It took a self-created press release to relay Maybach Music Group’s Self Made follow-up, which converses immediately with the vanity of the project, and the intention of its composition. Braggadocio is the foundation of Self Made Vol. 2, the only exception being Stalley, who’s more focused on his craft rather than spouting off about his possessions. The remainder is tainted with the Ross philosophy--the drug kingpin costume, bank account obsessions and material decadence based only on consumption with no relation to the self. Even the flesh has to be stripped down to something with a price rather than actual human qualities; perceiving a Miami trick groupie as nothing more than a bag of money in the appropriately titled “Bag of Money,” or an object to maintain for show rather than company (“Let’s Talk” and “M.I.A.”)--it’s not an issue of misogyny; the words simply lack worth. Meek Mill and Wale are covered in Ross’ fingerprints in every bar they shoot, and the overdose of autotune crooning is an executive failure only Rozay could have orchestrated.
The single “Power Circle” belonged to Kendrick Lamar the moment it dropped (not the best choice to bring on someone that’s going to put your whole crew to shame on the opening of an album), and while the sub-heavy “Black Magic” follow-up hits as well as any other banger in business, it’s written on a blueprint waiting to tear. Pitching out so many of these Rembrandt tracks devalues a record like “Black Magic” or “Actin Up,” and we can’t fully appreciate them because we’ve got cases of burned CDs and iPods loaded down with the exact same sounds under a different title that we received prior. “Fountain of Youth” and “The Zenith” are the locus of truth on Self Made, with Stalley showing off the strongest, and his MMG cohorts make respective attempts, Ross included, to provide some sense of narrative arc, or confessional layout, which always has to be respected. However, following it with a record like “I Be Puttin’ On” does little more than snub out the positive deviation, and shows that artistic growth is the lesser priority compared to selling t-shirts and becoming a household name courtesy of Hot 97.
Artistically, Self Made Vol. 2 contributes nothing, and will be forgotten as easily as its predecessor. What value is there in Rick Ross adamantly requesting to be buried in clean underwear when he’s dead, and what could possess someone to write that as an anchor to a song? The truth is that Rick Ross is nothing more than an overpriced neutron star pulling artists into his gravitation, and come time that he collapses, he’ll simply suck whatever minutia of talent they have remaining along with him. Sure, he gets them fame by his cosign, but if they’re only delivering product with his influence running intravenously at a higher pace, the potential for identity becomes lost in the lifestyle. Meek Mill is a carbon copy of 2006 Ross, and while he couldn’t be closer to the top, the lack of individuality is nudging him closer each track toward the tipping point; Wale sacrificed the brilliance he had prior to MMG simply for a paycheck (his verse on “This Thing of Ours” couldn’t be more ironic); French Montana sounds like he’s just suffered from a stroke most of the time (listen to “All Birds”), and isn’t even part of MMG, so why include him on an album showcasing the label; Gunplay, who’s well into a strong comeback, is muddled by Ross and company at every chance they get. That’s the sad but true summary. We’re talking about talented pieces of music here that are being hushed by their own doing, and glorifying the deconstruction with something like Self Made Vol. 2 is only a testament to the folly.
At the end of it all, Self Made Vol. 2 was doomed from the intro: opening an LP claiming Michael Jackson would ask you to get stoned for him if he rose from the grave is asinine; what’s the benefit? But we all know that somewhere in Rick Ross’ mind that it sounded like a good idea, as is his puppet master scheme at suckling dollar bills from the talents he’s abducted. There's no true unity here. It's just a copy machine spitting papers while it's running out of ink.
C
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