At least Metro weaves in the exaggerated way more naturally than the adventurous Kanye albums out there (hello, Utopia and 2093). Going from slow and moody to uptempo and flashy in a snap on “Ice Attack” is pretty fun, highlighted by a verse from Future bragging about his diamonds and throwing words like “banoodles” out there for the hell of it. The church bell roar of “Type Shit” is a standout, and the few seconds of Future and Playboi Carti tangling the bars as the beat fades out are transcendent. Strongest are the carefree deep cuts like “Fried (She a Vibe),” one of those eerie weeknight community strip joints Future and Metro are masters of. Or “Ain't No Love”, where Zaytoven's ominous church instruments and flutes appear and you start to wonder why it's not Beast Mode 3.
For what it's worth, Future sounds jazzy, which isn't always the case these days. The Seven Dwarfs aren't all wrapped up in one like they once were. throw on Hndrxx and he's pissed, sad, feeling himself, hating himself, bending, melting, all at the same time. Now he cares less why, though his life remains a delightful blur of drugs and sex. Refreshing We Don't Trust You rejects his played super-villain act I never liked you in return for decently lively bars, even if I'd rather set fire Astronaut status the Streetz Calling for this.
Significantly, despite less singing and character work, Future still nails that sleazy, sinister vibe that only he can create. For example, in the first half of “Magic Don Juan (Princess Diana)” he sounds like he's on his third day of sobbing as he spits, “I got that sniff on me, that white shit like Tom Brady.” This brazenness is on display in the album's intro where he mumbles vaguely in the shadows about fake friends as if he's about to go on a Charles Bronson-esque revenge mission, as it slowly becomes clearer that he's talking about Drake.
What is supposed to be cement We Don't Trust You As the kind of fun-defining, memorable rap moment that doesn't happen anymore are the subliminals about Future and Metro's split with Drake. (The campuses of 2016 would be disheartened.) That seems to be the driving force behind why Future's language is more venomous than usual, and the album is filled with bite-sized clips of an angry, heel monologue of Prodigy. Aside from the intro, Future leaves the real dirty work to a sourpuss appearance from Kendrick. Over a live West Coast remake of Metro's digital funk jam “Everlasting Bass,” Kendrick drops some Drake (and J. Cole, much less important) warm-ups. “Motherfuck the big three, nigga, it's just big me,” he shouts, addressing Cole's idea that the trio are the three pillars of modern rap. A declaration of a war of words and disgust. But it's hard to let go of the fact that I would have cared a lot more about this hip-hop soap opera a decade ago, the last time I would have felt more deeply than bored rich kids fighting for attention and streams. Timing is disabled.
