Last year’s palatable string of album-length collaborations from the South featured Future and Young Thug dropping Super Slimey as a welcome surprise following their cold war, while Offset, 21 Savage, and Metro Boomin’s Without Warning was a Halloween gorefest that transcended its gimmick. Huncho Jack, Jack Huncho—Travis Scott and Quavo’s much ballyhooed team-up—was slated to be just as formidable, if only because the duo’s working relationship goes back longer than most of their contemporaries.

Quavo has been appearing on Travis’ projects since his 2014 mixtape Days Before Rodeo. Their big payoff came on the Young Thug-featuring jewel “Pick Up the Phone,” with Travis returning the favor by hopping on Culture’s oddly majestic “Kelly Price.” The two highlights didn’t place the stars on equal footing, but using Travis’ gothic bent to ornament Quavo’s colorful presence was a solid formula. That dynamic, combined with the sheer momentum of their careers, gave some confidence in the possibilities of Huncho Jack, which was teased all throughout last year. But instead of being the trap-and-Auto-Tune “Auld Lang Syne” it ought to be by its December release, Huncho Jack is lethargic even for a victory lap. The potential is squandered on a 41-minute runthrough that rarely feels much more than extracurricular.

Quavo and Travis don’t carry themselves as pals who’ve been working together for years. Rather, they have about the same amount of chemistry as two strangers attempting to draw some pleasantries out of dead air. Quavo features work best when the surrounding cast and production mirror his natural effervescence. But here, he’s on autopilot, slowing himself down to match Travis’ staid presence, which creates some uncharacteristic clunkers; on “Eye 2 Eye,” Quavo chants, “Real nigga, I/We see eye to eye” with the clumsy precision of a samurai who hasn’t realized his sword is no longer sharp. Meanwhile, Travis too frequently settles for throwing echoes and ad-libs at Quavo, which is unfortunate because his “It’s lit” signature is an acquired taste at best. They pop up like nervous ticks to ruin possible hits on the slithering “Dubai Shit” and the rugged “Motorcycle Patches,” adding irritation with every appearance

Joint projects often work best when the collaborators complement each other in ways that accentuate their abilities. Without Warning was compelling because 21 Savage’s deadpan voice was a catapult for Offset’s acrobatics. On his albums, Travis covers his shortcomings by curating and cloaking himself in this kind of nocturnal sensibility, like a kid wearing a cape. But Huncho Jack’s star co-billing casts him as more of a frontman, where the spotlight continuously highlights his mediocre rhyming. That he’s shooting banalities like, “Jump out this bitch: pogo, yeah” and, “Take that bar, no 3G” with lackadaisical delivery also shows a plain lack of ambition.

Huncho Jack’s saving grace is often the supporting players. Offset and Quavo are joyously vain in their shared verse on “Dubai Shit,” and Takeoff provides some welcome relief on “Eye 2 Eye” (“Flip it like it’s Five Guys, I’m Tupac, get all eyes”). But like any Travis Scott album, it’s the sterling production that carries the project. The beats are as elegant as they are variegated, kicking off with Buddah Bless’ Otis Redding chop on “Modern Slavery” and veering into unexpected oceanic keys that add emotional depth to “Huncho Jack” and the crystalline “Saint Laurent Mask,” which both feature Mike Dean’s touch. In a fatal irony, Huncho Jack’s liveliness tends to come from everywhere except Quavo and Travis Scott. The protean energy that buoy their respective works are sadly absent.