At his Coachella set this year, Post Malone indulged in a little score-settling. He ran down some of the insults his critics hurled at him early in his career—“one-hit wonder,” “culture vulture,” “piece of shit”—during a heated rant that boiled down to: Look at me now. He certainly has reason to gloat. With his recent hits, he’s not only vanquished any lingering notion that his breakout single “White Iverson” was a fluke, but proven himself one of the most perceptive figures in pop right now, an artist with a better understanding of commercial winds than even most of the rappers he cribs from.

Lil Uzi Vert, Lil Yachty, and their peers may have ushered in rap’s current rock-star era, but none have run quite as far with the premise as Post Malone. For Post, “rock star” is less a genre signifier and more a declaration of mass appeal. His music is melodic trap, mostly, yet its rugged sensitivity is so universal that much of it could slot into rock or even country playlists, too. He only rarely uses guitars, but they’re often implied. And while there isn’t so much a hint of twang on his stature-cementing sophomore album, Beerbongs & Bentleys, based on his guttural, belted delivery on opener “Paranoid,” it’s not a stretch to imagine him doffing a cowboy hat for a cheering arena. Twenty years after Whitey Ford sang the blues, this Bud Light-loving party animal with a gold grill and Willie Nelson braids has rewritten the rules of gravity for a crooning white rapper.

With its impassive descriptions of womanizing, pill-popping, and property destruction, Post’s smash 2017 single “rockstar” sets the tone for Beerbongs & Bentleys. “Party going in with the threesome/Raw dog, prolly have three sons,” he raps on “Takin’ Shots.” On the champagne-clinking Swae Lee feature “Spoil My Night,” Post points out which woman he wants his handlers to deliver to him like he’s a diner at a lobster tank (“I ain’t even see the face, but she got beautiful boobies,” he enthuses). If Beerbongs’ hotel trashing, groupie-banging brand of debauchery sometimes feels like a throwback to the Mötley Crüe days, that may be deliberate: Tommy Lee even drums on “Over Now,” a rare overture to the rock fans Post Malone otherwise mostly courts with dog whistles.

The difference between rap’s current class of rock stars and the archetypal rock stars of the ’80s, of course, is that serious rappers aren’t allowed to enjoy their stardom. Success is a burden, modern rap songwriting conventions insist, and Post is never less convincing than when he fans the notion that he, too, resents his fame, as if it were possible that anybody who scaled the industry so purposefully never volunteered for it. At his nadir, Drake pushed his fame’s toll tropes to the point of self-parody, but even he never wrote a song as naked in its messaging as “Rich & Sad.”

At times it’s almost impressive how long an album called Beerbongs & Bentleys can go without cracking a smile. It is more assured and impressive than its predecessor, Stoney, but it’s also more exhausting. At 64 minutes, it repeats itself quite a bit, both thematically and sonically. Post has learned to do more with his voice, but he does it too much: He sings like a contestant on “The Voice” pleading not to be cut, overplaying every ache, quiver, and twitch. Especially in the album’s dour, mostly guest-free final stretch, it’s hard not to feel crushed under the weight of his undulating Adam’s apple.

The irony is Post sounds best when he isn’t trying quite so hard. “Rockstar” and its follow-up single “Psycho” have an ease to them, an unlikely grace. Each pairs the rapper with a spacious, unhurried beat and simply gives him room to ponder thoughts and chew syllables. It’s hardly a profound formula, but it plays to Post’s greatest strength: his melodic instincts. His best hooks are so tuneful and airless they directly target the ear’s pleasure centers. Too often, though, Beerbongs overplays its hand, twisting potentially breezy songs into something false and performative. For an artist whose secret weapon is his light touch, Post Malone lays it on mighty thick.