To effectively cast himself as the victim, Drake weaponizes nostalgia from his peak sadboy era. There’s the soulless pining of “Spider-Man Superman,” which attempts to mask that fact by weaving in a sample of Take Care’s “The Real Her,” a move that is so manipulative it’s off-putting. Then, the slow, eerie instrumentals, which are going for the synthy tragedies of early 40, though he’s nowhere to be found in the production credits. The fluttering harp-like sound of “Pimmie’s Dilemma” and the stretched-out fogginess of “Greedy” feel like straight-up mimicry. Drake doesn’t even seem to be all that infatuated with the beats himself, constantly opting for restless switch-ups that evoke the feeling of a used car salesman trying to get you to buy into anything.
His singing voice isn’t nearly as tender and smooth as once it was, either—his melodies are dead and sandpaper rough, like he’s been doing nothing but pounding whiskey shots and blowing O’s on the hookah pipe since the summer. Sometimes the effect is monotonous and emotionless, which might suit his headspace, but ultimately it’s just boring. When he adds a little spice to his voice he can still sound expressive, like on the album standout “Small Town Fame,” which, if you ignore the shamelessness of the Brat summer bar, features him at his most earnest as it builds to a light exhale of “I’m a mess right now.” They’re his only words that feel honest.
I should probably mention that PARTYNEXTDOOR is here, too. His job is to shift the mood back to threesomes and blowjobs when Drake is getting too serious. It’s technically a joint album, but Party’s contributions are mostly forgettable other than the dirty mackin’ solo cut “Deeper” and the moment on “Somebody Loves Me” when he chirps in with the most bone-chillingly dumb ad-lib I’ve heard in a minute: Her crotch. But the album isn’t his story whatsoever; if Drake did care about giving Party the spotlight, they would have dropped a collab album a decade ago. That’s part of the problem: Drake’s ulterior motives are so transparent that nothing feels sincere. Especially as he tries to get the women he alienated with the hypermasculinity of Certified Lover Boy, Her Loss, and For All the Dogs—the worst music of his life, all released in the last five years—back on his side.
That seems to be the album’s big plan, and the reason the OVO braintrust decided to go the R&B route: This is for all the girls. Drake goes about that by trying to get back in touch with his sensitive side, whether that be lyrics like, “You askin’ me what I like about you girl/How long you wanna sit in this kitchen?” or the hookah dates and late-night drives of “Raining in Houston.” But the sweet nothings are not nearly as sweet as he intends—he sounds like the ex-dude trying to woo his old girl by showing off his copy of All About Love only because he needs somewhere to stay.
