He goes driving in his car…
Al Shipley: The original wasn’t really anything special, and the way Pain awkwardly shoehorns the title into the hook suggests that they shouldn’t’ve bothered trying to make this a sequel. Kanye continues to cravenly bite Wayne’s poop-based punchlines in a way that gets more disgusting and unnecessarily graphic every time, while Wayne himself exudes such a smug douchebag aura at this point that just the way he says “well alright” at the beginning of his verse makes me want to run screaming from this song. Still, the beat makes it all more listenable than it deserves to be.
Chuck Eddy: Demiclassical smooth jazz kitsch at the start is sorta sweet, until all those tired mouths open. Then this turns into as draggy a rap song — as draggy an anything song, maybe — as I’ve heard this year. Useful for demonstrating just how much hip-hop needs low-budget dance teens.
Ian Mathers: The original “Maybach Music” was (for better or worse) a Rick Ross track; Jay-Z was in there, but he was palpably a guest. This is a posse cut, and as far as I can tell the only reason Ross gets the main credit is because the first one was his. But really, in mid-2009, is getting Kanye and Wayne in for guest verses and T-Pain to bleat the hook even impressive anymore? Unsurprisingly, T-Pain is the funnest part of this whole farrago.
Rodney J. Greene: With all three of Officer Ricky’s autotune-happy collaborators leaving their voices unprocessed, the lack of gimmickery just makes more apparent the fact that, in 2009, Rawse is a more coherent, competent, and perhaps even more inspired rapper than either Kanye or Wayne. J.U.S.T.I.C.E. League’s complex yet elegant production communicates the life of luxury just as well as, if not better than than, the lyrics.
Jonathan Bradley: Impossibly luxuriant, and yet somehow manages to be even more impossibly stupid. Kanye causes fecal explosions, Weezy reclines in a metaphorical anal cavity and Rick Ross continues his fascination with horses (apparently women refer to him as “Polo”). Yet few are more comfortable with pomp than this set, and even with their concertedly ridiculous lyrics, they approach their money rap with a laudable professionalism. Perverse as the fascination may be, it is nothing less than delicious witnessing the A List preen like this; especially when they can deliver their bizarre coprophilia with such seriousness.
Michaelangelo Matos: “I scoop any winners like kitty litter”? I’m sorry, what? “Like kitty litter”? You mean like clumped-up cat shit? This is what you’re telling your woman she is, in addition to being a “winner” (they must be if they’re dating you, Rick Ross)? “Like kitty litter“? This is what passes for metaphor in the Wikipedia Era? “LIKE KITTY LITTER”?!?!?!?!
Matt Cibula: Float, float on…except with gross poop & dyke & kitty litter jokes right out the box. Ethereal, somehow, despite all the gravity-sucking production (is that Kenny G noodling on the chorus?); best moment is Wayne’s entrance, and how long has it been since we could say that?
Alex Macpherson: Despite the trepidation which accompanies any sighting of Kanye or Wayne on a track these days, no one fucks up too egregiously: both should try this “understated” thing more often. That chorus, though! It’s like this 50ft wave surging up from the depths, and for half a minute you’re right at its crest, the world at your feet, all-powerful and invulnerable.
Martin Skidmore: It’s a very dreary slow jam with lots of poor dirgey singing and tired rapping. These are people who have made fine or even great records, but this is tiring to listen to, lifeless and tedious, despite the odd good flourish in the JUSTICE League production.
Hillary Brown: The roll’s too slow, even with the presence of three dudes I like (Rick Ross ain’t one of ’em).
Anthony Miccio: The big-budget opulence and extra firepower makes this one of those sequels that will deservedly gross more than the original, but I can’t see it having any more of a shelf-life than previous Rick Ross features. Then again, it may be the highlight of his eventual 3-in-1 Action Value Pack at Wal-Mart.
Alfred Soto: These are probably the only hip-hop artists I’d go to a strip club with, and as usual Wayne’s the only one who says the kind of crazy shit that causes the Russian bouncer’s scowl to deepen just a little.