A minimum of Metro weaves within the extravagance far more naturally than the wannabe Kanye albums in the market (hello, Utopia and 2093). The transfer from sluggish and moody to uptempo and flashy in a snap on “Ice Assault” is a laugh sufficient, increased by means of a showstopping Long run verse the place he’s bragging about his diamonds and throwing phrases like “banoodles” in the market for the hell of it. The church-bell-driven roar of “Sort Shit” is a standout, and the few seconds of Long run and Playboi Carti buying and selling slurred bars because the beat fades is transcendent. Most powerful are unfussy deep cuts, like “Fried (She a Vibe),” a type of eerie strip membership on a weekday afternoon joints Long run and Metro are masters at. Or “Ain’t No Love,” the place Zaytoven’s ominous church organs and flutes display up and also you get started questioning why this simply isn’t Beast Mode 3.
For what it’s value, Long run sounds jazzed-up, which isn’t all the time the case this present day. He’s no longer all Seven Dwarfs wrapped into one like he as soon as used to be; throw on Hndrxx and he’s frustrated, sad, feeling himself, hating himself, flexing, melting down, on the similar time, at all times. Now he’s much less within the whys, regardless that his existence stays a self-indulgent blur of substances and intercourse. Refreshingly We Don’t Believe You sheds the played-out supervillain act of I By no means Favored You in change for decently brilliant kingpin bars, even supposing I’d reasonably simply cross fan the flames of Astronaut Standing or Streetz Calling for that.
Pivotally, regardless of much less making a song and personality paintings, Long run nonetheless nails that sleazy, sinister environment that handiest he can pull off. For example, at the first part of “Magic Don Juan (Princess Diana)” he feels like he’s on day 3 of a bender as he spits, “Were given that sniff on me, that white shit like Tom Brady.” That seediness is injected within the album intro the place he’s vaguely muttering within the shadows about pretend pals like he’s about to head on a Charles Bronson-style revenge venture, because it slowly turns into extra transparent that he’s chatting shit about Drake.
The object this is meant to cement We Don’t Believe You as the type of unforgettable, zeitgeist-defining rap second that doesn’t occur anymore are the subliminals about Long run and Metro’s breakup with Drake. (Faculty campuses in 2016 could be heartbroken.) That appears to be the motivating pressure in the back of why Long run’s tongue is extra venomous than standard and the album is filled with bite-sized clips of a wrathful, heelish Prodigy monologue. Instead of the intro, Long run leaves the true dirty paintings to a sourpuss look from Kendrick. Over Metro’s cast turn of West Coast virtual funk jam “Permanent Bass,” Kendrick throws a couple of warm-up jabs at Drake (and J. Cole, a lot much less vital). “Motherfuck the large 3, nigga, it’s simply giant me,” he yells, addressing Cole’s thought that the trio are the 3 pillars of recent rap. A declaration of a confrontation and sass. But it surely’s exhausting to let cross of the truth that I’d have cared so a lot more about this hip-hop cleaning soap opera a decade in the past, the closing time it might have felt deeper than bored wealthy guys bickering for consideration and streams. The timing is off.
