“White Iverson” is not a foundational brick; it is a sandcastle on a windy day with a high tide. No one who appreciated the breezy distraction of a radio song in 2015 wanted to hear nearly 70 minutes of Post Malone a year later. There are new one-hit wonders to enjoy; there are pop icons making important works; there’s probably a book somewhere worth reading.
The song was charming, though: Through the haze of its production and Post Malone’s slurred delivery was a certain nostalgic desire and childlike wonder. Somehow, he hopped on a tour with Justin Bieber, and Universal subsidiary Republic Records believed that Stoney, a 68-minute long dirge, was the correct use of his talents. Even if you liked “White Iverson,” was there anyone who thought to themselves, I want to hear this guy’s story! What’s he all about? We need to know more!? For all of Stoney’s faults, its most damning one poisons the record at the source: This thing is completely soulless.
It’s not for a lack of trying, however—Post Malone (real name: Austin Post) is presenting his most authentic self here, talking openly about relationships and taking too many drugs and drinking a little too much, amidst numerous “we made it” anthems. But he’s simply not a compelling artist; he doesn’t say anything new about these struggles, doesn’t frame them in a particularly memorable way, and has nothing to say now that he’s wrestled with his fame. What pushes Stoney past being merely forgettable and into a kind of cynical, punishing listen is the access to a bunch of producers and songwriters that came together behind the 21-year-old to ensure a product so highly polished, and so clearly connect-the-dots, it robs him of any trace of charm. The album ends up doubling as a tacit acknowledgment that, hey, maybe this guy is just not that interesting.
If it’s lowlights you want, Stoney’s got them: “I Fall Apart” brutally crashes the party, appearing right after “White Iverson.” The song is full of acoustic guitars, and features Post’s most obnoxious crutch: that weird little vibrato thing he does, a vain attempt to convey emotion. “I Fall Apart,” a self-lacerating breakup anthem, recalls Staind, working that same woe-is-me white boy pain with an unpleasant voice slathered all over it. “Go Flex” boasts a foot-stomp chorus and enough echo to sound exactly like the Lumineers or any other faceless “whoa-oh-oh” band; it’s as unholy as it sounds on paper.
