Consistency has been essential to the greatness of Conway The Machine. He keeps his listener engaged with these multi-faceted layers in his verses, expanding the horizons of his raps with these unique reflections of the past and future. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said about the production, as Conway comes with noticeable highs and middling lows, leaving you hungry for something more potent on the production side; it’s the case with “The Chosen” off his new album Won’t He Do It, where the beat isn’t as entrenched into its sound as Conway and Jae Skeese (featured artist) are with their verses. It’s a recurring issue that leaves the follow-up to God Don’t Make Mistakes more underwhelming than anticipated, but in a way, levels the hype one would have with the sequel dropping later this year. The beats sound confined to reaching standard levels for quality without expanding in new directions. It’s a blend of the dark-piano-influenced New York Street Rap Beats and Jazzy-Dark Boom-Bap that never does anything unique, and you’re left with a slate of some great verses to keep you fed until future releases without much of a reward.
As I sifted through this clunky, at times drab album, I heard Conway The Machine get lost in locating the proper avenues to get his words through. It’s a blend of braggadocio flex raps and reflections on his life, relationship, and the changes success has on the performer and the people around him. How he approaches the album offers insight into his direction, especially that of an arranger/conductor with a thematically poignant cohesion of tracks on an album. For the faults Won’t He Do It has, Conway doesn’t try to make us pay too much attention to the beats, making his lyrics a focal point, but he isn’t as triumphant there. Fortunately, there is an understanding of song-to-song transitions – it’s making similar tones and themes align, never side-stepping for something of grandeur, humbling the rappers performing over the beat; that is, until the final track. It’s a testament to Conway’s detailed construction, specifically when it comes to having the featured artists deliver verses aligned with the thematic direction of the track, rarely missing in quality – I say it’s a testament since it’s an album containing a load of features – some standard and one unique pseudo-closer “Super Bowl,” a bonus track that didn’t get marketed as such.
Conway the Machine takes a moment to turn the tables of what has gotten heard and takes us through a bounce and percussion-laced trap beat. It’s different from other beats, making it sound more refreshing than usual, but even with that, the beat isn’t that different from the apropos Juicy J beat. Sauce Walka & Juicy J make their stamp on the track, slightly overshadowing Conway, who doesn’t feel totally at home with the production. His flows don’t match the smooth southern cadence of its featured rappers, but at least Conway finds his way trying to make it work lyrically. Leading into the song, we’ve been on a journey with Conway the Machine – one of self-reflection and perseverance, yet, that gets lost with this unique final track that does more than expected. In a way, it makes you reflect and appreciate the tight focus Conway gave the album in its standard 13-track run. From the opening notes, horns are lowlily blaring, contrasting the grimy percussion and laying a foundation for its aesthetic, which has moments of glimmering greatness.
Unfortunately, as Conway the Machine weaves these intricate bars together, you get left feeling whiffed by the weak production from producers you’ve heard better from. It ranges between the J.U.S.T.I.C.E League, Khrysis, G Koop, Daniel Cruz, and Daringer – to name a few – others bringing unique additions from other artists/producers, like Norwegian Pop musician Aurora, who adds this special touch to the atmospheric complexions on “Won’t He Do It,” blending beautifully with the percussion and programming work of other producers on the track. It isn’t to say these producers bring a bunch of lackluster beats, but at times I found myself latching to production that, comparatively, sounds different than others. It’s what separates the greatness beneath the rock and roll influence in “Flesh of My Flesh” to the low and hollow “Water to Wine,” which comes off as a standard Hip-Hop/R&B hybrid without that extra push, unlike “Kanye.” On “Kanye,” there is more nuance within the performance, never feeling standard or sub-standard as it toes the line with some gospel influence and letting it envelop the performative direction by its artists. Additionally, it sounds like some of that work on Donda influenced the palette for Conway’s output on this more personal album, Won’t He Do It.
Like “Kanye,” one can’t get through Won’t He Do It without hearing the thematic poignancy that aligns itself from front to back. It’s disappointing; some features don’t shine, feeling rudimentary to their character, never pushing through to give us something new. It especially goes for Westside Gunn, Benny the Butcher, and Dave East, though Conway isn’t as innocent either; some choices, though beneficial to its direction, don’t give us the best from everyone involved. I’ve noted how these features deliver following the themes, but that doesn’t always result in something memorable or significant. Though verses from the ones mentioned aren’t inherently flawed, they aren’t that distinguishable within the confines of the production, unlike the solo tracks, in which we get four of thirteen, where Conway feels at home and flows in a zone. It keeps this from being outright forgettable, as the creativity in the production is lacking a bit.
Won’t He Do It isn’t something to write home about; it’s an album that does little to improve as the production progresses. Conway the Machine doesn’t mince words, keeping many of his verses digestible; however, when it’s all said and done, the beats aren’t enough to make you return with gusto. It’s there, and if it’s your steelo, you’ll find enjoyment, but if not, it’s mostly forgettable. Here’s hoping the follow-up brings an uptick in the beats.