“Pussy Monster” (you can start from any track) is a midway between noodling and flirting; its naturalistic structure forms a believable late night night club alleyway story. It’s the culmination of moments like these which display Wayne as a bard, sharing his imagine epic. He sees power in stories, and so when he calls himself “the greatest rapper alive,” it’s an attempt at speaking things into existence. 

The heights of escapism give life to the work — which is undeniably great — and discredit it. “A Milli” sees Wayne rapping in tongues, in complete fealty to his form, forging a touchstone of style and ability (“I will smith”). “Got Money” constructs a pop-up parade, a wonderful, hedonistic height of pop rap, and Wayne’s sloppy presence is just one example of his life-affirming abandon. With his recognition that the hooks and fanfare are his album, Wayne does no less than form perfect harmony with them and as a result nothing feels incidental. In “Let the best build,” he shows off his prowess in verses, then sings along to the bass drum, giving himself over to it. Improvised and systemic rhythms maintain equal stock. It’s a sensory load; Wayne is the kind of artist to give and take from his instrumentals in a bouncing smorgasbord, to push eyes towards eyebrows.

And the songs are ambitious. “Mrs. Officer” builds on a series of sunny fancies, a winsome bassline holding it together. “Lollipop” simmers from beginning to end. “La La” is a jagged statement, a rappers’ paradise amid pop bangers. “Tie My Hands” actually means to soundtrack New Orleans post-Katrina.

But when he sings a pun referencing the famous assault on Rodney King by police (Why?) or in the hook of “Lollipop” seems to thank his status and drunkenness for the head he receives (“shawty wanna thug; bottles in the club”), seemingly unaware of anything he’s saying, it’s time to come back to Earth. And man is it a drop. 

But to end on a positive note, because I love it:

“I’m rare/

like Mr. Clean with hair.”