The Toronto official’s fifth release in three years is, yet again, an uninspired, lengthy slog about Drake hating his exes. Do we care at this point?
Dominating a decade can be enough for some artists. In Drake’s case, he’s engaged in dominating two. Thirteen years since his debut album, the Canadian’s still repping for the undisputed Big Three. He’s had various phases in his career, withstood every change in trend, and survived career-damaging rap beefs. Even at 36 years old, the poster-boy persona remains. To maintain that persona, Drake’s never taken true time away from the game—it’s a repeated pattern of “I got one more in me.” So here comes another album, completed while on tour amidst delays and postponing shows to finish the job. Alarm bells are ringing already.
The bells then turn to sirens, greeted with the same old story once pressing play—an illusion of half-baked music packaged as sleepers.
Four of Drake’s last six albums have included 20 tracks or more. For All the Dogs is another extended effort, spanning 85 minutes and 23 tracks. The listener fatigue settled in years ago, but it’s more transparent than ever now; Drake cannot maintain our attention for this long. His niche for being a vulnerable, heartached singer-rapper has run its course. Now a saturated department in hip hop, Drake no longer has the grip on the batton. As a result, we’re granted the driest subject matter of his career, churning aimless verbiage towards women from past relationships, something we already heard on Her Loss, last year’s collaborative album with 21 Savage.
Contrary to some critiques, Drake doesn’t have to drastically grow his subject matter. He can still rap about relationships, on the condition that he fixates his songwriting towards insightful observations, not constant bitter digs that border abuse.
Drake has always been a capable rapper; it’s one of the few shining legs he had left to stand on. For All the Dogs kicks that crutch away to grant the worst bars of his career. From track to track, Drake insists on writing, recording and mixing a horror-show of bad punchlines. “So many cheques owed, I feel Czechoslovakian”, “He gon’ find out that it’s on-site like W-W-W” and “You tried to grease me but we’re not in Mykonos” are just a few lines from dozens of struggle bars. They don’t stop. It wouldn’t be far-fetched to think it’s an inside joke between Drake and his recording team. For rap consumers that only listen to Drake, this will not be noticed let alone be a concern. But for hip hop fans whom listen beyond the beat, For All the Dogs is a constant eyeroll.
When Drake’s not rapping terribly, he’s singing verses void of melody. Over the last three albums, Drake’s applied a new technique to his singing, dragging syllables to conjure up the same frustrating excuse of a melody. It’s the main reason why For All the Dogs isn’t catchy. The days of a fire hook like “Hold On, We’re Going Home” are long gone, replaced with long verses dragged across four minutes to fill the space where a real hook should be. You’re left scouring for the long-lasting hits, a staple of every Drake album regardless of how bad it can be holistically. Even a poorly curated album like Scorpion had hits to perk it up. The closest we get is “Rich Baby Daddy”, crowned by the fun-spirited Sexyy Red and club production than Drake’s contributions.
The rapping and singing is the downfall of many promising songs, as For All the Dogs has plenty engaging production going for it. The rage rap “IDGAF” with Yeat opens up with a gorgeous sample of “The Tunnel” by ambient jazz band Azimuth, a portion that could’ve been flipped into songs reminiscent of So Far Gone (in other words, the ‘old Drake’ that was promised for the album). “Drew a Picasso” sells its vulnerability through the sweet background vocals, while “8AM in Charlotte” offers a classy beat by Conductor Williams. In short, the enjoyable moments from For All the Dogs have nothing to do with Drake.
For All the Dogs is for all the copers. The fans that still hold firm to the idea there’s something to take from Drake’s music. The technically competent rapping? Gone. The masterful hookwriting? Out the window. The desire to lead the trends rather than hop on them? Null and void. Drake needs a break from exposing his self-absorption, and we need a break from warming up to his so-called sleepers.
4 / 10
Best tracks: “Virginia Beach”, “Rich Baby Daddy”, “First Person Shooter”, “8AM in Charlotte”
Mic Cheque 