…until it isn’t.

[Video][Website]
[5.57]

David Lee: One of the more fascinating aspects of Tyler, the Creator’s brand is his insistence on flipping off anybody who gives a shit (“how much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could ever gave a fuck”) in spite of the obvious signs that, indeed, he cares about getting people to find him funny. Buried within Tyler’s Robin Williams levels of manic joke-spitting and his linguistic skateboard tricks (“dis-goosting,” “instantly put it on Instagrum”) and accessible pop culture laugh-bait (a “Bandz a Make Her Dance” hat tip, potshots at Lance Armstrong) is a tension between Tyler’s desire for his audience to acknowledge his skills as a comedian (and a producer, as the literal command he exhibits over the horns and snares makes clear) and his eye-rolling, nose-thumbing aesthetic. As a result, the seams in his music fall slack: “Tamale” traverses “I’m back like I’m Rosa Parks’ fare” and “my urethra/hole that I pee from” in the space of ten seconds. “I’m just fuckin’ around,” Tyler mutters over the lead-in to the first chorus. It shows.
[6]

Alfred Soto: The performance collapses in the second verse, during which Tyler’s lines swell beyond the meter and they’re not even pithy lines; the “ethnic” color deserves colorful verses. As usual with this guy, the pleasure is in timbre.
[5]

Patrick St. Michel: The music on “Tamale” is good, and the video is fantastic, a madcap collection of absurd images and clever little cultural references perfect for kids raised on YouTube. (When the goofy indie-rock band enters, good work Tyler.) But Tyler refuses to step out of his lyrical zone any bit, spending the first half of this song telling people to suck his dick among other assorted body parts, jerking off and pronouncing words just a bit differently. When “Tamale” switches into the sentimental portion, he’s slightly better — his best moments to date have been when he’s confronting his absentee father — but he’s still pretty vile, especially in his frequent use of the word “faggot.” Does Adult Swim need any more shows?  
[4]

Daniel Montesinos-Donaghy: Just before the release of Wolf, Tyler reminded his Twitter followers of his game plan: pack in the rapping at thirty then move into filmic territory. Wolf shows a considered move in this direction — the narrative is surprisingly immersive and comes together neater than his two previous solo albums. However, he still has issues with third acts. Once his album begins to build steam towards a climax, it eschews any narrative sense to wig out in lounge-jazz, Flocka tributes and “traditional” OF bangers like “Tamale”. It makes sense when you hear “Tamale,” however, and realise this is Tyler getting his cartoon persona out of the way. He’s up to his usual syllabic mangling, toying with rhythms and tones, pushing against the racket when he should settle. Perhaps he has to make a million goofy provocations before he evolves into the Wes Anderson acolyte he sees himself becoming? 
[7]

Anthony Easton: The politics are angry, the sex is outrageous, the flow just bleeds mania, and it has portions that are just pure humiliation. I continue to love Tyler. 
[8]

Crystal Leww: All these points are for the bottle clanging, which was perfected in “Backseat Freestyle” and slightly lesser here, and the horns that appear far too late to overshadow how boringly, predictably misogynistic Tyler is.
[3]

Brad Shoup: He drags Eminem’s fallow field and winks at “Ignition,” but I’m mostly fixated on his command to turn shit up. The track is nuts. It sounds like Carnival, with live drums and a hazy brass section. And Tyler’s got a fantastic voice, plus the stones to put Demi’s daughter on racist hook duty. I just wonder why it’s more fun to be the grouch than to actually have fun.
[6]