Post Malone’s fourth studio album is slick, streamlined, and a little less vulgar and ostentatious than his earlier work—a sign that he’s taking himself more seriously, for better or worse.
Nearly a decade into his career, Post Malone has mostly shed the baggage of his younger years—the days of cornrows, gold grills, saucin’, and shortsighted remarks about rap music. He’s a nine-time Grammy nominee and a stylish guy who, at a quick glance, hasn’t gotten any more tattoos—at least not on his face. He’s become part of the pop music establishment, and his fourth studio album, Twelve Carat Toothache, is accordingly slick, streamlined, and a little less vulgar and ostentatious than his earlier work—a sign that Malone is taking himself more seriously, for better or worse.
For someone so outwardly colorful, Malone has long been a straightforward lyricist with funny and curious turns of phrases in his songs. There was, of course, the absurd saucin’-and-swaggin’ refrain of “White Iverson,” as well as his amusingly puerile mention of “beautiful boobies” on “Spoil My Night.” But he also incorporates unlikely people into his memorable moments, like eulogizing Bon Scott on “Rockstar,” or singing, “Come with the Tony Romo for clowns and all the bozos” on “Psycho.” Even when he flexes, Malone has a penchant for exposing the leeriness of his own desires, as on Beerbongs & Bentleys songs “Takin’ Shots” and “Same Bitches.” On Twelve Carat Toothache, he continues to play it straight, declaring on the opening song, “I was born to raise hell/I was born to take pills,” and, “I was born to fuck hoes/I was born to fuck up.” There are probably more artful ways to phrase those sentiments, but that’s not how he operates: He delivers directly what’s in front of him, whether that’s the front of his mind or a front-facing mirror, as on “Cooped Up” when he lists exactly what he’s wearing (“Gucci my Prada, Miyake/Louie, Bottega, and Tommy”).
The songs on Twelve Carat Toothache swerve between pain and joy, and while Malone has always fit lament into his albums, these new sad songs don’t feel tortured, labored, or ungracious. Instead, Malone deftly plays up bitterness with a wink on the jaunty “Lemon Tree,” trilling his voice with a playful hyperbole. Elsewhere, the wonderfully over-the-top “Love/Hate Letter to Alcohol,” made with Fleet Foxes’ Robin Pecknold, opens with a cascade of vocal harmonies. The production booms and the drums thunder as Malone sings about getting too drunk and having all of his teeth knocked out. Though you can hear the sorrow in the tone and the lyrics, the song sounds triumphant—like something that could conceivably soundtrack a raucous night out.
“Love/Hate Letter to Alcohol” is also a rare instance of exaggeration on an album that is musically compact. While he’s great with a hook, Malone’s previous album, 2019’s Hollywood’s Bleeding, was bloated with too many ideas and genre forays. The good hooks remain on Twelve Carat Toothache, but now, the mood of the album is cohesive. “Wrapped Around Your Finger” and “I Like You (A Happier Song)” make up an irresistible one-two pop combo, as frothy as Bud Light foam—the former wastes no time by opening with the chorus; the latter has him jovially singing, “Your heart’s so big, but that ass is huge.” But Malone’s tendency toward being crass is part of his appeal—his gift for melody and radio hits come unfiltered, and he doesn’t need to try to make his come-ons sound particularly attractive. The id is tamer on Twelve Carat Toothache, but it has not disappeared.
The missteps of Twelve Carat Toothache are clustered toward the end; the songs, even the pained ones, are disappointingly saccharine and don’t have strong hooks to overcome the lack of texture. Generally, Malone does not galvanize with big feelings or drill down with vivid descriptions and minutiae; he’s a much better songwriter when he leans on being a little off-kilter, making pop with some element of surprise, like when he sings “Some people got an apple/Some people got a tangerine,” on “Lemon Tree.” During the album’s weaker moments, it’s not just that Malone is writing in broader, blander strokes. He isn’t writing with his typical quirks—like the couplet on “Wasting Angels” that goes, “This is like when I was sane, before the fame/Uh-oh, uh oh, this life is crazy.” Uh-oh, uh-oh is right.
Malone is aware of his talents and even his limitations, but there’s a sense that he wants more, whether that’s earning the respect afforded to someone like Kurt Cobain or just escaping the box created by his reputation and success. He has spoken about how he wanted to make a shorter album without streaming filler, a telltale move from an artist looking to ascend to Career Musician—and the album closes with a demo, emphasizing the time and thought that went into the whole body of work. While a little gloom can go a long way, the rapper/singer’s congeniality is ultimately what makes Post Malone who he is—the type of guy who calls himself “that bitch,” as he does here. On “Reputation,” Malone nods to Cobain by singing, “You’re the superstar, entertain us,” an allusion to the weariness that fame breeds. For better and worse, Malone is still the entertainer.
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