Earlier in their careers, Future and Metro Boomin always sounded committed to bringing out the best and weirdest in each other. The menace in the pits of Metro's beats matched Future's drug stories and dead-eyed bouts of hedonism, and the darker, weirder variations of that chemistry kept things exciting. Whether it's the stark snap of 'I Serve the Base', the jarring minimalism of 'My Collection' or the tumultuous grandeur of 'Jumpman', the duo have always pushed the boundaries of mainstream trap in more sporadic directions.
And that was the biggest problem with their first official collaboration album We Don't Trust You. They still made a few bad hits, but outside of the rich rapper's beef simmering between the lines, their edges had dulled. For all the build-up, too many of these songs took the Capital-R Rap Album prompt too seriously, mixing old ideas in more grandiose and rude ways. The double-disc follow-up album, We still don't trust you, it's a more encouraging heel turn. Future and Metro sharpen some of that bite by bringing their ears into a brighter, slightly warmer space.
It's still familiar ground for both. The future, in particular, returns to the emotional headspace that fueled so much HNDRXX, he whirls between bending off his throne and amorous comers. He still likes to play the villain from time to time — “One Big Family” involves juggling more than 20 women at once, three of whom share the same name — but there's just as much tearful reflection on exes and shopping after intercourse. . In the neon-bright 'Drink N Dance', he screams Maybach races and throws lavish sex parties in Abu Dhabi like he's found a rare Pokemon card. Later, on “Mile High Memories,” he looks for silver linings in a lover who can get him dirty, saying “You can jump him as long as you're thinkin' 'bout me,” trying and failing to sound over the top. It's not often that Future gets the short end of the stick, and hearing him jump between player and patsy, sometimes in the same song, remains electrifying.
For Metro's part, it's actually found a way to turn the Achilles heel of its post-COVID production — production that sounds too polished and anonymous — into a strength. The title track veers towards synth-pop that wouldn't sound out of place on The Weeknd's Dawn FM, concludes with Abel mocking his old label OVO in falsetto (“They shooters make TikToks!”). Several songs dip into various shades of R&B, from the Isley Brothers' new smoothness of “All to Myself” to “Gracious,” which sounds like a stripped-down version of the kind of plugg&b the Summrs or Highway would drool over.
