Album Review: Hydraulic by Josh Levi
Hydraulic is a promising debut that highlights Josh Levi’s potential but leaves room for bolder songwriting and tighter editing in future projects.
Houston‑born singer and dancer Josh Levi has been steadily building towards a breakout moment. After years of singles and EPs, he arrives with Hydraulic, a once, long-delayed debut released under Issa Rae’s Raedio, which is distributed under Atlantic Records. Levi talks about the album’s concept in explicitly mechanical terms: love is like a hydraulic system that “lifts, dips, and demands care and maintenance.” It’s an evocative idea—the idea that relationships have pressure points and need constant tuning—and the question running through Hydraulic is whether Levi and his collaborators can make that metaphor feel fresh.
From the outset, the 26‑year‑old makes it clear he’s leaning into R&B history. “Don’t Go” is built around an interpolation of Destiny’s Child’s “No, No, No”; Levi told Billboard that he grew up around Mathew Knowles’ Music World and had always wanted to sample the group’s debut hit, working with writers Trey Campbell and Tony Jones to make it feel “less percussive and as bass‑driven and as Houston as possible.” The resulting track rides a hypnotic bounce—courtesy of London On Da Track—while Levi trades lines with a seductive woman in the club. The hook, however, feels more like a chant than a chorus: “She said, ‘Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t go …’”. The verses are peppered with playful nods (“She like her kisses down low Kelly Rowland”), but they rarely venture beyond club‑night braggadocio. Despite the nostalgia of the Destiny’s Child sample and Levi’s energetic delivery, “Don’t Go” leans heavily on familiar R&B tropes—seduction, fast cars, video game controllers—and doesn’t fully realize the album’s hydraulic metaphor.
That metaphor is more effectively rendered on “Hold On.” Co‑written with MNEK and produced by Camper, the song opens with Levi calling his partner “the queen of the damned” and confessing that he’s “just a nigga from the mud looking for some love, TLC/I ain’t no scrub”. The nod to TLC’s “No Scrubs” is cheeky, yet Levi’s performance feels genuinely vulnerable—he sings in a near‑whisper as he pleads for patience: “Just hold on … I don’t understand”. Later verses reveal fractures in the relationship: “You keep telling me you love me when you love you / You go by all your rules, girl, you’re so unruly”. Here, the hydraulic metaphor surfaces: the song feels like an attempt to stabilize something that’s slipping, and the production leaves room for his voice to breathe. This restraint is one of the album’s strengths; when the beats are less cluttered, Levi’s silky tenor can convey longing and frustration without being drowned out by glossy layers.
Elsewhere, Levi indulges his sensual side. “NameOnIt” is a steamy track full of pillow‑talk and choreography metaphors. The hook invites a lover to “put your name on it, drop down, spin’ round”, while the pre‑chorus boasts “the bed ain’t got no frame on it, in your birthday suit, make it rain on it”. The innuendo is obvious but effective; Levi is in full control, and the beat—led by muffled drums and airy synths—lets him playfully command the tempo. Yet, the song’s repetition and generic imagery recall dozens of mid‑2010s R&B jams, making it hard to distinguish from the pack. This familiarity crops up again on “RNB,” a club track that invites a partner to “come dance on me”. The concept of offering “R&B on ya” is witty, but the song relies on the tired motif of coaxing a woman out of her shyness by promising love for one night. Lines like “Don’t really care, but what’s your sign?” and “Run that shit back” feel like filler. For an album marketed as a fresh take on R&B, these generic club anthems are safe choices rather than bold innovations.
The project truly comes alive when Levi explores vulnerability and burnout. “Empty” finds him ruminating on a lost relationship, with the chorus repeating “I just wanted you …”. The verses paint vivid scenes of late‑night voicemails and empty apartments. It’s a simple sentiment delivered with conviction, and the sparse arrangement underscores the emptiness he feels. Similarly, “The Room” captures the haunting persistence of memories after a breakup. Levi admits he sees his ex in his bed and feels like she’s still in the room even when he’s with someone new. The chorus’s yearning hook—“Ooh, I wish I could forget like you”—is one of the album’s most affecting moments, and the production builds gradually, mirroring the way grief resurfaces unexpectedly.
The guest appearances are a mixed bag. “Feel the Ba$$ (Prelude)” features Jamaican‑American artist BEAM, who dominates the track with a hypnotic chant: “She tryna feel the bass…” Levi’s verse is essentially a series of asides about women, cars, and money—“Packed out, sardines, hydraulics/Bouncin’ like you’re shootin’ for the stars”. The interplay between BEAM’s vocal effects and Levi’s crisp singing is fun, but at just over two minutes, the track feels like a concept sketch rather than a fully realized song. It functions more as a mood setter than as a stand‑alone statement. However, “Crash Out” with British girl group FLO is a full‑fledged duet. Levi sets the scene over a pulsing beat, promising to make his lover “crash out ‘til you tap out. FLO’s verse flips the power dynamic: they cheekily assert, “You say you gon’ make me tap out like it’s wrestling … I wear the pants even when you’re undressing them”. Their vocals add a spark of personality, and the call‑and‑response hook becomes genuinely infectious. Despite the sexual bravado, the song benefits from the contrast between Levi’s smooth delivery and FLO’s playful swagger, making it one of the project’s strongest moments.
Levi shows another side on the back half of the album. “Burnt Out” is a candid reflection on exhaustion and feeling left behind. Over hazy synth pads, he asks, “Have you ever wanted to go far away?” and admits, “So many things I would love to change/But it’s a losing game”. The hook—“Now I’m getting burnt out/I wanna go now/I’m feeling left out”—is simple but effective. It reveals the emotional cost of the ambition Levi describes in interviews: he strives to keep the system running but recognizes his own fatigue. A spoken prayer at the end (“Dear Lord, please give me strength …”) adds an unexpectedly vulnerable coda that grounds the song in spirituality. Similarly, “I Can’t Go Outside” captures the claustrophobia of running into an ex everywhere you go. Levi confesses, “Every wall is closing in/I’m uncomfortable anytime I’m forced to play pretend”. The chorus laments, “This city ain’t big enough for the both of us/I can’t go outside…” The song’s mid‑tempo groove conveys the anxiety of being trapped in familiar spaces, and Levi’s delivery balances vulnerability with a hint of resentment.
Not every experiment pays off. “Say It,” produced by London On da Track, is another one of those R&B run-of-the-mill records that does little more than pad the runtime. “How It’s Supposed to Be” introduces a philosophical note—Levi sings about searching for space and hope, dreaming of a world where distance doesn’t feel heavy. The concept fits nicely with the hydraulic metaphor, but the songwriting falls back on vague lines about “a world where you get what you need from me”. It feels like an intermission before the album’s final stretch. The closing number, “Birthday Dance,” is billed as a bonus track and feels exactly like one. Levi hits on his upbeat DJ Mustard-esque with bouncy synth lines as he compliments a woman for the way she “dance, dance, dance…” It’s fun, but after nearly an hour of music, the light‑hearted party jam interrupts what could have been a more introspective conclusion.
As a debut, Hydraulic sometimes struggles with pacing. It is front‑loaded with club‑ready singles, while the second half delves into introspection. This division can make the album feel like two separate projects: one dedicated to dancefloor heat, the other to late‑night reflection. The central hydraulic metaphor, introduced powerfully in promotional materials, reflects love’s “ups and downs,” but it doesn’t consistently thread through every song. Some songs clearly engage with maintenance and pressure, while others settle for familiar R&B topics. Likewise, the high‑gloss production occasionally overwhelms Levi’s voice. London On da Track and MNEK craft expansive, bass‑heavy beats that drive on specific tracks, but on more intimate songs, the layering can feel cluttered. When Levi’s vocal is surrounded by harmonies and effects, it becomes harder to appreciate the raw quality that makes his performances on “The Room” and “Burnt Out” compelling.
That said, Levi’s talent is evident. He has a supple tenor that can slide effortlessly between falsetto and chest voice, and he has a dancer’s sense of rhythm. The album’s willingness to experiment with chopped‑and‑screwed cadences and syncopated percussion shows he and his producers want to push R&B forward. His songwriting is earnest and sometimes poignant—especially when he confronts self‑isolation and mental health. The problem is that not all of the songs rise to the level of his ambition. Too often, he falls back on clichés (e.g., endless references to champagne, cars, and designer clothes) that undercut the unique mechanical metaphor.
Solid (★★★½☆)
Favorite Track(s): “The Room,” “Crash Out,” “Burnt Out”
Really loved this review!