Well, yes…

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[3.00]

Kat Stevens: I don’t get it. Where’s the Wallpaper remix?
[4]

Al Shipley: Thanks to Ke$ha, this isn’t the worst song recently featured on Singles Jukebox that features an interpolation of the “There’s A Place In France” melody, but it’s close. Maybe the next time these guys write a cutesy smart-alecky essay to show off how clever they are they can ponder why their music is total dogshit.
[1]

Chuck Eddy: Ke$ha should sue them for that flutey hook they swiped from “Take It Off” (oh wait, she didn’t invent that either, did she?), and Barenaked Ladies want Chickity China The Chinese Chicken back, and the rapping sounds bored in a way that reminds me why I never liked Native Tongues stuff much. Obnoxious title line compensates somewhat, but it’s no Pizza Hut Taco Bell. Not even close.
[6]

Anthony Easton: Is it too easy to make a shit joke? The hipster love of Das Racist continues to completely confuse me.
[0]

Edward Okulicz: They fluked on one amazing song, nobody’s going to expect them to deliver another one even one hundredth as good as “Combination Pizza Hut & Taco Bell”.
[0]

Martin Skidmore: I quite like their jagged style by now, the chopped up samples and beats, the unpredictability of it. The rapping is another matter — lifeless and deliberately nonsensical, with barely any flow detectable. Possibly they will open some conceptual territory that others will do more interesting things in.
[6]

Pete Baran: Das Racist manages to sell yet another lame ass sludgy sample rap with an infectious set of fun. It’s just not that much fun though, and needless to say that if you were going to play just one Das Racist track, it isn’t going to be this one. There is a slowed down, world of mogadon charm to it, though, which makes it not quite as terrible as I even think it wants to be.
[4]

Jonathan Bogart: The Tribe Called Quest sample — or rather, the idea of the sample suggested by the title — suggests something much wittier, goofier, and likable than they ended up turning in. I guess that’s their shtick.
[3]

Mallory O’Donnell: It’s strange, but in today’s marketplace, these guys have a lot going for them. They’re an ethnic and cultural bouillabaisse, they’re bi-coastal, they’re totally nerds when being totally nerds has never been so totally on trend. And from whatever point of view you approach their bizarre meta-commentary as architecture as hip-hop, you have to admire how well it’s constructed. In fact, it’s almost too well-constructed. In fact, it’s over-constructed, and is about to fall over. Because this is the modern era, we get to watch it fall over in real time. Because it’s in real time, it’s falling over right now.
[3]

And yet it still outscores “Young Forever”…

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[2.10]

Al Shipley: Let’s not beat around the bush: it’s been a while since Chris Brown has landed a hit, and he knocked this one out of the park. The young ladykiller is back, and he’s once again a serious threat for the competition as he takes aim at an ex, chucking a deuce and using his hands to show how he feels. I won’t bash you over the head with my point, but watch out for that hook, it might make you dizzy at first but it’ll end up giving you a real headache.
[0]

Chuck Eddy: This would be a interminably smug and shapeless bore even if these idjits didn’t think the word was pronounced “valentime,” even if it wasn’t for the gratuitous Ike and Tina stuff, even if they didn’t rhyme “about it” with “about it,” even if Chris Brown didn’t mangle syntax and spew fake emotion left and right, even if he wasn’t Chris Brown. Hell, I never thought he was any good in the first place. Points are for the rhythm track.
[2]

John Seroff: It takes R. Kelly levels of hubris for Brown to allow one of the henchmen on his new single to rap about celebrity fistfights in a car, but I suppose clear self-reflection has never been Breezy’s bag. Discounting context and two interchangeably weak g-bag guest spots, “Deuces” features some disarmingly mellow Real World-ish production and some light-handed and pretty warbling from Chris.
[7]

Martin Skidmore: I’ve approached his last couple of singles with the intent of ignoring his past despicable behaviour, but then a line like “You’ll regret the day when I find another girl, yeah / Who knows just what I need” brings images flooding back, and I can’t. This is a misogynist single, with the guests joining in, and the fact that it’s a smoothly made R&B number can’t get me past the hatefulness.
[1]

Katherine St Asaph: Actual Chris Brown song lyrics, circa 2010: “You’ll regret the day when I find another girl.” “You know women lie.” “It hit me, just like Tina did Ike in the limo” (any mention of Ike doing the same is notably absent). Why the FUCK is this guy still around?
[0]

Michaelangelo Matos: “You’ll regret the day when I find another girl/She know just what I mean… When I tell her keep it drama-free.” Are you fucking kidding me? Please disappear already.
[0]

Alfred Soto: I don’t mind admitting I avoid the intentional fallacy as much as I can in the age of Facebook and Twitter — maybe more. Pop music absorbs so many communities, prejudices, and desires that the motivations behind writing, singing, and producing the average hit single are last on the list. It’s a long way of saying I don’t give a damn about Chris Brown and Rihanna. I don’t care about this song either, which offers a boring metaphor around belligerent lyrics and a delivery that can’t spell “compassion.” I bet he thinks “I’m a dick, so it shouldn’t be that hard to swallow” is grade A wit.
[3]

Kat Stevens: So I take it Chris has stopped bothering trying to be repentant for Certain Events? He might still be taking a musical tip from his ex with hints of “Te Amo” in the background, but it sounds like he’s just rounded up some of his mates for a massive misogyny session: “You ain’t nothin’ but a vulture.” “You know women lie.” “I tell her to keep it drama free.” Guys, way to make yourselves sound appealing as boyfriend material! All three of them admit they’re knob-ends but think girls should like them anyway, and state this notion in an exceedingly pleasant manner: “I’m a dick, so it shouldn’t be that hard to swallow.” I am RETCHING.
[0]

Frank Kogan: OK, two problems that make me not want to get beyond the fact that Chris battered and choked his girlfriend. First, the synth accompaniment sounds like a slowed version of Rihanna’s excellent “Te Amo,” so I’m thinking of her anyway; and second, guest rapper Kevin McCall is going “I finally noticed it, it finally hit me, like Tina did Ike in the limo, it finally hit me.” I hope this is ignorance not malignancy, something missing in the brainbox, somehow no-one involved knowing of Tina’s having accused Ike of domestic violence. Not that I claim any moral rectitude in my taste in song lyrics: I remember chuckling happily when I heard, in the original leaked version of Ashlee Simpson’s “(I Get Away With It) Murder“, the rapped part where Travie McCoy goes “OJ’s my favorite Simpson.” But I’m docking “Deuces” a couple of points ’cause I’m just fed up with ongoing stupidity. The line “She know just what I mean when I tell her keep it drama free” isn’t a help either, nor that the rapping and singing drag down the delicate synth line.
[4]

Jonathan Bogart: Why is he still trying to be a human being? He’s a pop supervillain, and if he wants us to care about him at all he needs to start acting the part. A ballsy, unashamed ode to self would be perfect, something the pop-culture forces arrayed against him could love to hate. This is just a middling club track soaking in defensiveness and unexamined assumptions.
[4]

Making hits outta airplanes – a thing, apparently…

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[6.71]

Michaelangelo Matos: True story: My roommate Jason came home on Saturday afternoon and asked, “Have you heard this Far East Movement song, ‘Fly Like a G6’? The words don’t make a lot of sense, but that bass is so good, who cares?” I dug around bit before realizing the song was on the Jukebox! And further realized that, in fact, I’ve heard this a bunch of times already, that old “Oh yeah, I thought this had been around for a while already” trick some songs play when you just hear them and don’t read about them first or whatever. Moral: The words don’t make a lot of sense, but that bass is so good, who cares? Especially when you do a robot dance around my living room like Jason did as I was typing this.
[8]

Al Shipley: I’m happy anytime a pop hit presents me with an opportunity to purposefully mishear a lyric as “cheese sticks”, but as far as that admittedly arbitrary standard goes Beenie Man’s “Dude” still works better.
[3]

John Seroff: It helps that “G6” has no real aspirations to anything more than dumb fun, but it’s not got enough power under the hood to do more than motivate drunks who already want to be motivated. This is rap for people who want to hear rap about people who are rapping about rap, which is to say it’s glorified production music for Viacom reality shows. Considering how many people wish their real worlds were as exciting as The Real World, I’m afraid I may have to hear this doppler booming from far too many car speakers this Fall.
[5]

Martin Skidmore: They are the producers, I believe: this is all electro beats and synthesised claps, approaching the minimal at times. There’s a female voice (Dev?) mostly repeating the hook, and some rappers, some rather good (I like the first one in particular), at least one autotuned to death. I find it sort of groovily compelling.
[7]

Katherine St Asaph: Cut Dev some slack. Yes, you can hardly call her a great singer. Yes, she’s just speaking in the vicinity of one note. But there’s a relatability, even likability to her voice, as if one of the party girls listening to this phased into the song all of a sudden. You hear it in the half-giggle on “blizzard”, the tossed-off autopilot swag of “when-we-drink-we-do-it-right-getting-slizzered” — more giggling. You really hear it in “now I’m feeling so fly”, Dev tentatively reaching out for the boast to see if it’ll carry her. She distills thousands of voices plucked from bars or clubs or apartments littered with Solo cups, and I imagine that this — not the blips, not the booze — is why it’s connecting with so many people. They recognize her. It’d be easy for the producers to have robotuned melody into her voice. Thank god they didn’t.
[7]

Chuck Eddy: Spare, funky, drunky post-Ke$ha/”Boom Boom Pow” electro-club nonsense (hasn’t the former G-6 actually been the G-8 since 1997? Though I guess it wouldn’t rhyme with 3-6 that way), with beyond-perfect Latin freestyle now-n-now-now stutters gettin’ slizzard (whatever that is), and the chorus girl more than making up for the dime-a-dozen dude pretending to rap. Much of the rest of Far East’s album is a blast too, btw — would take the tracks interpolating snippets of “Love Shack,” “So What’Cha Want,” and “Hollaback Girl” over the songs they interpolate. And my two-year-old daughter does a way-cool car-seat robot dance to the beginning of “Girls On The Dance Floor,” but be careful about playing “Go Ape” feat. Lil Jon around toddlers, who will love the delirious catchiness and jump-jump-jump-jump parts, but may well try to parrot the “s” word. Other favorites so far: “White Flag” and “She Owns the Night”.
[9]

Frank Kogan: A woman drifts through in a half-bitchy monotone, the track as corrosive and bleary-eyed as she is. At a thousand miles away, I don’t know if this single is an oddity or the tip of an iceberg: I’m hoping the latter, a massive submerged world of cut-rate Ke$has and severe, acidic beats. And I really liked typing the phrase “cut-rate Ke$has”, a compliment.
[8]

Not a cover of The Donnas’ only top 40 hit, sadly…

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[5.62]

Anthony Easton: This could have been an Amanda Lear B-Side from 1976, though any place that goes hardcore most likely does not have glitter on the floor.
[7]

Al Shipley: I never thought anyone would find a way to force their voice into uglier, more curdled tones via AutoTune than Kanye. But whenever you think pop has hit rock bottom, there’s a white girl standing there with a shovel and a shit-eating grin, ready to dig deeper.
[0]

Michaelangelo Matos: Shamelessness is the root of what I like about her. Her voice and music really aren’t. So her leap aboard the robo-bandwagon doesn’t have much to recommend it aside from its shamelessly tour-guide-like lyrics (“It’s a dirty free-for-all”).
[4]

Alfred Soto: Every time she reminds the hapless audience about a “place downtown,” I want her to actually describe it instead of exhorting us to take “it” off. She reminds me of the friend who gets hammered at my place before heading to the bar and making a fool of himself. I don’t care if you wind up saving money.
[4]

Katherine St Asaph: Oh my God, Ke$ha saved top 40. I know I’d heard this before it was released as a single, and I think I danced to it once or twice (it’s not really the sort of song conducive to remembering how much you danced, or where or how.) You can’t really appreciate “Take It Off,” though, until it wades into the flood of dance muck spewed nonstop into the radio by Usher, Eminem, Enrique and wallops them all with Ke$ha’s bottle o’ Jack. She’s still autotuned to Hades, but all the processing in the world can’t blunt the sheer animal force of her voice (or maybe that’s processing too, but let’s pretend) as she tears through a backing track more propulsive and dangerous than anything in rotation now or for the past few months. It isn’t surprising, per se; every other dance song on the radio’s played through a minor-key haze, just begging to be stripped of its beats and made into a lament. The fundamental difference, though, is that Ke$ha’s clearly trying to sound fucked up, while everything else aims for sexy but instead hits desolate. The biggest surprise is that this is Dr. Luke. Why the hell doesn’t he write them all like this?
[10]

Chuck Eddy: Distorted electrobeats, places in France where ladies don’t wear pants (foolproof hook at least since P-Funk days), whiskey-filled water bottles in the handbag, lost minds, lost clothes, schizzy switch-ups, dirty downtown dive that may well be supposed to imply glory holes but ought to remind everybody of somewhere (my wife says the old Siberia bar, in Manhattan). One of my fave tracks when the album came out, and it’s still up there. Better than Chic’s identically named song.
[8]

John Seroff: I was kinda hoping I actually heard “now we lookin’ like pubes/in my gold Trans-Am” in “Take It Off”, but that would be actually transgressive and for all her bad girl posing, being genuinely nasty isn’t Ke$ha’s business. It’s an odd feat to autotone down a century old song, but this rendition of “The Streets of Cairo” isn’t half as dirty as the original (Fun Fact Corner: didja know the original lyrics read “Oh the girls in France/Wear their whiskers in their pants/And the things they do/Would kill a Russian Jew”?). Ke$ha may be more fun to listen to once she either gets down to serious hootchie-kootchying or cops to Radio Disney aspirations but this schtick is getting old and Animal is already aging poorly for me.
[6]

Kat Stevens: Sometimes you just can’t keep a good tune down. Ke$ha joins a huge club of dudes that have pillaged “The Streets Of Cairo” for any Sphinx/Pyramid scene-setting requirements over the years (attention songwriters: “Streets” only went out of copyright in 2008 so is now RIPE for exploitation!). Ke$ha’s version sounds most like the Egyptian Tribe level in Lemmings 2.
[6]

We’ve reviewed four songs by him now, apparently. I remember the one about him inventing sex, but beyond that I’m struggling…

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[6.75]

Martin Skidmore: Trey has never been a terribly interesting singer, and while he gets a cheery party beat here, it’s inevitably Nicki who totally steals the show, with a guest verse that is ridiculous even by her crazy standards, with bizarre mentions of Anna Nicole Smith and Joseph & Mary, all in a rather childish voice. Fantastic, though the rest is just okay.
[7]

Anthony Easton: This is the first track I have heard by Minaj where the manic aesthetic presentation matches the vocal presentation.
[8]

Al Shipley: This is such a rote and perfunctory “club banger” that it all but demands scarequotes. But that also means that for once manic Minaj is a welcome presence just for breaking up the monotony and bringing the energy level to where it should be, if briefly.
[5]

Chuck Eddy: Trey’s butts-equal-bottles and Thuggish Ruggish operatics actually make me smile a bit, despite their dumb crassness. Then Nicki makes me smile more, until I realize she’s just spinning wheels.
[5]

John Seroff: I’ve already established my process for properly enjoying Trey’s singlez: regardless of how unpleasant it seems at first, listen ten times through and they come around. My earlier thoughts about Trey being the noughties Ginuwine Junior seem even more apt when Songz is riding oddly syncopated “550 What” clone production, complete with Timbo’s signature burble over the breakdowns. Nicki’s guest verse sounds furious but signifies nothing; her flow has gotten steadily better but her lyrical prowess remains lacking. These days she’s vying to edge out Marshall Mathers for 2010’s “best form/lousiest function” award; confounding shout outs to Anna Nicole Smith aside, how the hell are you going to shout “RIM RIM RIM” in a song called “Bottoms Up” and not connect the dots to a juicier topic than salt on your margarita glass? I appreciate the fourteen different voices. Now say something.
[8]

Alfred Soto: Maybe Nicki was attracted to Trey’s unexpected vocal elongations. As a cartoonish gold digger incarnating the stupid fantasies of yet another victim of VIP lounge envy, she’s welcome. But their vocals don’t interact at all; he could be singing from the line outside the club. Poetic justice, I suppose.
[4]

Alex Macpherson: On the first 10 or so listens, “Bottoms Up” is all about Nicki Minaj upstaging a lead artist yet again (and who more prone to being upstaged than the inescapably inconsequential Trey Songz?). Her verse is a marvel: intoxicated not by booze but by her own schizophrenia, Minaj veers from an alcoholic’s inner monologue to club coquettery to hard-ass swagger (with lesbian subtext) to unhinged, merciless sadism to a butter-wouldn’t-melt goodie-goodie charity drive to an Anna Nicole Smith impression out of nowhere and then downs it all in one. Just trying to keep up with the madly spinning gyroscope in Minaj’s brain – RIMRIMRIMRIM – leaves you breathless. Don’t be fooled by her ur-generic surroundings, though: ostensibly a mere foil for a rampaging Minaj, a host of odd little distinctive details bubble throughout the rest of “Bottoms Up”: Songz’ pained, echoing backing vocals, a certain clutching claustrophobia in the beat’s tautness. [10] for Minaj, [7] for the rest of it.
[8]

Mark Sinker: The arrangement’s curiously barbershop — as in striped blazers, straw hats, lyric and melody distilled into drops and pops, very whiffenpoof song — which obviously suits the careening-through-a-champagne-binge mood: to top it Nicki M pulls off a tricky triple entrechat of doing fake-drunk well, doing fake-drunk funny, and actually being funny-drunk the way a very few drunks know they are.
[9]

And not one of our blurbs mentions that her middle name is REIGN. Tssk…

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[7.10]

Katherine St Asaph: Willow Smith just might be our first rising pop star born in the 2000s, and it’s a bit shocking to see an artist emerge this young with this fully-formed a personality. Probably not a coincidence, though; as you read this, armies of marketing people are being summoned up from the mists to polish and fuss and make sure we all know it. They’re not quite done; this is kind of a mess, all over-repetition and sonic clutter. It’s also kind of great.
[7]

Martin Skidmore: I had to check my facts several times here. It sounds like a strong post-Rihanna R&B number, sung and sometimes rapped with confidence and poise, with some real punch. What I found hard to believe was that Willow (daughter of Will) is nine. Yes, nine years old. It seems barely possible. Note that the mark is how much I like the single, not any sort of ‘amazing for her age’ scoring.
[7]

Pete Baran: The age of the singer makes little difference to how terrific this track is. But it does make it seem a bit creepy when you find out. But no more creepy than having narcissistic parents who have already named their kids after themselves (Willard and Jaden before getting round to Willow). The incessant sample tries ever so hard to get annoying, but fails, and as a paean to headbanging it can’t be beat.
[8]

Anthony Easton: Romeo Beckham has a sunglasses line. He is 8. Lourdes Ciccone has a clothing line. She is 15. Both of these are slightly less off putting then an 9-year-old scion of a movie star couple singing “I whip my hair”, which is heavily coded and equally cryptic.
[4]

Alfred Soto: Years before the Tamil Tigers and truffles troubled her sleep, M.I.A. could have sounded like this. I can’t imagine Willow’s mom allowing her to slam her ponytail on stage though.
[3]

Chuck Eddy: Was all prepared to love this, then she started emoting like just another boring 30-year-old. Did she really say “go hard?” And “swagger”? And “get more shine”? She’s in what, fourth grade maybe? Give me a break. Kid singers not acting their age can be awesome, but it helps to pick exciting role models. Title chant’s supremely silly, no denying that. But what else is there?
[6]

Mark Sinker: The nine million Rs: repetition repetition repetition repetition repetition repetition repetition repetition repetition repetition repetition repetition… Fuck Devo forever.
[10]

Doug Robertson: I can’t help but think this is actually a viral campaign for Pantene, L’Oreal or any other product that openly promises sleek, glossy hair while doing it’s best to keep the fact that the effect shown can only be achieved via judicious use of a top stylist, hair extensions, and photoshop hidden away in the small print. Still, assuming their intentions are honourable, even if the slightly awkward attempt at a creating a dance craze might indicate otherwise, this is rumbly, shrieky aceness, vibing up and down the the beat like a worn out bouncy ball. Because after all, you are worth it.
[8]

Alex Macpherson: LOL @ this leaking on the same day as Rihanna’s boring new single. Ms Fenty, you just got outdone by a nine-year-old. It’s remarkable how Willow Smith gets the details and decoration so right, though, those little injections of personality in the Soulja Boy reference that kicks things off to the pronunciation of “hurr” to the sugar-smacked baby-holler of “your hair! YOUR HAIR!” My appreciation of her is really rather dependent on my faith in Will and Jada’s parenting skills, but for now I’m with Jazmine Sullivan: “why is “whip my hair” by willow smith my soonnnng. how dare she make me like a 9 year olds music? lolol. love it!!!”
[9]

John Seroff: “Whip My Hair” is finely calibrated, maximalist, explosive pop and I’ve been compulsively listening to it for days. But it’s not like you need me to tell you if this is good or not, right? Thirty seconds of exposure should put you squarely in a pro or con camp and I’m fairly certain anyone near a radio is going to be forced to take a side before November. No, if you’re reading this mini-essay, it’s because you want to hear about Willow: about her inherited celebrity, her audience with Jay-Z, her talent (or lack thereof), her age, her age, her age. Or as a friend told me when I admitted my love for the Fresh Princess, “It’s just crazy that she’s so young and the song is so dirty”. Of course the lyrics to “Whip” couldn’t be more squeaky clean, but I get what she meant: this is not a thing for the playground, it’s for the club. The song has hips and ass; it’s (at least) a teenager’s fancy. That cognitive dissonance carries through to Willow’s too-contemporary slang; pre-tweens shouldn’t be talking about staying on their grind or rolling up in luxury cars, right? But in listening over and over to Willow celebrating the joy of swag as if it were new school clothes, decrying haters as with us or against us, mindlessly shaking off all her problems without a thought or care to consequences, it’s crystal that “Whip” is not a nine year old trying to sound grown up. Rather, the emotional and intellectual dialogue of contemporary pop is at the nine year old level and Willow just naturally meets the bar. You see, we want to be like her. Except even THAT isn’t so; no child naturally gravitates to this level of artifice. They are steered to it by stylists and businessmen and those who have a monetary interest in creating new product to be stolen and criticized. It’s this weird time that we’re in where children sounding like adults sounding like children are guided by adults who market to children, this ever quickening chase of tigers turning to ghee which leads to the defining, beautiful and troublesome zenith of “Whip My Hair”. It’s a rare moment where we hear Willow string together more than a few unedited syllables; her vocals have been cut piecework from dozens of different takes then frankensteined into a skeleton and you can clearly hear the sudden clips like sharp inhales after every verse. The production is manic throughout; anything frail or human is quickly covered with gleaming armor. There’s generally four to six competing layers every second and an ever-present bumping bass accented by a sound-effect like an autobot transforming. But just here, at the peak of the song, right around 2:10, the whipped cream and firework recede ever so slightly and Willow is briefly allowed center stage. She steps up to the challenge and she sings nonsense words but she’s singing them as hard as she can, the best take they could get from her: “Don’t matter if it’s long/short/do it do it/with your hair/your hair/your haaaaaaaair” and here she holds the note as the various elements of the song rise up around her and this is her diva moment now, the moment where any professional singer, any grown woman would hop up an octave or at least belt out a harmony but all that Willow can do (and remember, this is her best take; this is the most they can ask from her), all Willow can do is let out a sad little keen, a whispering lost thing that wavers and crumples. And then she is gone, swallowed up by the tide of beats and her own mechanical voice quoting Devo and evoking Salt and Pepa and she does not know these bands but she has said the words into a machine that spat her out again and now her voice, her REAL voice in the climax of her first song is drowning under the weight of her infinitely echoing false voice and this song that is hers is absolutely not hers at all. It’s that half-scream, the best that she could do, that is the reveal; the look behind the curtain. It’s among the most memorable moments I’ll likely hear all year and whether it’s unintentional or perhaps not even there at all doesn’t really matter to me because I hear it every time I listen to the track and I’ve been compulsively listening to it for days. This is not the sort of thing you should assign a number grade to. And yet I do and if I’m moved by all this nonsense then I suppose that defines me more than it does the song. Alright, then: we’re both trying to be heard. Both of us sound a little ridiculous. We’re young and we’re trying. Be kind.
[9]

It’s probably going to be number one, it’s…

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[3.29]

Doug Robertson: While Kings of Leon have been away, counting their money and wondering how they got to the stage where even pigeons feel the need to express a critical opinion on them, they have clearly also been spending quite a lot of time listening to A) The Talking Heads in general and B) The Talking Heads’ cover of Take Me To The River in particular. Sadly they didn’t spend even a smidgeon of a second on the slightly more important C) actually having an original idea for once in their lives, and so this can be rated a D, which roughly equates to the same mark the pigeons gave them.
[2]

Alfred Soto: Thus, Kings of Leon solve the problem of giving a generation without its “Lakini’s Juice” a taste of stentorian religiomystic twaddle.
[3]

Martin Skidmore: One of the world’s more tedious rock bands, they seem to be after a kind of arena rock these days, and while the guitar playing is sort of bright in places, the deeply boring and unimaginative singing and song make this a total no-hoper.
[2]

Edward Okulicz: A pleasing clatter, a drony riff and I was very nearly dancing and wondering if Kings of Leon had discovered fun or something. They haven’t. The verses are inoffensive but when they amp up and rabbit on about it being IN THE WATER, something about it drips with a pretension that belies the fourth-grade poetry of the lyrics.
[4]

Anthony Easton: I think that Kings of Leon, who used to have a solid southern rock energy, has become slightly worse then Nickelback but better then Hedley — for a song that is about how local water influences local sound, the irony of the absolute genericness of this has the subtlety of a chainsaw.
[6]

Mallory O’Donnell: Every other rock band ever, meet the Kings of Leon. Kings of Leon, meet… oh, I see. You already know those dudes.
[2]

Chuck Eddy: So is this their “Cannonball” move, their late ’80s David Byrne move, or their late ’80s U2 move? Or did they do that last one already? Hard for me to separate these hacks’ music from all the tone-deafs who think they ever had anything to do with either “Southern rock” or “garage rock”, who think they made three (or any) of the 80 (or 8000) best albums of the past decade (howdy Rolling Stone), who think Caleb “We Don’t Want To Go In There And Do Something That Isn’t Real And Something That Doesn’t Really Move Us” Whatshisface has anything remotely interesting to say to justify any feature that’s not a business story about how their promotion and/or management teams have persuaded sheep in high places to take their nondescript tenth-generation post-grunge seriously, and helped turn that into a durable career. In the great tradition of the comparably useless Foo Fighters, their interesting-for-five-minutes-in-2003 backstory (they’re preacher’s kids, y’know!) has clearly proved quite valuable. But at least this track can’t be confused with Candlebox, Live, Seven Mary Three, or Blind Melon — I’ll give it that. (Also: Pigeon poop!)
[4]

It’s still number one, it’s…

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[3.86]

Katherine St Asaph: Pop quiz: You’re a songwriter, and you’ve got to come up with a single for Alexandra Burke. She’s built up a bit of name recognition and she’s an X Factor alum, and you’ve even got a set of fantastic, ’90s referent-packed verses. How would you write the chorus? This quiz is on a curve, by the way. Most any answer is acceptable except “Polly Wolly Doodle.”
[5]

Frank Kogan: Last week I called this an asparagus butterscotch sundae, and it hasn’t gotten any more delectable since then. There’s an overmuscled but inept attempt at aerobic Beyoncé that segues inexplicably into a half-crippled sing-songy kiddie-dance shot at “Hooray! Hooray! It’s A Holi-Holiday,” while munchkins are diced and sprinkled atop everything, inanely going “Oh uh-oh oh.” I mean, what the hell is RedOne doing?
[2]

Doug Robertson: This is, without a doubt, going to be the soundtrack of the summer! As bright and playful as a beach picnic, when this comes out in June people will be rushing out to buy Frisbees, just so they can throw them while this plays in the background and… What’s that? You’re going to wait until September to release it?! Oh, Alexandra…
[6]

Martin Skidmore: She sings it as well as you’d expect, but the half-hearted steel band backing is weak, and it all seems rather a mess. There are good moments, but it feels incoherent.
[5]

Iain Mew: Dancing-as-sex is of course an age old lyrical tactic, sometimes replaced by sex-as-sex. I can’t think of another song so badly in need of someone sitting down with the lyrics and deciding which of the two approaches they really mean to take. It does say “Get on the dancefloor”, but then “You’re the only one and I’m all on my back/The only one I want on my back”, apart from being spacially problematic in itself, doesn’t fit any dancing-as-sex meaning. Combined with other suggestive lines, the result is that absolutely everything starts to read as sex-as-sex. Sort of at odds with the breezy and not all that sexy sound, but it might still be ok if it was only fixing the filthier meanings to the likes of “drip-dropping way down low”. But come the chorus and the resultant image of Alexandra telling a guy to “put down [his] cup” or else she’s going to start masturbating, we’re in territory too bizarre for any song to stand.
[3]

Alfred Soto: The pneumatic moves of this electro “Iko Iko” retread promise exercise, not release. Whoever “Alexandra Burke” is, she has a promising career as a nullity.
[2]

Alex Macpherson: A song designed for frothy lightness forced through a filter of clunk and blare. Burke herself has yet to release a notably worthwhile song post-X Factor (with the exception of the Ne-Yo-penned album track “Nothing But The Girl”); the relentless, unimaginative way in which she tries to jolly this mess along indicates that the problem may not entirely be the material she’s given.
[4]

Eeeeeh!!!…

[Video][Website]
[6.71]

Iain Mew: “That’s Not My Name” seems so, so, long ago for some reason. Maybe it’s the way that Florence and the Machine, Ellie Goulding, La Roux (and soon Hurts?) have thoroughly taken over the pop-designated-as-alternative realm with music much more self-conciously serious, but it’s difficult to see where The Ting Tings will fit in in 2010. Filtering a characteristically infectious refrain through richer production and cavernous beats, this doesn’t reach the same level of spontaneous joy as they’ve managed before, and the approach is unlikely to make Katie White’s voice any less divisive.
[5]

Martin Skidmore: They can almost sing, just slightly off and with little feel for rhythm, and a tune exists, just about, but it all seems to be aspiring to mediocrity and convincingly achieving it.
[4]

Jessica Popper: Considering how quickly I got fed up with The Ting Tings the first time around, I didn’t have high expectations for their new album. In fact I’d hardly thought about it at all. Until now! They’ve turned into a poppier version of Le Tigre! The chorus is a bit repetitive, but I love the full electro sound and the bouncy, synthy beat. Another very surprising aspect is that “Hands” is produced by Calvin Harris. Despite his popularity with quite a few pop fans, I have never liked even one of Calvin’s own songs and haven’t been particularly impressed with his work for other artists either. Is this the beginning of a new improved era for The Ting Tings and for Calvin, or is it just a fluke?
[7]

Doug Robertson: I bloody love the Ting Tings, and will happily argue the case for “That’s Not My Name” being the single greatest song ever written until I bore everyone around me – well, everyone that’s left given my tendency to put the song on a loop if I’m allowed anywhere near the music at a party – but even I was slightly nervous when I listened to this for the first time in case the near perfection of the first album was either a fluke or, worse, something they were unable to move on from. It’s with some satisfaction and relief, then, that I can say that I still bloody love the Ting Tings, as this song happily sits atop the mountain of pop perfection, letting its hook covered tendrils fall down, slip into your earhole and attach itself firmly to the dance centre of your brain. It’s like late period Rachel Stevens, only with a personality and without the sense of desperation. A multi-limbed spider of a song that will wiggle and wriggle and jiggle inside you, regardless of whether you let it or not. Hands down, this is amazing.
[10]

Anthony Easton: For a song that is mostly about working too hard, and working too hard in a transglobal sense, this song is so fucking easy — not sleazy easy, not lazy easy, but constructed in such a way that pleasure supercedes any other concern. Maybe it’s elegance, maybe it’s grace, but it’s a little too roughed up around the edges for both of those. Fun! (extra point for handclaps)
[9]

Mallory O’Donnell: I like a lot of the tings that go into this (the Bowie nod, the stupid chorus, the brashness of the production), but am unable to work up enough enthusiasm to bust out even one solitary hand. A big part of the problem is Ms. Ting, who has a voice any high school librarian would envy. The strangely lesser part is that every bit here sounds lifted from another, much worthier jam.
[4]

Katherine St Asaph: The Ting Tings generally have the same effect on me as scratching an emery board, so this is a welcome change. The first few seconds almost sound like they’ve gone downtempo — there’s a Nicola Hitchcock track just like this — but the rest is all needle-poised synthpop. Seems like this is damn near everyone’s Big New Direction, but I don’t care when it’s done this well. “Clap your hands if you’re working too hard” deserves to be a mantra.
[8]

Ahhhhh!!!…

[Video][Website]
[3.86]

Chuck Eddy: Feeling down’n’dirty, feeling kinda mean, they’ve been from one to another extreme. This time they had a good time, ain’t got time to wait, they wanna stick around ’till they can’t see straight.
[5]

Michaelangelo Matos: OMG DUDEZ THESE GUYS R FUKKING RIGHTEOUS! “I THINK MAYBE I CAN’T HAVE RELATIONSHIPS” BCZ “THERE’S SO MANY FINE WOMEN”–DUDE, 4 REAL! AND THEY ALL WANT ME, I MEAN U, Y’KNOW?!
[3]

Anthony Easton: Lacks any of their brash frat boy ambiguity, and replaces the anxiety of influence with something that suggests the fun has all gone.
[4]

Frank Kogan: The verses give us typical 3OH!3 pain-is-a-party shtick, which the singing is too weak to deliver. But unbelievably the chorus actually creates a party: rolling guitars and deep swaying hip-hop, Naughty By Nature conjured up for the ’10s, good feeling – cynicism at bay and maybe defeated.
[7]

Martin Skidmore: The “hey”s are sort of strong, but the rest of it, the lame US indie-brat vocals, the half-assed electro-rock, the mistaking of talking for rapping, is nowhere near as good. When you follow a top ten hit with one that reaches #89, you must have fucked up somewhere.
[2]

Doug Robertson: Ah, so they’re not quite a one trick pony after all. Just a shame that this isn’t anywhere near as fun or as interesting as their original trick. At least the musical Buckaroo of previous tracks was catchy enough and could hold your attention as they ran up and down the gamut of their schtick. This can barely muster up enough effort to flick its tail and keep the flies off it.
[4]

Katherine St Asaph: It’s an improvement in the sense that I don’t want to impale them all on a pike, and they’ve toned down the misogyny to a dull roar. But you’re still joking if you think these synth scraps from Benny Blanco (has he ever produced anything good without Dr. Luke’s vetting?) will result in blown-out speakers, shut-down blocks, or much dancing at all.
[2]