Review Summary: I am the chump...
A staff review of Under Pressure
from a while way back shocked me. The insinuation that my beloved, rubix solver wasn't actually a rapper didn't sit well with my inner keyboard warrior. I spent many a night, worthlessly arguing about the 'art of stealing' and how Logic actually saves hip-hop, bla bla bla. That review scathingly focused on obese similarities to Kendrick's¬*debut, though what drove my disgust was when I realized I was Logic's victim. Having been assaulted by some warped, kitsch doublespeak, his songs and persona had slowly grinded my [S]logic[/S] reason away, refusing him any criticism that any [S]logical[/S] sensible person would have. You see, "mix-tape" Logic had the freedom for bite-and-copy tactics. Being an exhibition for listeners to take what they like and subsequently toss the rest, gave him the freedom to make mistakes in order to carefully craft the introduction to his career as a rapper. Not tasteful but enjoyable. So Under Pressure came along and we all ignored the warning signs. He contextually escaped from the "mix-tape" world by not changing a damn thing. In comes the inner denial of being a Logic fan. He plays the listener with sweet production and other rap-tassels, well enough to not be turned-off immediately, trapping one to simultaneously enjoy his craftiness while being drowned in lyrical babble.
Fast forward to 2018,Bobby Tarantino II
, a sequel to the flex, rinse, repeat fest that was the first installment, sees a return to form in some areas. Yet it further uncloaks the Orwellian nightmare that is Logic's game. The topic list is stale and the songs mean nothing but we continue to praise his brilliance. His 'gracious' moments, no matter how short-lived, see him return to the key ingredients of coming from the 'trap', sharing wealth with his homies, and not caring but caring about everyone who doesn't own "Rattpack" printed on Gildan. Again, we encounter the "Logic manifesto", whcih hasn't been updated since¬*his debut and it's frankly tiring; yet especially on this album. Trap sounds, Drake and Travis Scott impersonations, a blatant Kendrick "DNA" structure grab on "44 More"; the guy is becoming desperate. The Maryland rapper has the potential for so such more, but instead of proving detractors wrong with some actual artistic integrity, he would rather "let success talk" (Tarantino et al, 2015-2018: every song) and make pasta.
You see, Mr. Hall the second, success, be it financial or through critical acclaim, comes from honest proclamation.¬*¬*In every flow its repeated how authentic and versatile you are, where in fact, you are actually wasting all this skill, production, and most of all your fan base; all of which afford you the space to actually prove it. And when it fails this time,¬*the figures and Elton John won't save you. It would have been okay to forgive the conceptual failures of¬*"Everybody" and "The Incredible True Story" as being too ambitious, or even ignore the allegations of biting, but¬*Bobby Taratino II¬*only reinforces that you are, like that hot-coal review put so bluntly, a rap-fan.¬*¬*We know you are a good guy, you told us this year on "Yuck". But, does that make you an authentic artist or someone who consumers of music should support"
, in the end, is the rapping equivalent of expensive yet stale bread, salvaged as croutons for the world's most 'okay' caesar salad. The dressing may be nice, but no amount of peace, love and positivity is going to change the fact that the bread expired when I was welcomed to ***ing forever. Still, that still only makes me the chump...I still buy buy this rap masturbation.