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Devin’s redundancy is the reason fans keep coming back. They won’t be disappointed by Suite #420, which features the usual set of chilled-out weed anthems, sex jokes, and old-school R&B beats, along with those great oddball numbers the Dude uses to break each album up.
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The goofier aspects of his earlier work are missed here, as are his usual naturalistic beats, which have been replaced by squelching, ominously snaky G-funk.
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Houston MC Devin offers the same batch of punch lines, extremely crude come-ons, and panegyrics to getting high and getting freaky as fans have come to expect, all to the echo-chamber beat of an array of synthesized blips and bleeps. And yet, something about Devin--his lackadaisical assurance, his Lil Wayne-esque gift of gab, his shamelessly un-progressive attitude toward women--is perversely charming.
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Devin’s single-mindedness makes for a highly unified style, and the album’s relaxed, hazy production is the aural equivalent of comfort food. But the repetition is kinda tedious for an hour of straight listening.
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It's good to hear him still recording, even if he's deeply entrenched himself in his own wheelhouse and barely has a single surprising moment in the album's whole hour. But if the album never existed, nobody's life would be much poorer for it-- possibly even Devin's.
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Nobody expects maturity from Devin, even though he jarringly mentions that he has a 17-year-old son, but he usually makes eternal adolescence sound a lot more fun than this.
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Suite 420, beyond some sweet spots early in the disc, becomes wickedly boring.