s sophomore LP: Her pristine sequencing allows songs with familiar themes to feel fresh, and at a respectable 15 tracks the record doesn’t overstay its welcome. The one glaring misstep is the inclusion of “Santa,” her hit collaboration with Rauw Alejandro and Rvssian. By no means is “Santa” a bad song, but it is jarring shift from the album’s established narrative and a clear ploy at number-farming that undercuts how authentically the album relays Ayra’s story.
The Year I Turned 21 successfully achieves a balance that evades many sophomore albums. Ayra builds on the confessional nature of her debut and enlists new collaborators that substantially add to her sonic universe without sacrificing her Afrobeats foundation. In an era where many Afrobeats stars are keen to reject that label, Ayra fully embraces its past and present, while fashioning a future for the genre that’s refreshingly female-forward.
“How did all these people find out about Shaboozey?” one audience member could be heard asking at the country star’s headlining show at Brooklyn’s Baby’s All Right on May 17.
It’s the kind of question that longtime fans grapple with when their favorite artists have their breakthrough moments, but in Shaboozey’s case, the answer is pretty clear. Ten years removed from “Jeff Gordon,” a piano-inflected trap banger that granted him his first quasi-viral moment, the Nigerian-American singer-songwriter has combined his own self-sourced momentum, the glow of dual appearances on Beyoncé’s Cowboy Carter and an authentic understanding of the throughline between outlaw country and hip-hop to arrive at his splendid third studio album, Where I’ve Been, Isn’t Where I’m Going.
The months-long build-up for Shaboozey’s third LP has resulted in a series of buzzy moments, each bigger than the last. Despite a third of the album already out in the world as singles – with “A Bar Song (Tipsy)” leading the way, thanks to its No. 3 Billboard Hot 100 peak – Where I’ve Been sidesteps a lack of cohesion by contextualizing those standout singles (“Annabelle,” “Let It Burn” and “Vegas,” among them) within a narrative that subverts the idea of Westward expansion.
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In his May Billboard profile, Shaboozey explained the similarities between “the outlaw Old West and hip-hop” as “talking about the same things: going out and going after what is yours, and having to finesse to make ends meet.”
“If you listen to some old Western music, especially gunfighter ballads… Marty Robbins is a good one, [he] was a thug! He’s like robbing cattle, robbing trains, [he] knows [his] mom is disappointed,” he said. “It’s the same s–t Bossman Dlow [is] talking about, it’s just painted in a different world. Switch out draco for a six shooter. Switch out Balmain jeans for Wrangler jeans or chaps.”
The urgency of this middle ground – as well as this particular aesthetic’s preoccupation with moving forward (and westward) while always honoring the past – makes it a natural sonic space for Boozey’s third LP to reside in.
Where I’ve Been commences with “Horses & Hellcats,” a song whose title immediately synthesizes Shaboozey’s penchants for hip-hop, country and Western aesthetics. “We ride palominos like they’re SRTs/ Once I pick a speed, ain’t no catchin’ me,” he sings in the chorus, employing a cadence that’s firmly rooted in melodic rap, while his raspy drawl plays on the more overt country elements of the song (namely the brooding guitars and the neighing horses in the background.) “Horses & Hellcats” is a song that exalts the common ground between outlaw country and hip-hop. Preying on the shock value of the two genres’ juxtaposition isn’t Shaboozey’s goal –it’s the way those two genres are intrinsically tied together in Shaboozey’s artistic, sonic and personal profile that makes the sound so arresting.
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“Last of My Kind,” assisted by East Texas country rocker Paul Cauthen, emphasizes the outlaw feel of Shaboozey’s sound, with Cauthen’s dramatic warble pairing well with the rock influences of the song’s arrangement. “Can’t wait much longer, baby, yeah, it’s my time/ You won’t ever find another like me, uh, I’m the last of my kind,” Boozey closes the song, once again musing over new destinations, both literally and figuratively. Standout tracks “Highway” and “East of the Massanutten” — which finds Shaboozey “runnin’ full speed ahead out West” for his “freedom” and “40 acres” – keep that theme of new frontiers at the forefront of the record, despite occasional detours into poppier, more saccharine affairs. While those tracks do balance out the record’s darker moments, they still feel like surface-level examples of where Shaboozey can take his sound; in those moments, the outlaw cowboy becomes a law-abiding citizen of the country-pop state – a concession that Boozey doesn’t really need to make.
Advance singles “A Bar Song” and “Anabelle” are still stellar showcases of Shaboozey’s knack for melody, as is the BigXThaPlug-assisted “Drink Don’t Need No Mix,” which finds two of the South’s hottest new stars standing proudly in the legacy of country rappers like Nelly. Boozey and BigX have the best chemistry out of any of the album’s other collaborators; both of their voices effortlessly skate over the trap-inflected beat as they provide a celebratory complement to the escapist revelry of “A Bar Song.”
Outside of Cauthen and BigXThaPlug, Grammy nominee Noah Cyrus is the album’s only other featured artist. Always a strong duet partner (her past collaborations with Demi Lovato and big sister Miley Cyrus are both absolutely gorgeous), Noah provides a tender upper harmony on “My Fault” that picks up on the emotional fragility of the track’s finger-picked acoustic guitar. Here, the glory and wonder of unfamiliar streets are tempered by grueling heartbreak – a testament to Shaboozey’s ability to embrace and honor the full breadth of what it means to move forward. “But this road you lead me down is too long/ It ain’t nothin’ like the streets I grew up on/ When I beg you not to go, you leave again/ Well, I guess I wasn’t enough in the end,” they croon.
At a tight 12 tracks, there’s no real filler on Where I’ve Been, Isn’t Where I’m Going. Shaboozey assembled his strongest hooks and smartest arrangements to craft a record that embraces both country music tradition and modernity. A decade into the game, his singular vision of the 21st century urban outlaw cowboy has finally coalesced into something that’s not just coherent, but also plainly irresistible. Whether he’s belting out heartbreak ballads like “Let It Burn” or parsing the consequences of homewrecking on late-album standout “Steal Her From Me,” Shaboozey has delivered a terrific record of songs tailor-made to rock the arenas – which will certainly be where he’s going.
Billie Eilish begins and ends Hit Me Hard and Soft, her endlessly impressive third studio album, as a caged bird. The haunting imagery reframes her idiosyncratic introspection in the context of a youth that is inextricably tied to — and sometimes nearly completely consumed — by her towering fame. Five years removed from the seismic success of her nightmare-dwelling, Grammy-sweeping debut studio album, Eilish comes back home to herself on this succinct 10-song set, while also further exploring the shape-shifting song structures she explored on 2021’s Happier Than Ever.
In a recent Rolling Stone profile, Eilish remarked, “I feel like this album is me… it feels like the When We All Fall Asleep, Where Do We Go? version of me. It feels like my youth and who I was as a kid.” And she’s right: The adolescent verve of her debut LP – which she often eschewed on the more reserved, plaintive Happier — returns in the form of pulsating synths and pitched-up vocal takes, but with a melancholic maturity that she’s gleaned from spending crucial years in the scorching heat of the limelight. Those years were also hounded by stalkers and body image woes, while she was exploring her sexuality and learning to balance self-preservation with selflessness in romantic relationships – all of which she unpacks across her new record.
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With brother Finneas once again joining her at the helm, Hit Me Hard and Soft creeps into being with “Skinny,” a finger-picked guitar ballad that returns to the breezy sonics of Happier Than Ever to dismantle the destructive false equivalency of thinness and happiness. “Twenty-one took a lifetime/ People say I look happy/ Just because I got skinny/ But the old me is still me and maybe the real me/ And I think she’s pretty,” she coos forlornly, before going on to call out society’s hunger for wickedness (“The internet is hungry for the meanest kinda funny/ And somebody’s gotta feed it”). Here, Eilish’s voice takes on a quietly choral quality, as if she’s singing in an empty underwater cathedral; her tasteful riffs on the back half preview the unexpected parts of her range she’ll flaunt later on the record, while the intentionality of her phrasing recalls the incisive heartbreak of 2023’s Oscar-winning tearjerker “What Was I Made For?”
From there, Eilish launches into “Lunch,” an immediate standout and clear radio single. Reminiscent of the winking whimsy of 2019’s Billboard Hot 100-topping “Bad Guy,” “Lunch” is a glorious queer awakening. The hook is obviously sticky, but Eilish’s greatest display of her handle on quirky pop-isms comes in the lyric, “Said, ‘I bought you somethin’ rare/ And I left it under “Claire”’” — a playful rhyme that builds on her admission of alias usage in 2021’s “Billie Bossa Nova.” “Lunch” unquestionably returns Eilish to the bass-driven feel of her debut, but she’s older, wiser, and freer – from both her own mind and outside expectations.
“Chihiro” — named after the main character of Hayao Miyazaki’s Oscar-winning Spirited Away – continues the reemergence of her debut’s aesthetics, with a symphony of synths slowly swelling into a shimmering haze. “Open up the door, can you open up the door,” she asks repeatedly, nodding to both her own closet and the walls put up by a lover she is willing to sacrifice anything for. In the song’s refrain, Eilish employs falsetto that, at its peak, sounds just short of manic, emphasizing the frantic reverberations of obsession, the overarching theme of Hit Me Hard and Soft. Across the album, she delivers a virtually peerless understanding of how to manipulate her voice to best amplify the storytelling of her lyrics. The wistful, conversational tone she opts for on “Birds of a Feather” morphs into a breathtaking display of range and balance across “Wildflower” and “The Greatest.”
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On “Wildflower,” Eilish poses the question: Is it crossing the line to get with the person you’re helping another person get over? At 22 years old, she’s finally understanding what makes love so enticing – its innate messiness and tension. Drawing on the soft rock of Fleetwood Mac, Billie embodies the ethereal longing of the band’s biggest classics, pairing her emotive vocals with some of the most gut-wrenching narratives of her career: “But every time you touch me, I just wonder how she felt/ Valentine’s Day, cryin’ in the hotel/ I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, so I kept it to myself,” she croons, effectively rejecting verbosity for simplicity. The steady build of the song’s instrumentation provides the perfect segue into “The Greatest,” which is arguably Eilish’s strongest, most arresting vocal performance yet.
The complexities of love and obsession and the ways in which the two concepts inform each other are laid bare in “The Greatest,” with her voice capturing the devasting self-pity that comes with realizing a stark imbalance of love and affection in a relationship she’d do anything to maintain. It’s a harrowing tale through which Billie eventually finds some semblance of peace in the song’s cathartic, string-laden breakdown. By its close, Billie finally accepts that her commitment to the relationship means that she deserves a partner who will match the depths of her love and patience. “I shouldn’t have to say it/ You could’ve been the greatest,” she sings. Billie isn’t philosophizing anything new in regard to romance and relationships, but you can hear the youthful naïveté fracturing in her tone. Through her eyes, it’s all brand new.
After that brief detour through Happier Than Ever-esque pop-rock amalgamations, hints of her debut return. “L’Amour de Vie” blends a Édith Piaf-inspired groove with a post-disco synth-pop explosion that finds Eilish throwing shots at a no-good ex; “Wanna know what I told her/ With her hand on my shoulder?/ You were so mediocre/ And we’re so glad it’s over now,” she smugly taunts. Here, Billie skews apathetic, juxtaposing the song’s rose-tinted title with a story of a former partner who proved anything but the love of her life.
“The Diner” brings Billie back to the macabre trenches of her Billboard 200-topping debut LP. She assumes the perspective of a stalker, giving us a “Stan” for the 2020s. Probably the darkest moment on the album, “The Diner” pairs a campy carnival-of-horrors feel with lyrics that explore the bone-chilling lengths obsession drives people to. “You’re lookin’ right at me/ I’m here around the clock/ I’m waitin’ on your block/ But please don’t call the cops,” chillingly illustrating the unsettling experience of dealing with manic infatuation mistaken for love. Are we talking about stans, an Eilish ex– or Billie herself?
The two closing tracks — “Bittersuite” and “Blue” — end the record with a pair of shapeshifters that combine and innovate on the grounding sounds of her first two albums. The former is a musical triptych that blends bossa nova influences with blaring synths, further exploring the conflicting feelings of self-preservation and self-sacrifice. Hotels are a major symbol across Eilish’s lyrical oeuvre, in part because of the demands of her touring life, but mostly because they’re the perfect environment to riff on emotional and physical impermanence. Between “do not disturb” signs and a distinct lack of homelike warmth, hotels amplify how cold clandestine meet-ups can feel. “I’ll see you in the suite/ We can be discrete,” she coos before offering, “L’amour de ma vie/ Love so bittersweet/ Open up the door for me/ ‘Cause I’m still on my knees.”
“Blue” closes the album in the spirit of 2019’s “Goodbye” and 2021’s “NDA.” Eilish alludes to the titles and lyrics of the other tracks on the album – save for “The Diner” because that’s not from her perspective… right? — and draws on synth-rock to internalize the fact that she can understand her ex-lover’s troubled past without holding herself responsible for their “saving” or “fixing.” It’s heady stuff for sure, but she brings the whole affair back to the light with the cheeky question, “But when can I hear the next one?”
Whether that’s a tease for a rumored companion album or a reference to how quickly we collectively move through new works of art, Hit Me Hard and Soft stands as the sharpest volume of of Eilish’s three-album bildungsroman. With each of her studio albums, Eilish has soundtracked the breakneck speed of the maturity and life-experience arcs you experience between age 18 and 21. Her question at the close of her latest is as tongue-in-cheek as it is forward-thinking; now that she’s completed the odyssey of adolescence, where does the openness of the rest of her 20s take her?
From Beyoncé’s interwoven Renaissance and Cowboy Carter albums to Ye and Ty Dolla $ign’s still(?)-unfurling Vultures trilogy, 2024 is undoubtedly the year of the franchise album.
Although sequels and spin-offs have gotten a fairly bad rap lately thanks to Hollywood’s recent production proclivities (looking at you, Marvel!), franchises can be fun! After all, they’re supposed to be: the innate familiarity of a few grounding themes, motifs or characters provides the foundation for a level of exploration that standalone titles cannot offer. What makes franchises fall flat on both film screens and record players, however, is aimless retreading of the same ground as the first installment. Enter Future & Metro Boomin’s We Still Don’t Like You.
Initially revealed within the announcement of their Billboard 200-topping We Don’t Trust You album, We Still Don’t Trust You arrives as a sequel to what is already one of the most impactful LPs of 2024. Even outside of its culture-shifting collaborations with Rick Ross and Kendrick Lamar, March’s We Don’t Trust You triumphed because it’s a remarkably consistent effort across all 17 tracks. With a bonus mixtape added as a second disc, We Still Don’t Trust You boasts an overwhelming 25 tracks – and that disregard for both brevity and quality control results in a record that’s particularly frustrating, due to how avoidable its shortcomings are.
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As is the case with so many of these records with gargantuan tracklists, there’s a good album buried somewhere inside of We Still Don’t Trust You. With some help from The Weeknd on the sparkly opener, Still immediately situates itself in a different, yet adjacent, sonic lane to that of its predecessor. Doused in Dawn FM-esque synths and a sexy bassline, “We Still Don’t Trust You” appears to signal a more pop- and R&B-facing Future – that fans would have likely embraced — in comparison to the straight rap he opted for on We Don’t Trust You. Nonetheless, the album largely abandons that path almost as quickly as it first teases it.
In a way, the record’s second and third tracks – the hedonistic Chris Brown-assisted “Drink N Dance” and the fiery “Out of My Hands” — are emblematic of the two divergent paths the album tries to simultaneously wind its way around. The former finds Future and Metro shifting the subject of their distrust – this time they’re more concerned with disloyal lovers instead of Drizzy Drake – while the latter finds them doubling down on the blows from their last album. “Ain’t goin’ against my mans to f—k on his b—h, I’m gon’ f—k up these bands/ Got too many options, they meet my demand, my team, we done spinned/ You went against the gang, you read what I’m saying, it’s out of my hands,” he spits.
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Ultimately, the duo don’t commit to the R&B bent that grants the album the majority of its standout moments, nor do they fully shift who they’re no longer trusting. Instead, the album is overstuffed with misses that lack the urgency and verve of those on We Don’t Trust You. “Jealous,” “Came to the Party” and “Mile High Memories” are all fine tracks and welcome additions to the Future-Metro cannon, but more forgettable numbers like “Luv Bad B—s” and “Overload” tend to simply float by, leaving no lasting impression at all. When you’re working within the self-imposed confines of a franchise, forgettable simply does not cut it. Because their partnership is so golden, Future and Metro aren’t really capable of making bad songs, but when their complacency starts to show and they then fall into the quantity-over-quality trap, however, the returns are unfortunately underwhelming. Some of these tracks don’t even have enough sauce to function as victory laps.
The last time Future put out new albums in such quick succession was 2017. With Future and Hndrxx – which made joint history with their back-to-back No. 1 debuts on the Billboard 200 – Future offered up one rap tape and one R&B tape, catering to both sides of his sonic profile and the different pockets of his fanbase. If We Don’t Trust You runs parallel to Future, then We Still Don’t Trust You finds its Hndrxx similarities in standout tracks like “Right 4 You.” Through an interpolation of Boyz II Men’s seminal “End of the Road,” Pluto delivers his take on a grandiose power ballad with drums that echo the electronic feel of late-2010s dancehall. There’s also the Weeknd-featuring “All to Myself,” which is built around a sample of The Isley Brothers’ 1996 gem “Let’s Lay Together.” Here, Future and Metro infuse a beloved soul track with their singular stream-of-consciousness trap balladry. With a focus on emotional betrayal that bridges the seemingly disparate styles of the duo’s own music and the samples they build upon, “All to Myself” and “Right 4 You” are the symbols of the album We Still Don’t Trust You had the potential to be.
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Still does eventually find its way back to its synthy beginnings, but that moment is robbed of its full-circle feel because of how bloated the record is. The electro-pop echoes return on “Beat It” and blossom on “Always Be My Fault” — which features another winning guest appearance from The Weeknd – but the album exhausts its welcome by the time they appear. Of course, J. Cole appears on disc one closer “Red Leather,” with a verse in which he laments not following Future’s womanizing lead before pondering if it’s really worth his “peace.” While he flows as deftly as ever, the verse withers in the shadow of last week’s Lamar apology and exit from the Big Everyone battle. What is interesting, however, is how the verse’s thorny analysis of personal growth echoes the sentiments Cole expressed in his explanation of why he couldn’t stand by “7 Minute Drill.”
For the six tracks that comprise disc two of We Still Don’t Trust You, Future cedes the floor to Breakfast Club host Charlamagne tha God, who, despite his generally problematic history, proclaims some hard truths. “It’s not a Big Three, it is a Fantastic Four,” he says via an old radio discussion. “And Future is in that.” Predictably, the subsequent tracks find Future stepping back into the braggadocious straight rap bag of We Don’t Trust You, tapping Lil Baby (“All My Life”) and A$AP Rocky (“Show of Hands”) as guest stars. While the Rocky collaboration contained the most buzzed-about disses to come from the sequel set (“N—as in they feelings over women, what, you hurt or somethin’? / I smash before you birthed, son, Flacko hit it first, son”), it’s “Crossed Out,” with its rage rap-esque synths and pristine production, that stands out as the best of the bunch.
With over 40 new tracks from Future and Metro Boomin in under a month, it’s hard to shed a tear over the missteps on We Still Don’t Trust You. Nonetheless, both hip-hop titans have proven themselves to be more than capable of curating truly transformative album experiences, so this offering is disappointingly flaccid. Marred by sloppy sequencing and desperately in need of some fat-trimming, We Still Don’t Trust You is a fine playlist for the ride back home from the club – once you decode all the s–t-stirring drama the set has to offer, you won’t be listening that intently anyways.
When the Orion Sun-sampling “Whatever She Wants” reached No. 19 on the Billboard Hot 100 (chart dated March 16), Bryson Tiller not only earned his first unaccompanied Hot 100 top 20 hit in nearly a decade, he also pulled off the feat with a sound that notably diverged from the sultry trap-inflected R&B that brought him past chart wins in 2015’s “Don’t” and 2017’s “Wild Thoughts” (with Rihanna and DJ Khaled).
Although it’s parenthetically titled “Bonus” and tacked at the end of the album like a victory lap of sorts, “Whatever She Wants” acts as the thematic anchor for Tiller’s new eponymous LP. Led by a trio of singles, including “Whatever She Wants,” “Outside,” and “Calypso,” Bryson Tiller, the Grammy-nominated R&B star’s fourth studio effort, finds its namesake flaunting the different multitudes of his sonic profile. From less emotionally conflicted Trapsoul variants to big swings at drill-inflected R&B and frothy top 40 tunes, Bryson Tiller aims to use sonic experimentation to ground Tiller’s monogamous devotion to his lover.
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“Attention,” the album’s first full-length song, immediately steers the album into that lane. “And baby, when you put it on, there’s no competition/ I watched you make an entrance/ Yes, and you can tell by my description (You fit it well and, girl)/ I will never fail to mention (How you polish every detail),” he croons over relatively sparse production from Syk Sense. It’s a fine opener, one that transports listeners to the murky Trapsoul soundscapes he revisited on his last LP (2020’s Anniversary), and course-corrects from the needless computer theme that sporadically appears throughout the record. The utility of “Attention” lies in Tiller’s songwriting: He emphasizes the allure of one particular woman across the track, driving the album several hundred miles away from the deluge of “toxic” womanizing male R&B that’s driven the genre for the better part of the last decade – a wave Tiller’s own Trapsoul is a part of, in some regards. Bryson Tiller is all about loving one woman, reminding her why she stands above the rest and taking pride in spoiling her, simply because it’s something you genuinely love to do.
“Attention” is a solid entry point that gives way to more arresting tracks: On “Prize,” he employs his most impressive flow over a string-laden beat that recalls late-’00s Usher, and “No Thank You” is a cut tailor-made for day-one Tiller fans who relish his inimitable brand of sing-rapping. Prior to this record, Tiller was toiling away on his Slum Tiller mixtape series, and much of Bryson Tiller descends from that work. Take “F4U,” the album’s penultimate, Jodeci-sampling track, for example: It’s not explicitly in Slum Village’s jazz-rap wheelhouse, but Tiller’s approach to rapping on this cut – some of his best on the entire record – is clearly informed by the time he spent flexing his rap muscle on that SoundCloud mixtape series, as of course is “Whatever She Wants,” the album’s crown jewel of “spoil your girl” anthems.
That highlight also finds intriguing complements in “Rich Boy” and “Ciao!” The former, which lifts Rich Boy’s “Throw Some D’s,” pauses the celebratory energy of “Whatever She Wants” and opts for a shadier, dirty-macking approach. “Do the most for you, I do it in random/ He a joke to you, should be doin’ stand up/ He don’t put spend it on you (Huh), hold that s–t for ransom / If you don’t f–k with broke n—as, ladies, this your anthem,” he spits. The latter, an enjoyable take on drill-inflected R&B, with writing contributions from the Grammy-winning Leon Thomas III, finds a markedly more dejected Tiller brooding over being financially taken advantage of. “Ciao” takes a second to find its grove, but once Tiller pairs his layered background harmonies with those crisp snares, it makes for an impressive textural contrast.
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In addition to his flirtation with drill on the new LP, Tiller also dips into another regional sound that has been dominating hip-hop recently. The Clara La San-assisted “RAM,” the only proper song to explicitly nod to the record’s underbaked computer theme, finds Tiller using Jersey club’s pounding drums to soundtrack the neurotic feeling of needing to remember why you’ve entered and chosen to stay in a relationship. “RAM,” along with the witty, Victoria Monét duet “Persuasion,” is among the LP’s best offerings, underscoring Bryson’s tendencies to deliver his best work when he’s pushing himself vocally. It’s the same reason why “Find My Way” and “Undertow” will stand as career-best vocal performances; not only do his dizzying riffs tastefully decorate his immersive melodic lines, but help underscore a level of vulnerability that strengthens the gravity of his explorations of monogamy.
Bryson Tiller is a solid record that honors the mid-2010s break out star’s roots while also showcasing how wide-ranging his versatility can be. Some of those options – like “Calypso,” a summer anthem-in-waiting that has nothing to do with actual calypso music – are easy winners, while others (album closer “Assume the Position” is an absolute dud that’s reminiscent of the worst of Chris Brown’s early ’10s run) fall a bit short. The record, like most albums these days, could have benefited from some trimming — some of the interludes add nothing of substance and the relative lack of variance in subject matter makes the 19-track set feel redundant quite quickly.
There may be several songs on this record destined to own the warm-weather months, but Bryson Tiller is built to last through any season. This one’s for the real lovers, and no one sounds more in love – or more happy about being in love – than Mr. Tiller.
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ScHoolboy Q never seemed concerned about being viewed as the quintessential version of what a rapper is but few of his peers possess his kaleidoscopic approach to music. With Blue Lips, the latest album from the California star, ScHoolboy Q masterfully orchestrates calm and chaos while reminding folks that Figg still gets the money.
For many listeners, 2011’s Setbacks was their first exposure to ScHoolboy Q, and the rawness of the project is still noticeable some 13 years later. With subsequent releases, the artist born Quincy Hanley has long sought to outpace himself, especially shedding the specter of what is considered to be his magnum opus in the Blank Face LP.
Blue Lips, in some measure, is another victory lap for the established rapper and an opportunity to deliver a project that sounds like nothing else in mainstream Hip-Hop. That newness in production style is either one listener’s favorite thing or, as we’ve observed online, especially jarring. The fact that the album has an almost Choose Your Own Adventure bent keeps it interesting. And much of what stands out is Q himself.
The album opens with “Funny Guy,” a guitar-laced song with Q flexing some vocals with the haunting refrain “Bring the dope, bring the hoes, bring the money bags in” making up the chorus. It doesn’t quite prepare the ears for the next track “Pop” revealing the rock star side of Groovy Q. After nearly a minute of a sinister-sounding Q, the beat switches into an all-out barrage that will tear down any festival stage. Rico Nasty features on the track with a standout appearance that ends far too swiftly.
“Thank God 4 Me,” one of the early standouts, takes the shape of pure braggadocio in its first half before morphing into a jubilant reflection of how far he’s come as an artist while also taking note of some of the hiccups that continue to permeate within the culture.
While he has yet to confirm it to our knowledge, most believe that the track “Blueslides” is a tribute to Q’s friend, the late Mac Miller, due in part to the fact Miller had an album titled Blue Slide Park along with other assumed nods. While Q has been reflective in past songs, this is him at his most vulnerable. The second verse also gives a presumed nod to Kanye West, adding to the somber nature. He also seems to hint at sobriety on the track.
It wouldn’t be a ScHoolboy Q album without some signature sh*t talking and “Yeern 101” satisfies that quotient in droves. Q is far from his days on Figueroa Avenue and Hoover Street, but still remembers his roots despite his riches. The chaos we referenced earlier is best represented here with a song seemingly crafted to be performed in front of a packed crowd.
Cliquing up with his TDE brethren in rapper/producer Devin Malik and Lance Skiiwalker on “Love Birds,” this is one of the songs folks didn’t understand at first and we’re not sure if we get it, either. It seems to be two songs rolled into one and on their own, this could’ve been a great one-two punch. Is it inventive? Most certainly but it served as a snag for us in our several listens.
Things get back on track with “Movie,” handled primarily by Az Chike and perfect for the West Coast followed by “Cooties,” another track with the “Soccer Dad” observing how well his life has gone since his early days in Los Angeles. This solid stretch continues on “OHio” with an excellent feature from Freddie Gibbs, and the sharp pen of Ab-Soul brings the track “Foux” up to new levels.
If one needed to nitpick, tracks like “First,” and “Back n Love” are fine songs on their own but seemed tacked on after the careful arrangement of the works before it. But in that later half is another standout in “Lost Times” with production from The Alchemist, repeating the same magic the pair created on the stellar drops like “Flight Confirmation” and “W.Y.G.D.T.N.S.” with Jozzy on the assist.
Things come to an abrupt but appropriate close on “Smile,” a fitting ending after the twists and turns that Blue Lips takes before settling into familiar territory. And when we say familiar, we don’t mean rote or boring.
It’s solid work from Q and places him in the conversation as one of the best artists of his generation while not even tapping into all of his skills. While Q currently ranks this album as the best of his catalog, it remains to be seen where the project would land with most.
For now, the album is a satisfying, expertly crafted reflection of an artist coming to terms with his fame, ability, and status as a golf-loving family man backed by production that matches the vocal output. Hopefully, it won’t be another five years before Q returns to the scene but Blue Lips should hold over most listeners through the spring and summer.
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Photo: Getty
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Westside Gunn might exist as one of the champions of the so-called “boom bap” resurgence, but his personal interests are as vast as his stacked discography. With his fifth and reportedly final studio album, And Then You Pray For Me, the Buffalo, N.Y. mastermind embraced audio textures outside his typical sound— and that choice alienated some and indoctrinated others.
Westside Gunn sits at an interesting point in his still ongoing career. In a recent Rolling Stone interview WSG claimed that while he’s not giving up his musical endeavors, the aim of creating a full-length project is over for him.
And Then You Pray For Me, billed as the successor to WSG’s Pray For Paris (perhaps his most acclaimed album at this point) adds to WSG’s transcendental rise as a cultural tastemaker. While Pray For Paris remained centered in the traditional hazy bop that Griselda propelled to the forefront, And Then You Pray For Me fully embraces the sparse production that largely informs the trap sound.
The album opens with “FLYGOD DID” featuring A.A. Rashid delivering one of his signature motivational openers, with “Mamas PrimeTime” coming right after. Beat Butcha and Mr. Green handed over a face-melting track with Georgia’s JID delivering a scene-stealing verse that Conway The Machine slightly overshadows, and it should be noted that Gunn also set the tone vocally alongside his guests.
In an unexpected turn of events, “Kostas” brings together the core Grisdelda members with a booming backing track from Tay Keith & tbeatz. If there is an early knock, WSG’s flow pales in comparison to his cousin Benny The Butcher and brother Conway The Machine. Still, the attempt is admirable and at the very least, Gunn sounds like he’s having a blast.
Speaking of, Gunn’s songs produced by Miguel da Plug dive into a style we only heard him tackle previously on “Flygod Jr” from his 10 mixtape, with Doe Boy and DJ Drama adding their flair. Gunn has made no secret that he spends significant time in Atlanta and takes in the nightlife, so it isn’t entirely shocking he embraces this style of music several times across And Then You Pray For Me.
The differences between Gunn’s rhyme style over trap-influenced beats and the loop-centric boom-bap become all the more glaring in between the tracks “1989” featuring production from Miguel da Plug and a scene-stealing feature from Stove God Cooks, and “Suicide In Selfridges” which features the talents of producer Conductor Williams. On the latter, WSG hands in what might be his best performance on the album.
From an impartial stance, it’s clear where Gunn shines as a rapper but it is entertaining to hear him insert his style of high fashion tough talk into the world trunk-ratting dope boy tracks. A great example of this is “DunnHill” featuring Rick Ross. Rozay sounds more at home on Miguel da Plug’s track but that doesn’t alter the quality of the final product.
One of the album’s highlights, “House of GLORY” is produced by RZA and features another of Gunn’s standout verses. Even with Stove God Cooks’ strong opening verse, WSG found a comfortable pocket that speaks to his ability more than the following track. The track “JD Wrist,” produced by Gunn’s son, Flygod Jr., benefits from strong verses from Stove God Cooks and Estee Nack.
If there is one area Gunn certainly doesn’t deliver, it’s while he’s in the role of a Hip-Hop Lothario. This is highlighted in the sex-drenched raps of “Chloe” featuring a game Ty Dolla $ign and excellent production from Denny LaFlare. However, the song is an uncomfortable listen.
Things pick back up with the excellent “Babylon Bis,” featuring Stove God Cooks. Frequent collaborator JR Swiftz provides the platter for Stove God and WSG to shine brightly and gives way to one of the album’s strongest sectors.
Another of the album’s surprises is Daringer providing production for “Jalen Rose” featuring Detroit’s Boldy James, a slight departure from the Buffalo, N.Y. producer’s usual style. Once again, WSG alters his rhyme style for the sake of the song, and despite online critics saying otherwise, it works.
The album’s closing title track doesn’t even feature Gunn. Instead, WSG allows KayCyy to capably carry the song on his own over Brother Tom Sos’ mellow production. Even though it stands in stark contrast to what came before it, it is a perfect ending for such a kaleidoscopic journey.
And Then You Pray For Me isn’t perfect. Gunn’s embrace of the trap sound is either refreshing to some ears or frustrating to others. However, those saying Westside Gunn is a one-note rapper will have to eat their words and acknowledge that he once again curated another audio experience that won’t be soon forgotten.
It will be interesting to see where the Griselda honcho goes next if he decides to release more music. If not, And Then You Pray For Me is a neatly-tied bow on one of the best runs the culture has witnessed in Hip-Hop ever.
Find And Then You Pray For Me and your preferred DSPs below.
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Photo: Dave Benett / Getty
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