Review Summary: cookin yam$
I don’t ever remember my telephone calls. I guess odd interjections and free-flowing in-betweens make sense but there’s something offputting about the fact that none of the “conversation” goes anywhere outside of Carti’s faux-energetic whining and Gleechie’s mantra-esque “walk”ing. Gleesh almost speaks a different language -- he gets the beat switch, the flow switch, the speed-dial, the fucking trademark dance move. Perhaps this is a digression, but it seems odd that he opens up with the half-hearted devotional; I mean, sure the sentiment of “doing it” for the dead homie is oh-so-touching but it feels
more than
just disingenuous when all he’s
doing for the man is slurredly yelling
WALK ad-infinitum. That being said, he manages to do that which the rest of the posse couldn’t. He brings a kind of energy that Tyler’s painfully mediocre old-school-cum-nu-skool flow and Rocky’s lethargic
cloudisms could never muster. Carti doesn’t fare as poorly as the aforementioned duo but is given such a
fleeting turn in the spotlight that he may as well just pretend that the others like him.
Sumn sumn, imma bag yo bitch, imma buy yo bitch
I guess I should make some joke about the fact that Rocky "tells" Tyler to step his flow and is ultimately cucked when Tyler phones in some cheap recycled disses and phony-ass braggadocio (OOOH BUZZWORD). Sadly I'm running low on inspiration (probably doesn't help that I've got this shit on repeat but y'know).
In this sense, telephone calls is a good approximation for the tape itself, minus the fact that Gleechie doesn’t really turn up again and all the other tracks suck ass but hey let’s exercise some
fucking optimism.
Or in my case I’ll pop another ritty and no doz.
