The earliest installments in the Dedication mixtape series have a special place in internet mixtape mythology. The first was a prototype, the second is among the greatest mixtapes of all time, and each one since has helped to cement Wayne’s legacy as an imaginative and unstoppable rap force. Few rappers have made mixtapes more essential to their reputations and discographies, and these not only defined an era but helped to rewrite the rulebook on how to become a superstar in a digital age. (No wonder Chance the Rapper often cites the New Orleans legend as his “biggest inspiration.”)

The tapes revealed a prolific artist at the peak of his powers paired with a DJ that knew how to edit him. “Weezy and Dram’—We are the Mixtape Blueprint,” Drama shouts in the opening seconds of Dedication 6, reminding listeners of their pedigree. Dedication mixtapes are always constructed in the same way: furious, back-to-back one-liners rapped over the beats of the moment—in this case Lil Uzi Vert’s “XO Tour Llif3,” 21 Savage’s “Bank Account,” JAY-Z’s “The Story of O.J.,” Kendrick Lamar’s “DNA.,” and more—a rap gauntlet designed to challenge him and measure his raps against those of his most popular peers. In his prime, Lil Wayne would completely reclaim a beat as his own and there was a sense of ease to the process, like elaborate thoughts were just pouring out of him as though he could go on forever.

The first installment in four years, Dedication 6 is a calculated return to a recognizable brand during the most tumultuous period in Wayne’s storied, two-decade career, both artistically and financially. In this time of turmoil, he returns to the well, mostly rapping about Wraiths, jump-offs, and codeine as a numbing agent. The process seems less like it could go on forever and more like it’s merely running on a loop. Wayne got a lot of mileage out of his raps and isn’t all out of tricks just yet, but he’s slowing. “I been walkin’ on this fuckin’ water for a long time,” he raps on the highlight “XO Tour Life,” pointing to a decade of otherworldly performances. Even he seems to recognize the pace is unsustainable. This is a different Wayne than the one who seemed to unspool endless, enchanting yarns, who had a panoramic understanding of both pop culture and street culture. This Dedication does little to course-correct Lil Wayne’s spiraling career trajectory.

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Wayne’s promising run of 2016 features—from Solange’s “Mad” to Chance’s “No Problem”—showed he was still capable. His rapping was less intuitive and his non sequiturs could be grating, but he still has the same instincts. Sometimes muscle memory kicks in and he delivers a devastating string of bars, something as vivid as, “This is that codeine overkill/My mud colder than Soldier Field,” or a new angle like, “You never been in jail, I never been in a Corolla/Then I roll a blunt ‘bout as thick as a Samoan.” But for every punch as delightfully unorthodox as “Boyz 2 Menace”’s “Kush loud as Fred screamin’ ‘Wilma!’ nigga,” there are a handful that are too easy to anticipate or that just don’t connect.

Spontaneity used to be a driving force in Wayne’s world, but the punchlines on Dedication 6 are mechanical and the ideas within are rudimentary or sometimes incomplete. He uncorks some of the most eyebrow-raising conceits on nearly the entire first verse of “Fly Away”—performed over Kendrick’s “DNA.”—as a play on acronyms and letters, fumbling basic premises: Easy (Eazy) like NWA, treating beef like USDA, beating foes up like MMA or getting felt up like TSA. The set-up telegraphs the punch. There are many couplets as stale and stupid as “I got two keys of that Bieber/Call ‘em Justin and Justina.” The only real surprise is that his embarrassing raps can still find new, unexplored levels of embarrassment.

Wayne was once the master of the “so clever it’s hard to believe no one has rapped it before” bar, and there are still some of those mixed in (“Bullet showers lead to bloodbaths,” or, “Treatin’ medication scrips like some Revelation scripts”). But there’s a thin line between the eureka moment of perfectly articulating a concise turn of phrase and just artlessly heaving jokes against a wall. Wayne gets in trouble attempting to connect every idea that pops into his head in this way; when every bar has to be a clever quip, you’re bound to mass-produce clunkers. He ends up with reaches like, “I rob his ass like Robin Givens,” and corny parallels like, “My trashiest hoes clean as fuck.” No song is without several of these bloopers, most songs are inundated by them, and while the tape is more or less a Christmas Day gift for fans, these sequences shouldn’t constantly derail the momentum, especially when the Wayne mixtape blueprint has always been about fluidity and his breathtaking, death-defying stream-of-consciousness.

The raps themselves are hit or miss, but Lil Wayne is still rapping like a man seeking freedom on Dedication 6, fighting to reestablish a dialogue with listeners and to escape from label purgatory. (The mixtape was released exclusively on DatPiff and withheld from streaming, likely because of Wayne’s ongoing battle with Cash Money over his right to make money off his music without the label.) Given all he’s been through and all he’s done, it’s hard not to root for him, and the verses do track better here than on recent projects. He’s locked in on “New Freezer,” “My Dawgs” and “Blackin Out,” where whiny flows either explode into shrieks or dissolve into mumbles. The main problem is simply this: He’s run out of interesting ways to say he’s drugged up and horny. The same patented mixtape formula that made him a star and luminary exposes the limitations of a now one-dimensional method that's wearing thin.