Sli’merre 2

Pi’erre Bourne and Young Nudy first stepped into the public eye during a rap renaissance. This was eons ago: a faraway time called 2017 when kids wanted to be VLONE Thugs and grown men bemoaned this thing they called “mumble rap.” At first, fans were more interested in Pi’erre and Nudy’s proximity to hip-hop’s new-age disruptors (did you know Young Nudy is 21 Savage’s real cousin?) than the partnership between them. But they’ve played major roles in each other’s development; the cunning producer/vocalist/engineer was already all over Nudy’s discography by the time his tags were slapped across Playboi Carti’s gamebreaking debut. And once new fans began to delve into the lambent, 8-bit underbelly of Pi’erre’s catalog, they discovered Nudy’s name slathered on every corner.

Nudy and Pi’erre’s early work was imbued with malevolence—their best track, “EA,” seethes with bloodshot paranoia. But the mood has progressively lightened since then. Nudy Land, the Atlanta rapper’s breakout, finds balance between macabre texture and gut-busting humor; while you wait for wings at the “Barbecue,” Nudy wants to “slap meat on her grill.” 2019’s Sli’merre, his first official collab tape with Pi’erre, peaks with “Sunflower Seeds,” a guitar-driven track serene enough to put a toddler to sleep. Now, after five years of solo ventures and RIAA plaques, they’ve reappeared with Sli’merre 2, a lukewarm collection of drug-and-sex anthems that, unfortunately, could put you to sleep.

Across the sequel’s 16 songs, Young Nudy’s streamlined delivery sits rigidly atop Pi’erre Bourne’s all-too-familiar production quirks. The final boss music of “Gotta Salute,” the Billy & Mandy synth swirls of “Money,” and the bubbly chimes of “I’m Big Dawg” feel like eating the old candy your grandma offered from the bottom of her purse: stale, trite, kinda obligatory. The cartoony soundboard that once made Pi’erre’s production lucid and vibrant is tirelessly repurposed, while Nudy’s signature gusto gets bogged down by vapid clichés. “I have no worries, hakuna matata,” he inflects on a track named after the Lion King motif. “Gotta feed my family (gotta feed the fam)/Any means necessary, I don’t give a damn.” Oh, we know. In the words of habitual shitposter Hyperpop Daily, Sli’merre 2 is Full Tummy Music: a stockpile of uninspired, industry-grade fodder put out for the sake of keeping the fridge filled. All that’s missing is a “My shooter keep a 30 like Curry” line.

Sli’merre 2 feels like proof of Nudy and Pi’erre’s devolution from trailblazing eccentrics to middling, well-off veterans. The music isn’t bad (and they could very well break new ground after this); it’s more like the backwash of the ingredients that gave their past work flavor. Where Nudy’s senseless lyricism used to be compounded by spontaneous levity (remember “Loaded Baked Potato”?), it gets tedious on tracks like “Splash” and “I’m Big Dawg.” It isn’t enough for him to mutter “Get fucked up” eight times through a vocoder that makes him sound like Dr. TC, nor is it enough for Pi’erre’s synths to sound like they barely missed The Perfect LUV Tape. Lead single “Right Now,” complete with pearlescent trills and buoyant percussion, feels like the only fresh take on Pi’erre’s sound. Nudy’s laid-back cadence feels focused and precise, meshing with a shimmery, crystal-clear beat that slams to a halt at the end for a clunky transition. Therein lies another issue: The seamless beat-switches that worked beautifully on The Life of Pi’erre series are so half-baked on Sli’merre 2, they could’ve been scrapped altogether.

For what it’s worth, Young Nudy’s flows and melodies seem to get more refined and structured with each passing album. The rosy lilt of “Bang Pistols” and smoky rasp of “10pc Teriyaki” sound like the work of a Professional Rapper, not the wiley oddball he emerged as. Still, there’s a lot to be desired from Pi’erre Bourne, the architect of the 21st century’s most forward-thinking production, who now seems trapped in his own feedback loop. The achromatic drone of “How It Be” represents a new low for him. But he could learn something from the crop of new young producers he’s inspired: gyro’s brazen playfulness, OK’s cracked-out percussion, Devstacks’ orchestral chroma. Or he and Nudy can stick to the formula they’ve honed since Bronny James was in grade school. Whatever keeps the bills paid.