The Singles Jukebox

Wale, Rick Ross, and Jeremih: Neither Australian nor dancey…

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[5.29]

Zach Lyon: Wale is from the county I’ve been living in for a few years, so I’m obligated by local law to remind everyone that he was once (way back in ’07!) regarded as a rap savior, even before the Seinfeld thing. I remember writing around ’08 that he is “the best writer in rap today,” because local bias is fun. So this new turn as a Rick Ross protégé is, at the very least, entirely baffling — one failed record really doesn’t seem like enough to convince Wale to warp his image when his previous one was prided so loudly, and the new one is nothing more than the same old Scarface dress-up games. At the risk of sounding rockist, I’ll just say that it’s strange and slightly disappointing to hear him doggy-paddling on “That Way.” But also, Jeremih’s chorus is fantastic.
[6]

Brad Shoup: As is common for me, I got suckered by the tiny touches. It happened with the cooing in Jeremih’s “Birthday Sex,” and it’s even worse here. The immediate context around these soul cries are good, too: Jeremih copping to jetlag-induced amnesia, low-talking into the mic while lightly dusted with Auto-Tune. Zoom further, and the beat splashes playfully over ace chauvinists Wale and Rozay (who deserves a medal for resisting a “Grey Goose” rhyme) while a Curtis piano figure gets hammered into harplike form, a kind angel bearing our men to the next stop.
[7]

Jonathan Bogart: For all the posturing ego and self-aggrandizement in hip-hop — and music more generally — not many songs are as star-struck romantic, as dedicatedly in love with the self as this one. It’s commonplace to say that hip-hop songs “for the ladies” are always far less about any nominal ladies than they are about the prowess of the rhymer, but few are quite this naked about it. Which, in its own sociopathic way, is a form of honesty.
[7]

Erick Bieritz: Jeremih, Wale, and Ross combine to strain everyone’s suspension of disbelief in the irresistible asshole persona. Whatever advances these guys have made in being beloved jerks, no pickup line can rebound from “I don’t recollect your name.” Too bad those horn fanfares aren’t used as more than punctuation.
[5]

Jonathan Bradley: I’ve come to terms with the conclusion reached by many before me: Rick Ross, in all his preposterousness, has belly-flopped himself into the swimming pool of respectability. That doesn’t mean I approve of him acting as some kind of mentor; the last thing rap needs is multiple Rick Rosses. So Wale, a DC-area rapper who once seemed thoughtful, if directionless, continues his descent into Maybach Music Group anonymity — a foot-soldier in an army led by a general who can barely justify his own existence. “That Way” is limp and falsely soulful, and it amputates the one remaining enjoyable quality of Mr. Folarin: his workmanlike ability to spit punchlines. That skill redeemed the blusterous “600 Benz,” but without an assist from the beat, it just makes him seem insincere. 
[3]

Al Shipley: Every time Wale ends up on a hit song, it feels like the result of some kind of elaborate clerical error. Many rappers get smuggled on to the airwaves by stowing away on a track with people that radio listeners actually like, but few have done so multiple times while remaining such a resolute non-entity.
[3]

Katherine St Asaph: Cee-Lo is probably clutching his feathers for passing up this proscenium boudoir of a production. Jeremih’s learned how to seduce, Rick Ross’s learned how not to be RICK ROSS, and I guess Wale’s probably learned something. Maybe one of them can learn consistency next?
[6]