Mainstream rap is as fickle as the weather, one moment the sun is shining and you’re hot stuff, the next moment you’re yesterday’s news, left out in the cold. For Gucci Mane his reign has run longer than expected, but as these things go the trap movement has given way to other more lucrative ventures. The burden for Gucci and Everybody Looking is whether or not he could adapt to the times, prove he’s not a one-trick pony and versatile enough to keep up with the trends.
Everybody Looking is a carbon copy of his previous albums, the only difference being a few no name producers. Mike WiLL Made It handles most of the production, which only exasperates the redundant nature. No one was expecting an Illmatic, but if you compare him to say Master P you’ll see the difference between an artist who can adapt and shift gears when needed, and a cartoon who can only live on one style. This record is Gucci Mane’s last breath, the sound of a dying career.
‘No Sleep (Intro)‘
An after school special from a guy with a face tattoo. But in his defense there are moments of deep self-reflection; where he’s admitting to a serious problem, one that has taken far too many lives. The trouble is that when sober his delivery lacks that special edge that his congregation fawns over. It’s a noble cause but whether or not it’ll last is to be determined: [LISTEN]
‘Out Do Ya‘
The simple-minded flow continues, this time ringing through the air like warning shots. But instead of sounding like an assault rifle, it hits more like a cheap BB gun. His delivery is mediocre and incapable of moving anyone with a soul, sounding like he just had a stroke. The beat matches the humdrum nature of the lyrics, and does nothing more than solidify his status as a lyrical boob:
‘Back on Road‘
The beat trickles in and is more loathsome than a leaky faucet. It is consistent in its complete and total lack of variation; amateur production tailor made for a novice lyricist. The incredible part is that this is supposed to be a celebration, but the energy level is in the basement. Drake adds a flimsy hook, which sets the bar exactly where Gucci likes it, near the bottom: [LISTEN]
‘Waybach‘
Comparing himself to Hakeem “The Dream” Olajuwan is as jokey as it gets; his style is more like Dicky Simpkins than anything else. He’s talking a big game, and going nowhere with it; the type of dude to cross himself over. The comparison he draws that makes the most sense is Elvis, a phony so flagrant with his style that it’s hard to take him or anything he says seriously: [LISTEN]
‘Pussy Print‘
Gucci calls himself a narcissist, which is the biggest word he’s used in over a decade. He even makes sure to pronounce it real hard as if it might have taken a few takes to get it right. The beat moves like molasses and paves the way for a series of colorless lyrics. Kanye makes an appearance, but his presence only drags the song down; deep into the depths of nothingness: [LISTEN]
‘Pop Music‘
Gucci commissions Mike WiLL Made It to turn the beat into a banger. But what happens is he takes familiar ingredients and adds a touch of synth, thinking it’ll pop. Of course it doesn’t and in a slight twist of irony Gucci is trying to explain how his style is pop music. In one way it is, but that only certifies his status as the ambassador of status quo. A weak flex that only speaks of money:
‘Guwop Home‘
Gucci teams up with fellow meatball Young Thug and the results are about what you’d expect, like two clowns tryin’ to squeeze through one door. It’s almost inaudible at times, so bad that it’s like listening to a mumbling contest over speakerphone. The beat muddies the water even more, which turns the whole song into a giant mess. Somewhere amidst the trash is a line or two about money and women:
‘Gucci Please‘
Gucci dials it up a notch and delivers (by his standards) a rapid fire flow. In context it’s as lively as he’s sounded in years, which makes the effort all the more pathetic. His style is like pro wrestling; fake and altogether stupid, a long running joke that somehow continues to build momentum. He’s forging on undeterred as ever, rapping about his conquests. It all amounts to one giant ego trip:
‘Robbed‘
Running woefully short on material, Gucci Mane resorts to self-deprecation. What’s odd, however, is that it still amounts to nothing because by song’s end he returns to his old ways. He’s looking at it as if he’s trying to keep it real, but truth is it’s a reflection of how delusional he really is. A perpetual cycle that has him staring directly into a fun house mirror: [LISTEN]
‘Richest Nigga in the Room‘
It only takes 30 seconds to determine the merit of this song, a musical abomination that makes Drake seem like Rakim. The bass is overwhelming and is used to cover up the holes of a directionless beat. The title tells the entire story, and it’s a true statement especially when you’ve surrounded yourself with a bunch of leaches. He’s the wealthiest man in the room, but also the most blind:
‘1st Day Out tha Feds‘
Gucci Mane shows his worth by throwing his own mother under the bus, a gesture that doesn’t seem to surprise anyone. Aside from that awkward nugget he’s being completely redundant with his themes, staying within a comfort zone that looks at change like it were the plague. The beat is a wilting flower, sounding as bad as the lyrics. And together it reads like career suicide, a typical Gucci song:
‘At Least a M‘
Just when you think the beats can’t get any worse, this one comes along and breaks the camel’s back. It’s juvenile and underdeveloped, damp and moldy with no bounce. It’s a typical backdrop for Gucci to speak his nonsense, and about as hardcore as water aerobics. He’s a joke who is so bored that all he can do is count his stacks, which leaves the rest of the world completely indifferent: [LISTEN]
‘All My Children‘
One minute he’s throwing momma under the bus and the next he’s corralling the shorties (fellow rappers) for play time. He’s doing his best to show his benevolent side, but it is as transparent and shallow as the rest of his songs. His street cred has been his top priority and it makes moments like this seem trivial. The beat soundtracks the charade and then quickly disappears into obscurity:
‘Pick up the Pieces (Outro)‘
Arguably, the longest most drawn out outro of all time. It’s excessive and bloated, a synth heavy upchuck with no life. He’s talking about regrouping after what’s been a tumultuous few years. But instead of having anything new or fresh to say he rehashes all the familiar ideas. There were gobs of opportunities to get busy but he misses the mark every time. Gucci Mane has seen his last days:
