It seems to be an iron law for a certain type of artist that, after you’ve spent enough time advertising to the world what a badass low-life you are, you then take a reflective turn and explore the damage and dysfunction that made you that way.
Does it necessarily render you more sympathetic?
In the case of , who might have been invented to justify everything that people who know nothing about rap say they hate about rap (though his legions of fans would surely disagree), it could hardly have made him less so.
But once you strip away the thick patina of self-pity (true, millionaires can have real problems, but it’s hard to commiserate with anyone whose entire modus operandi is relentless bragging about their wealth, debauchery, and sexual exploitation of women), Twelve Carat Toothache has a lot more to recommend it than its three predecessors.
Again, a low bar, but like Post Malone himself, let’s take whatever we can get.
The slow, contemplative feel (you might call these songs avant-ballads) and Malone’s treated, rippling, sing-talking vocals highlight his most notable talent: for texture. Many of the songs are plain whiny. A few are genuinely affecting.
Love/Hate Letter To Alcohol drafts in Fleet Foxes to give a dreamy harmonic dimension to its grim narrative.
The foreboding, anaesthetised Euthanasia is genuinely spooky in its foretelling of death as an end to psychic pain.
You have to give Post Malone credit: it takes considerable creative invention to make you feel sorry for Post Malone.
