Big Sean Is No Fun Now

1 week ago 12

Technically speaking, Big Sean’s not releasing his debut self-help book until January, but his new song “Typecast” feels like an earnest head start. There, he flexes his self-attributed knack for words of wisdom: “Could build a damn positive affirmation gallery.” It’s a boast and a product description for Better Me Than You, a competently constructed but bland album that too often confuses generic therapy speak for depth. Thematically, the dad raps are a sign of maturation from a skillful yet mischievous rapper who once bragged about being 10 feet tall when standing atop his own dick. But intentions and themes aren’t replacements for effectively leveraged imagination, and artistically, personal evolution doesn’t mean much if your songwriting skills don’t grow with it.

Cohesive and effectively sequenced, Better Me Than You is a structurally sound LP. Hit-Boy, Thundercat, and others create a pensive, brooding ambiance that mirrors Sean’s mood; aural synths meet naked ruminations that linger like troubling thoughts. Framed in muted soul, tracks like the “On Up” ring through with clarity, conviction, and the hard-earned ease of someone at home with themselves. The Charlie Wilson-assisted “Break The Cycle” merges Sean’s customary agility with lucid introspection: “They catch me on the Canon, movin’ candidly/ And even though I’m out the frame, they pan to me.” That couplet is a sweet spot for Sean — tidy, quippy, and incisive without careening into plainspoken platitudes or punchlines that are cheesier than clever.

Big Sean has never been a super innovative aesthete. But he’s a more refined vocalist than given credit for, stretching his tones to evoke everything from exasperation (“IDFWU”) to frenzied exhilaration (“Paradise”) depending on the song. (If people could get past his weakest one-liners, they wouldn’t accuse him of biting Baby Keem, but alas…) He taps into this bag on the gothic, pulsating “Yes,” where he twists his “yes” pronunciation to a hook that’s simple and anthemic. It’s a refreshing change of pace for an album that’s too one-note to support Sean’s shallow prose, made even more hollow by his increasingly insular subject matter. For the most well-rounded artists, the concept of maturity is a gateway to greatness. For less advanced songwriters, it can be a trap door. Sometime around Detroit 2, Sean fell down the hatch.

Sean’s always had difficulty broaching more serious topics, too often telling rather than showing. As a result, even his most revealing lyrics can feel like underwritten CliffsNotes for his own biography. “Back to back with thе prayers, so many times I gotta memorize/ I done seen so much pain that shit got me desensitized,” he raps on “This N That,” a rote “trials and tribulations” anthem that’s vague and flavorless enough to live up to its song title. That lack of sauce translates to the hooks, too. On “Something,” he wastes a SYD feature on a chorus that sounds like half-hearted advice from a friend who’s lowkey tired of your shit. The Eryn Allen Kane-assisted “Apologize” isn’t much better, with Kane herself delivering a heavy-handed quip that could come from the most annoying girl you’ve ever met: “Accountability starts with self-observation/ And I can’t help you with that.”

While Kane secures the most cringe bar for that round, Sean himself more than fulfills the role throughout Better Me Than You. The project is littered with mindless mental health cliches: Redirect your energy. Let it be. Focus on what you can control. Wake up early. Drink water. All fair sentiments. But these sorts of hackneyed one-liners aren’t even cool enough to be your AIM away message 20 years ago. That lameness pretty much climaxes on “Clarity (Skit),” which is every bit as unimaginative as it sounds. Here, Big Sean wades into the deepest depths of self-parody, with his spoken word flow spilling out as an unsuccessful slam poetry audition: “The clearer you are, the closer you are to clairvoyant/ But they’d rather see you clear avoiding/ Yeah, they’d rather keep you mad, thinking, ‘Fuck the world’/ But what you mean, “Fuck the world?” You talking ’bout Mother Earth?”

The defense for Big Sean’s new album is institutional at this point. Every “mature” or “experimental” LP comes prepackaged with the excuse that so and so was trying something different and that we should be happy about their willingness to change. They’ll say they thought we wanted so and so to be inventive. They’ll lament that we’ll never be happy. People across X are already saying Big Sean’s new album is for folks who’ve grown up. More accurately, though, it’s for folks who love saying they’ve grown up. It’s for your ex-girlfriend who’s decided she’s really into crystals and won’t settle for less because what’s for her is for her. It’s for the ex-basketball star who fancies himself an enlightened thinker because the pandemic made him a YouTube scholar. It’s predictable — it’s banal — a low entry point into a world of ideas that stopped being novel at least since Tumblr came around. In short, it’s a Kyrie Irving album.

In more ways than one, Sean’s always been the Uncle Drew of hip-hop: a mesmerizing talent whose impact has never quite matched his dazzling individual skillset. They’re phenoms that can translate their abilities into nearly any ecosystem, even if they aren’t suited to be one unto themselves, like, say, a LeBron James, Giannis Antetounkoumpo or Stephen Curry. In music terms, the equivalent would be figures like Jay-Z, ‘Ye and 2Pac. Through this context, Sean’s place in the rap hierarchy becomes a bit more clear.

Sean’s never quite earned the national reverence Kyrie’s gotten through the years, but the players respect him, even if he’s never truly approached the realm of rap’s Big 3. In a recent interview, Sean said he’d always been part of that conversation. As a competitor it’s only right he feels that way, even if it’s not true. Generally speaking, from about 2012 to now, Drake, Kendrick Lamar, and J. Cole have been understood as the most potent combination of critical acclaim, skill, and commercial success. When they drop, slot them into that #1 slot on the Billboard 200. Handing their albums a platinum plaque is only a formality, given their rabid fanbases.

Cole’s the weakest of this bunch, so we’ll leave him out for now. Speaking on Drake and Kendrick, though, they’re the Stephen Curry and healthy Kawhi Leonard to Big Sean’s Kyrie. It’s proven NBA champions who defined their era with all-around dominance in various contexts versus a skillful, but flawed baller with load-carrying questions and an urge to tell you the benefits of proper energy alignment. The thing is, there’s strength in knowing your own. Kyrie isn’t a top-50 player of all time, but he’s never shied away from what makes him great on the court. Sean shouldn’t have done so either. Because fuck what you heard, at his best, he’s pretty incredible.

Before Rent Due tweets were a thing and he became a social media punchline, Big Sean was the reigning Punchline King — a slick wordsmith in the tradition of a Fabolous or Lloyd Banks, with Sean being a Skittles-tinged iteration. Listen to “Super Duper Lemonade” or Meek Mill’s “Burn” if you think I’m lying. Folks clown it now, but Sean popularized that hashtag flow 15 years ago. It became annoying when other rappers did it. But Sean rendered it an art form — he could collapse the distance between disparate pop culture references with the seamless ease of a Kyrie cross, tween, tween midrange step back. He could trade bars with Lupe Fiasco (“Don’t Look Down”) or outrap mic monsters like J. Cole and Pusha T (“Looking for Trouble”). Imagine “Clique” or Wiz Khalifa’s “Gang Bang” without Big Sean.

On tracks like “Paradise (Extended),” released around the time of his 2015 apex, he snatches the nearest rhymeable word like a venus flytrap as he frames visions of grandeur in extravagant wordplay: “Hol’ up everybody, don’t worry, man, I got it, I got it/ I need a hundred dollar bill, photocopy the email and copy/ Man, I’m going hard all season, these hoes goin’ both ways, offense, defense/ Livin’ life on the deep end, F-F allegiance, beat the odds and got even.”

Unlike mid-2000s punchline rappers, there’s no ornate setup there; bars unfold and fold back up nearly as quickly as they’re introduced, and the meanings are as tightly wound as the rhyme schemes themselves. Imagine Kyrie dribbling the length of the court and changing directions without breaking stride. Sean could be a one-man fastbreak or operate methodically, as he does on “Play No Games,” an effortless playboy theme song where he evokes flirty confidence with subtle turns of phrase that don’t get in the way of the beat. His bars spill out like Cristal: “I know I’m young, but you respect me like a father figure/ Young mobbish nigga, prolly making father figures.”

Tracks like those demonstrate a push-pull shift between propulsiveness and a player in cruise control. Better Me Than You is a speed racer who forgot how to hit the gas. Regardless of context, his best work is threaded by wry wit, and his least impressive efforts are too bluntly phrased to soar. It’s not helped by a vocal command that pales in comparison to his biggest competitors.

Even when operating at peak efficiency, Sean’s never quite translated his abilities to an incredible solo effort, but projects like 2012’s Detroit and 2015’s Dark Sky Paradise feel like solid All-NBA campaigns. “IDFWU” is quietly nearing diamond status. Stats like that aren’t as important as the genuine moments of invention and rap aptitude that generated them. Remember that crazy game-winning, left-handed hook shot Uncle Drew hit over Nikola Jokic? There are numerous technical ways to describe the micro movements, dexterity, spatial awareness and all-around guts needed to make such a shot. But it also kinda just felt like Kyrie being Kyrie.

Longtime Kyrie fans like myself will notice the way he’s learned the nuances of the game — how to time a steal attempt, how to track down loose balls, how to avoid throwing your teammates under the bus. But he’s never strayed too far from his reality — the game is all about getting buckets. Listening to Detroit 2 and Better Me Than You feels like watching Kyrie bring the ball up to do a lame John Stockton impression. He’s a serviceable playmaker and has a higher basketball IQ than given credit for. But we know Kyrie was born to put points on the board and hypnotize us while doing it. He knows it, too. Now, it’s time for someone to impart this knowledge to Sean, whose adrenaline-charged punchlines have receded into trite Tumblr-isms. It’s easy to appreciate his growth into the thoughtful, caring lover, father, friend, and supporter he appears to be. But right now, he’s balling like an all-star who needs to be told to, “Just play.”