We start off Friday with possibly 2017’s most heavily-featured artist…
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Crystal Leww: During the brief period of time at the end of 2015 when I was practically living in Toronto, I walked past a venue with a Post Malone show. There were three Asian girls in line — they were not wearing enough clothing for the Toronto winter and they definitely looked like they were blowing off studying for their finals to go to this Post Malone show. I was very upset for everyone involved in this equation — them for going to a Post Malone show, me for feeling like an overprotective jiejie, Post Malone for playing shows outside of Grapevine, Texas, and the city of Toronto for being able to put on a Post fucking Malone show. Congratulations (haha) to this track for at least not putting ‘white’ in front of Allen Iverson’s name, dishonoring a true great that played the sport of basketball, I guess.
[1]
Thomas Inskeep: Quavo, c’mon, dude: Katy Perry, Liam Payne, and this dude? I know you’re cashin’ those checks, but think about what you could be doing to your profile, man. Post Malone gives another mush-mouthed performance on a trap-by-numbers track, and Quavo doesn’t add a damned thing. This is shit, man.
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Nortey Dowuona: This is mediocre because: – His rapping is poorly written and clumsily sung in a flat, monolithic voice that flattens the triumphant, bouncing drums. This is pretentious because: – He doesn’t in the least acknowledge anyone else’s feelings or existence, yet demands people pity him for the uninterested women who put up with him, all the nameless, non existent haters and the fact that he has become slightly more wealthy. This is racist because: – He is taking up space that similarly talented black artists should be in, and claiming he’s somehow disadvantaged because he is white in a majorly black space. (Same problem I have with the Magcon guys and Chris Miles.) This is condescending to everybody because it completely misunderstands rap, black music, and his own humanity. SMH.
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Micha Cavaseno: People who are infatuated with weapon design are often just painted as inbred hayseeds who flock to Walmart and use the egg avatar to threaten politicians on Twitter before posting pictures of their dogs, yet like every cheap summary, the reality isn’t quite that simple. Given enough time to listen to them you can comprehend the layers of craft, aesthetic, and perhaps even artistry before you remember: this is something designed to blow holes in other things. Likewise, Post Malone’s Stoney album is a monumental work of sonic design that revives rock by absolutely eradicating traces of blackness in rap. Malone’s whole pose is shoehorning of a Waylon meets Parsons tragic dope who’s inherently down but blindly destructive in his shameless pop fry. “Congratulations” is a perfect slab of that, as Metro Boomin, Frank Dukes & Louis Bell remove the post-Drake bassy warp into a midrangey shriek of agony that implies the depth that Malone’s foghorn bleats could never actually convey. He is a wolf in rapper’s clothing, knowing that rock is a no man’s land, but draped up and dripped out, he becomes the modern day rockstar. Quavo here is a MC Shan on “Informer” level co-sign of forced credibility. I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t immaculate, but I’d also be lying if I said a part of me was worried that something this deadly got in the hands of someone so careless.
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Ryo Miyauchi: Post Malone tells his rag-to-riches story like he’s at the final end of a game of Hip-Hop Telephone, telling the remainder of what passes as Biggie’s “Juicy”: Hard work, groupies, and a call from his mom. That said, there’s a chance I might feel something if I heard his attempt at a Travis Scott chorus in public while hanging out with a group of friends.
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Will Adams: It’s a shame such gorgeous, sky-high production was wasted on this doofus, but his “we made it” chorus, while generic as all hell, has some charm. Quavo shows up and immediately bests him, showing a glimpse of what could have been an anthem.
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Julian Axelrod: Post Malone doesn’t make sense as a rapper. He sounds like the replacement frontman for a reunited emo band and looks like the night manager at a Buffalo Wild Wings. But “Congratulations” makes a convincing case for his ascendant stardom. While his breakout “White Iverson” was always too slight to stick with me, this single plays to his strengths. Frank Dukes and Metro Boomin continue their seemingly endless hot streak with this shuddering, cavernous beauty of a beat. Its glossy synth slabs give Post the perfect playground to explore the parameters of his vocal range. The lyrics are nothing to write home about, but his multi-tracked runs blend nicely into the beat until they feel like another instrument. The whole thing runs so smoothly that a perfunctory Quavo verse almost derails the track. (“Malone, I gotta play on my phone” is an all-time great “let me finish my verse so I can get my check and bounce” line.) You just want to hear more of Post Malone — something I can’t imagine saying this time last year.
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Austin Brown: Say what you will about “White Iverson,” at least that track had momentum to it. Here, Malone ditches the thing that made him most intriguing (his penchant for astonishingly smooth approximations of what one might call yearning) and instead ends up trying on an underdeveloped, languid version of the auto-tune-fractured vocal stylings of Atlanta’s finest. It doesn’t suit him, impressively eerie and cavernous as the Metro beat below is, and when Quavo shows up on the third verse, it becomes obvious why. Malone knows how to emote, but placed next to the acrobatics and ad-libs of a Migo, his flow’s limitations and his struggle to mix his pure stunner of a voice with the grit of the trap mainstream both make him look small, uncomfortable, out of his element. More ballads, dude–seriously.
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Josh Love: I’ll admit to stanning for “White Iverson” largely because of all of the basketball references in general and particularly because AI is my favorite NBA player ever, but I had few expectations of having a long-term relationship with Post Malone’s music. “Congratulations” doesn’t do a whole lot to disabuse that notion, but it’s not an embarrassment either. The beat’s nice and thick and the way he slurs the word “changed” is worth at least two points all by itself. Too bad Quavo doesn’t sound any more comfortable and engaged here than he does with Liam Payne.
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