It’s hard to say why Super Slimey exists.
Isn’t it funny how big-name albums between industry titans end up being minor career curios instead of world-busting statements? We talk in theory about, like, Elton John and Paul McCartney getting together and making something enormous. But if they did, it’d probably be the third or fourth most talked-about thing either one did this decade.
The biggest takeaway from Young Thug and Future’s Super Slimey is that rappers are learning this. It’s obviously modeled after Future’s What a Time to Be Alive with Drake, a low-stakes effort that was mostly dismissed—including by the artists itself—and sold boatloads while its biggest songs are still beloved. Expectations for Super Slimey are modest: a few songs on the radio at most. Artists have little to lose in these endeavors, which are undersold so fans stay interested when they drop “albums” with more fanfare.
Releases like this are kind of fun. They’re usually better and breezier than the 18-song behemoths rappers put out when they have bigger goals. Rap tends to be best when it’s just people shooting the shit, anyway. Young Thug and Future have both been more inspired before, but that’s not the point. It’s hard to be mad at this thing: it has a lot of good songs (“Patek Water,” its chief banger, is a treat) and a lot of really good rapping.
Future’s in good spirits, and he’s really funny here. The best line on the album is “I’m on the porch, I’m skipping court,” from “Feed Me Dope”; in six words he nails the troubled hedonism that’s his trademark. Thugger sings like he did on Beautiful Thugger Girls: beautifully, with a weird shiver in his voice. He’s pretty sedate here, and he’s absent from much of the tape, which is really Future’s baby. He’s more of a welcome presence.
Their chemistry together leaves a lot to be desired. They’re two outsized personalities, very different, competing with one another. At least Future and Drake were two sides of the same coin, the older rapper a grizzled hedonist and the younger a wide-eyed kid still in awe of strippers and pills. It’s probably necessary for Future to concede some room to his partner; we probably couldn’t handle both of them turned up to 10 for a full tape.
The production, mostly by the 808 Mafia guys, is pleasingly rococo at times; “200” and “Cruise Ship” sparkle like chandeliers. Missing is Metro Boomin, architect of What a Time to Be Alive’s gothic grandeur. Just one strong beat from Boomin, something on the scope of “Jumpman,” might have nudged this album up half a star. Someone should check on Metro Boomin. He recently tweeted “my trust is fucked up,” which is awfully distressing when your production tag is “if Young Metro don’t trust you I’ma shoot you.”
It’s hard to say why Super Slimey exists. The most likely answer—other than to make a quick buck, obviously—is to quash a minor beef between Future and Thug, initiated by a subtweet from Boomin to which Thug took offense. Maybe the producer’s presence would have made things tense in the studio. Future and Thugger don’t seem to be having much fun rapping with each other here, but they also don’t seem to care what anyone thinks of the tape. They just kind of exist side-by-side on a bauble of decent rap.