Post Malone - Stoney

Pitchfork 45

“White Iverson” is not a foundational brick; it is a sandcastle on a windy day with a high tide. No one who appreciated the breezy distraction of a radio song in 2015 wanted to hear nearly 70 minutes of Post Malone a year later. There are new one-hit wonders to enjoy; there are pop icons making important works; there’s probably a book somewhere worth reading.

The song was charming, though: Through the haze of its production and Post Malone’s slurred delivery was a certain nostalgic desire and childlike wonder. Somehow, he hopped on a tour with Justin Bieber, and Universal subsidiary Republic Records believed that Stoney, a 68-minute long dirge, was the correct use of his talents. Even if you liked “White Iverson,” was there anyone who thought to themselves, I want to hear this guy’s story! What’s he all about? We need to know more!? For all of Stoney’s faults, its most damning one poisons the record at the source: This thing is completely soulless.

It’s not for a lack of trying, however—Post Malone (real name: Austin Post) is presenting his most authentic self here, talking openly about relationships and taking too many drugs and drinking a little too much, amidst numerous “we made it” anthems. But he’s simply not a compelling artist; he doesn’t say anything new about these struggles, doesn’t frame them in a particularly memorable way, and has nothing to say now that he’s wrestled with his fame. What pushes Stoney past being merely forgettable and into a kind of cynical, punishing listen is the access to a bunch of producers and songwriters that came together behind the 21 year old to ensure a product so highly polished, and so clearly connect-the-dots, it robs him of any trace of charm. The album ends up doubling as a tacit acknowledgment that, hey, maybe this guy is just not that interesting.

If it’s lowlights you want, Stoney’s got them: “I Fall Apart” brutally crashes the party, appearing right after “White Iverson.” The song is full of acoustic guitars, and features Post’s most obnoxious crutch: that weird little vibrato thing he does, a vain attempt to convey emotion. “I Fall Apart,” a self-lacerating breakup anthem, recalls Staind, working that same woe-is-me white boy pain with an unpleasant voice slathered all over it. “Go Flex” boasts a foot-stomp chorus and enough echo to sound exactly like the Lumineers or any other faceless “whoa-oh-oh” band; it’s as unholy as it sounds on paper.

Stoney indulges in a few huge, expertly written, admittedly catchy hooks, but since Post doesn’t have a strong voice and is usually not saying much more than cliches, many of these faux-triumphant songs sound tailor-made for headphone commercials. See: “Congratulations,” with a “let me collect this check” Quavo appearance, or “Too Young,” a song that’s probably about a year old, and already in line to appear on the soundtrack for the next movie about a white boxer.

To its credit, Stoney lets its best run of songs loose near the beginning of the album, after turgid opener “Broken Whiskey Glass.” “Big Lie” has a nice, booming DJ Mustard beat, sounding like something that could’ve been on ANTI or SremmLife 2, and one of the record’s strongest hooks, mostly because it plays into the same kind of sleepy-eyed charm of “White Iverson.” The baroque beats on songs like “Déjà Vu,” with Justin Bieber, and the Pharrell-assisted “Up There,” are begging for someone with a little more humor to show up, maybe Young Thug or any of the under-21 Atlanta guys. Still, Post Malone finds those grooves nicely, and they are the least burdensome songs on the record.

I have a perhaps wishfully optimistic hope that Stoney could mark the end of a specific kind of rap album: the spiffy cash-in after the viral hit or mixtape run. Post feels like the flimsiest artist yet to get this treatment, and he got such an extravagant treatment at that. With a recent era of mixtape rappers on the decline, along with the steady hemorrhaging of album sales and bigger names taking bigger risks, it seems as if this type of hollow release could soon become as anachronistic as an $18 CD is today.