Oh Curren$y, you fail to amuse me. So after dropping The Stoned Immaculate roughly a month ago, you release yet ANOTHER project? Dude, either you mistake weed for that pill in Limitless or you have the worst dealer ever. Eh, I can’t complain really.
So let’s see… Cigarette Boats. Five tracks, all produced by Harry Fraud. Who is that? *googles* Oh, he works with French Montana. Wait… who is French Montana? Whatever, whatever. Well I have to honest Spitta. I did not like your last album, mostly because you were too lethargic on the shit man.
I get it, Jet Life, “euuuuh” and all that, but we all expected something to vibe to that’s a little different, not the same old deal with an ounce of boredom slathered on the top. Shoot, you could’ve jumbled up the first two EPs you dropped this year, Here… and #The1st28, and created a more vibrant work.
But enough of the bush-beating, let’s take a listen to your fifth project this year. Once again, your fifth project. *listens* Um. OK. Its nice man, but here’s the thing: why put out the same thing over and over? The world of entertainment is rife with also-rans and been there, done thats. But in your case, or at least in the case of rap, hearing bitches, cars, weed, and the hustle is like breathing.
Everyone does it, some at different rhythms, some has asthma, no matter how you splice it, the universal nature of these topics can make you wonder why we bother listening to more than one artist at times. You tend to slow it down and get by with that ‘Nawlins attitude, which I dig.
But simply riding over a thousand beats adds little color to such a rigid formula. Come on Spitta, don’t you ever get a papercut or something? You could rap about that too! The EP feels like a fifteen-minute song due to the aggressively one-laned nature of your flow and the lyrics. The beats are good, though. Mr. Fraud does his thing, although its nothing extraordinary.
So if there’s one thing that you could take from this review, Mr. Shante Curren$y Jet Life Caesar Supreme Franklin sir, is to be a responsible stoner and slow down the rate of music. Heh, believe me, I commend your grind; if Dr. Dre pushed Detox like this the earth would fall off its axis. The caveat to your grind, however, is that unshakeable feeling, that unmistakeable inkling, that incorrigible rut of my thinking: I’ve heard this before.
It bumps in the whip though.