The Portland rapper’s debut album balances playful verses and cheerful wit with more revealing moments of introspection.
On the cartoonish cover of his debut album, Aminé sits nearly naked on a bright blue toilet reading The Good for You Post, a newspaper—a real one, in fact—featuring writing by friends and peers like Steve Lacy, Taco, and Madeintyo, as well as his mom. As is often the case with Aminé, the playfulness of the image belies its actual content. In an essay of his own, he writes about the way an ex once served as an escape from the depression he refuses to name. “That word isn’t easy to say when ‘suck it up’ seems to be the only reverb that echoes with the feeling as a black man,” he writes.
But Good for You finds the Portland rapper, born Adam Daniel, sounding charming, clever, and carefree. On opener “Veggies,” he claims to be “Andre's prodigy”—a lofty aspiration, to be sure—but that unapologetic ambition, coupled with his animation, drives the album. The songs are glossy, the melodies sunny, the flows smooth. “Spice Girl” is flutey and flirtatious pop-rap; “Wedding Crashers” features an Auto-Tuned Offset and a comically scorned Aminé rapping over tropical marimbas. Then there’s the multi-platinum “Caroline,” whose polyphonic synths and honeyed lines remain contagious as ever. (One line in particular—“‘Cause great scenes might be great/But I love your bloopers”—could double as a reflection of his attitude about #serious rap albums versus simple fun.) Despite the album’s overwhelmingly lighthearted mood, though, he doesn’t shy away from making a few more serious statements as well.
In the closing essay of his newspaper, he writes about the ways that Portland’s foodie culture has gentrified neighborhoods and pushed out his friends. On the percussive “Money,” he critiques material obsessions—“Money don’t make you happy, it just makes you wanna get richer,” he observes—while sliding in offhanded jabs like, “Saying you ain't racist really sound racist.” The video for “REDMERCEDES,” which got the remix treatment from Missy Elliott but didn't make the album, employs whiteface to satirize white people’s attempts at performing what they think is blackness.
That Aminé is socially aware (see his incisive remix of “Caroline” during a post-election performance on “Fallon”) and still finds a way to manifest joy is remarkable, the way any person of color finding a way to enjoy a life under attack is remarkable. At times, there's an inclination to write off a rapper's cheeriness as a corny gimmick at best and insincere at worst. Such buoyancy, or #BlackBoyJoy as it’s come to be known on social media, is still an under-appreciated aspect of rap, but every D.R.A.M., Lil Yachty, and Chance the Rapperbrings that quality a step closer to acceptance. With Good for You, Aminé joins their ranks, basking in his own resilient sense of humor.
When he does let the reality of his pain win, it comes in the form of standout “Sundays”—the emblematic day of serenity and rest. Set to slow-burning snares and a harmonizing vocal, it’s a poetic series of pre- and post-fame revelations. “I bench press my problems like add another weight/And act like it’s all right when it's not,” he raps, falling into a layered hook. “Some days we get Sundays/But most days, the rain comes down/And I feel like I'm bound to drown/Jesus Christ.” It’s followed by the melancholic “Turf,” examining the things—the people, the mentalities—he left when he finally escaped his hometown. In these instances, he proves capable of more than a hit single or one-dimensional feel-good music; his joy becomes that much more meaningful when he explores the things that would constrain it.
There's a breadth of experiences contained within the 15 tracks of Good for You, most of which hinge on love interests old and new, underscored by a playful outlook that’s channeled into bubbly, off-center production. It's far from serious but stops just short of turn-up—more like the soundtrack for an almost-sober drive home. In the album’s final moment, the celebratory “Beach Boy” dissolves into an atmospheric chorus repeating, “I don't know when I'm gonna die/Hopefully there's hope in me.” The sentiment is remarkably similar to the closing note of one Post essay, where he writes, “The finish line to optimism seems to be getting closer." On his debut, it appears he’s a lot closer than he gives himself credit for.
