are not what you would call “textually rich.” For stretches, they can seem almost ambient: all purple neon, Xannied-out synthesizers, a never ending montage of nightclubs and bedrooms and cash registers. What sticks out is the timbre of the R&B-trap singer’s voice, which can be a remarkable instrument, capable of conveying immense pathos even when he is not saying much at all. Because of the richness of his voice, there’s always been a sense, on previous LPs, of something being held back.
implies, via its title, some larger conceptual bent that might perhaps reveal more about the source of Toliver’s hurt quiver, or at least give it something new to do. But it mostly does not. It is another Don Toliver album, recommended if you like the other Don Toliver albums. The opener sets the temperature, and it is perfectly temperate, full of springy trap drums, pointillist guitars, and a whole host of Dons Toliver, alternately spectral and keening, dissolving in and out of focus.
Has he tried singing?