Wale, Rick Ross, and Jeremih: Neither Australian nor dancey…

[Video][Website]
[5.29]

Zach Lyon: Wale is from the county I’ve been living in for a few years, so I’m obligated by local law to remind everyone that he was once (way back in ’07!) regarded as a rap savior, even before the Seinfeld thing. I remember writing around ’08 that he is “the best writer in rap today,” because local bias is fun. So this new turn as a Rick Ross protégé is, at the very least, entirely baffling — one failed record really doesn’t seem like enough to convince Wale to warp his image when his previous one was prided so loudly, and the new one is nothing more than the same old Scarface dress-up games. At the risk of sounding rockist, I’ll just say that it’s strange and slightly disappointing to hear him doggy-paddling on “That Way.” But also, Jeremih’s chorus is fantastic.
[6]

Brad Shoup: As is common for me, I got suckered by the tiny touches. It happened with the cooing in Jeremih’s “Birthday Sex,” and it’s even worse here. The immediate context around these soul cries are good, too: Jeremih copping to jetlag-induced amnesia, low-talking into the mic while lightly dusted with Auto-Tune. Zoom further, and the beat splashes playfully over ace chauvinists Wale and Rozay (who deserves a medal for resisting a “Grey Goose” rhyme) while a Curtis piano figure gets hammered into harplike form, a kind angel bearing our men to the next stop.
[7]

Jonathan Bogart: For all the posturing ego and self-aggrandizement in hip-hop — and music more generally — not many songs are as star-struck romantic, as dedicatedly in love with the self as this one. It’s commonplace to say that hip-hop songs “for the ladies” are always far less about any nominal ladies than they are about the prowess of the rhymer, but few are quite this naked about it. Which, in its own sociopathic way, is a form of honesty.
[7]

Erick Bieritz: Jeremih, Wale, and Ross combine to strain everyone’s suspension of disbelief in the irresistible asshole persona. Whatever advances these guys have made in being beloved jerks, no pickup line can rebound from “I don’t recollect your name.” Too bad those horn fanfares aren’t used as more than punctuation.
[5]

Jonathan Bradley: I’ve come to terms with the conclusion reached by many before me: Rick Ross, in all his preposterousness, has belly-flopped himself into the swimming pool of respectability. That doesn’t mean I approve of him acting as some kind of mentor; the last thing rap needs is multiple Rick Rosses. So Wale, a DC-area rapper who once seemed thoughtful, if directionless, continues his descent into Maybach Music Group anonymity — a foot-soldier in an army led by a general who can barely justify his own existence. “That Way” is limp and falsely soulful, and it amputates the one remaining enjoyable quality of Mr. Folarin: his workmanlike ability to spit punchlines. That skill redeemed the blusterous “600 Benz,” but without an assist from the beat, it just makes him seem insincere. 
[3]

Al Shipley: Every time Wale ends up on a hit song, it feels like the result of some kind of elaborate clerical error. Many rappers get smuggled on to the airwaves by stowing away on a track with people that radio listeners actually like, but few have done so multiple times while remaining such a resolute non-entity.
[3]

Katherine St Asaph: Cee-Lo is probably clutching his feathers for passing up this proscenium boudoir of a production. Jeremih’s learned how to seduce, Rick Ross’s learned how not to be RICK ROSS, and I guess Wale’s probably learned something. Maybe one of them can learn consistency next?
[6]

It’s Australian dance music Friday!

[Video][Website]
[4.71]

Katherine St Asaph: And also the song.
[4]

Jonathan Bogart: ’80s cod-tribalisms in the music and Planet of the Apes in the video? Really, dudes?
[4]

Alfred Soto: The cartoonish, all-vowels-all-the-time vocals are only part of the problem. Where once they could manage a couple of decent ’80s pastiches now they’re concentrating on actual songs. Singing too. None of which they’re good at.
[4]

Jonathan Bradley: Cut Copy’s mellifluous 2008 album In Ghost Colours wasn’t exactly packed with great songs, but it was loaded with a string of memorable moments that, taken in total, gave the record the shifting, triumphant feel of a good DJ set. “Blink and You’ll Miss a Revolution” exemplifies the problem with the follow-up, Zonoscope: smart set-pieces have been replaced with slick aesthetics. Calling this all pose is not as damning a critique as it could be; the band’s debut, Bright Like Neon Love, achieved much with its dancefloor-Strokes charm. But the closest thing to a hook here is a bridge lost in the midst of “Cruel Summer” sunshine: “Baby, baby, can’t you see/Oh, take it from me” is delivered with the sort of Bananarama that should have been placed front and center. Blink and you’ll miss it, sure, but it’s no one’s idea of a revolution.
[5]

Edward Okulicz: Just the other day I heard this in a very modish Paris clothes store. I liked it enough to immediately get into a buying mood. So I left, and went to a cheaper place and bought two pairs of jeans and a belt, humming the chorus to this all the while. If only it didn’t take so long in slightly-80s-mostly-Yeasayer territory before that glorious chorus, it would be near perfect and I would have splurged at the expensive place on the spot. My wallet thanks what my ears lament.
[7]

Brad Shoup: I can’t deal with all these flat-voiced New Wave boys. Even the call to arms sounds like some thirdhand Midnight Oil-type shit. I’m not certain who’s the butt of this fifth-columnist joke, but it’s probably the guys who think marimbas are inherently dancy.
[4]

Sally O’Rourke: It seems excessively literal to include the word “revolution” in the title of a song that sounds like CNN interstitial music, ca. 1989.
[5]

Glazed look not recommended for piloting or co-piloting.

[Video][Website]
[4.00]

Jer Fairall: Anonymous dubstep meets anonymous lite reggae, from a Canadian singer with aspirations towards J. Lo’s merger of hip hop and Latin pop. I hope this isn’t what passes for world music these days.
[3]

Jonathan Bogart: “She first became interested in music after listening to the soundtrack for The Bodyguard.” “She first became interested in music after listening to the soundtrack for The Bodyguard.” “She first became interested in music after listening to the soundtrack for The Bodyguard.” “She first became interested in music after listening to the soundtrack for The Bodyguard.”
[4]

Brad Shoup: To our passengers: current FAA regulations forbid raw-doggin’ it in the cockpit. Laza — forgetting that it’s a no-smoking flight — chases the bullfrogging bass while Kristina auditions for a fly-or-die dude or a wingman — it’s hard to tell.  The two sound best trading off sung “co-pilot”s, giving a wonderful kick to the first couple consonants, but the song’s devoid of hooks unless you count the thudding synth.
[3]

Katherine St Asaph: Thank god someone addressed the shortage of stuttered “oh”s and Jason Derulo. It’s been minutes since JLS and Cobra Starship!
[4]

Iain Mew: For all its synth grinding, the overall impression is so light and fluffy that you imagine what they’re piloting is a hot air balloon, but it just about takes off.
[6]

It seems they’ve at least picked a good band name…

[Video][Website]
[5.62]

Jonathan Bogart: A Tumblr-ready mélange of forced nostalgia, filtered photography, self-regarding winsomeness, and Real “if you’re one of the 8% who still listen to click Like” Music. And if I were in even a slightly less contrary mood, I’d be crushing right along with the rest of the susceptible teenagers.
[5]

Katherine St Asaph: You’ll need to tamp down twenty objections even to start listening to this (Did you love summer camp? Summer Camp loved summer camp! They get you!). What awaits is a surprisingly robust voice and clean arrangement, but no song. It’s as if Jeremy amplified Elizabeth’s idle mumblings to herself, aiming for quirky but ending up tedious.
[5]

Doug Robertson: More summer than camp, this is jangly indie of the old school sort, dappled with sunshine and a nostalgic sound, juxtaposed with acerbic lyrics and a Fuck You sentiment that’s at odds with the melody line despite having a similarly uplifting vibe. Inoffensively pretty and as charming as a fairy tale prince who’s been through media training, the only real problem with it is that, enjoyable though it is, there’s not really much of a pressing need for this song to actually exist, what with the vast swathes of other, similar sounding and similarly pleasant, tracks that are already out there, ignored in the corner, waiting politely for their chance to shyly shine.
[6]

Jonathan Bradley: Somebody lost Bethany Cosentino in the disco. Please contact the cloakroom if you find her; her mother’s looking for her.
[4]

Brad Shoup: Grant them this, maybe: it’s a wicked move to marry the slick production touches of bygone MOR pop/rock to prototypically twee lyrics (and an adenoidal lead vocal). Imagine Kenny Loggins producing Jilted John – or perhaps the other way around. Structurally sound and fat-free, with shimmering Knopflerisms and a lyrical surprise in the bridge (who doesn’t want whom now?). Works for me.
[8]

Alfred Soto: The lead singer’s nasal authority reminds me of a young Deborah Harry, but I have no idea what she’s trying to say or why she cares. The anodyne brightness of the backing band gives her nothing to worth either — she’s signifying into the void.
[5]

Zach Lyon: Oh, what a wonderful opening 0:15. Everything up to that first 80s guitar twang that sounds like it could be borrowed from the White Ninja song I loved. Following that, though, it fails to ride its own coattails, or at least remain even a sliver as aurally explosive as those first fifteen seconds. Instead, the color gets turned down, or maybe just stuck on neon turquoise, and my ears forget that this is supposed to hold their attention.
[5]

Sally O’Rourke: “Better Off Without You” is Thompson Twins producing Tiger Trap for the soundtrack of a John Hughes mumblecore beach party movie. It’s too self-consciously retro cute, but Summer Camp surpass most of their peers via competent musicianship, solid hooks and Steve Mackey’s production, evoking not a literal ’80s sound but the way the ’80s should have sounded.
[7]

The Internet told me that this is a picture of Ben Folds’ house.

Website]
[5.00]

Edward Okulicz: Robert Sledge’s bass on “House” is unmistakeably an ingredient Folds has long missed since he went solo; clear and melodic yet fuzzed up, it was the secret weapon on the first two BFF records. Good to have it back, but I’d have liked some more of those 1995 harmonies again beyond an “aah” towards the end. Everything else you’d expect is here — a pretty piano motif, great bass parts and Folds singing it much the same as he sang any of BFF’s non-ballads from the 90s as if all their songs were about the same thing. I’ll hold out a verdict on the reunion ’til the album proper but this is good enough for a greatest hits.
[7]

Anthony Easton: I would have loved this in high school because I’d think it were a perfect expression of suburban ennui, but I grew up in the suburbs and learned to hate it like I always should have. Now I am older, and I’ve put away childish things, like hating the suburbs, like dismissing the domestic, like assuming that melancholy ballads of isolation are the only thing that the world could offer. There are other spaces, other narratives — narratives that Folds hints on the kind of brilliant Rockin’ the Suburbs, and has promptly forgotten on this piece of maudlin trash. 
[4]

Iain Mew: A decent, if very slow to get going, arrangement in search of a song and voice to match it — it’s not going to find them here.
[4]

Jonathan Bogart: American nerd-rock staple still around, still making music that sounds as though he hasn’t heard anything since 1974.
[4]

Josh Langhoff: At risk of sounding insensitive to a Very Important Song About Abuse, I’m gonna say this sounds like a Ben Folds-y exercise in writing an EZ listening song about a haunted house that wants to eat him. (Haunted… and fetid.) If it’s just about associating a home with pastlove, that subject’s been handled more trenchantly by Freedy Johnston in”Knock It Down” and Barenaked Ladies in “The OldApartment”.
[3]

Jonathan Bradley: Oddly enough, Robert Sledge and Darren Jessee aren’t the Taboo and apl.de.ap of ’90s college rock; maybe it’s just Sledge’s bass fuzz, but this is recognizably the Five rather than Folds on his own. As for the song: They’ve properly understood that as crowd-pleasing as their gratuitous naughtiness was (“Song for the Dumped”), their best moments were the contemplative ones (“Evaporated,” say, or “Magic”). “House” is pretty but slight, and though it hits emotional notes, they’re not particularly distinctive. It’s most reminiscent of the filler that just held their albums back from being great. 
[5]

Brad Shoup: Ben Folds Five closed the 1990s with The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner, one of the best rock albums of its decade. A portrait of the asshole in his twenties, the record shifted mercilessly between catalogued sins of omission, self-pity, and retreats into childhood. It was miles from the band’s earlier, sardonic biographical sketches and band-geek potshots, and it largely stiffed. The Five’s three spun into their solo orbits, and Ben ended up in Australia for a time, reviving those character studies (with the empathy transmuted into emotionalism), recording an atrociously cheeky cover of “Bitches Ain’t Shit,” and getting involved in the murky world of college a cappella groups – a strange development for the man with the worst voice on alt-rock radio. The band’s back, with an album on the way, and Folds is clearly in a different place than in 1999. But is it progress? The subject matter is vague but inferrably grim; the overall mood, though, is maudlin. Folds’ vocal melody is pretty enough, but circles obsessively for the entirely of the song; Robert Sledge’s fuzz-bass takes a trunkseat to Robert Sledge’s soppy synthesized strings. (Darren Jessee is still getting by on the cod-martial snare work.) Having finally and laudably shed a Klostermaniacal concern with authenticity, taste and regionalism, BFF has instead latched onto the traumas of childhood. “Fetid memories/unworthy of a song” is the defense of a songwriter who doesn’t know better. Surely Folds knows anything is — and has been — up for grabs.
[4]

Jer Fairall: Robert Sledge’s warm, fuzzy, slobbering Saint Bernard of a bass was the thing I missed the most when Ben Folds dropped the Five, so I was a tad disappointed at first when this turned out to be a string laden ballad of the sort Folds has been doing for years on his own. But Folds hasn’t written a narrative this striking since the non-title tracks of Rockin’ The Suburbs, the site of some unnamed trauma deemed “unworthy of a song” but, therapy and dream-purging having failed him, which he remains far too haunted by to not revisit in the only way he knows how. I do wish he’d had a little more faith in the core trio upon this staging of a comeback single, rather than decorating it with so much orchestration, but there’s no denying that the words have cast a spell that, only a week of having lived with the song, I cannot seem to shake.
[8]

Alfred Soto: Piano! Adjectives like “feted”! Serious songwriting — that’s what our Ben aspires to. Like Joe Jackson, Billy Joel, and Elvis Costello, though, the man’s vaunted sensitivity sounds callow and received. It’s creepy that this man so admires Elton John but finds kitsch beneath him. Almost as creepy: apparently Ben’s band sports a bassist. Really?
[5]

Katherine St Asaph: A third of this is the sort of immaculate piano/string/choral arrangement The Sing-Off‘s singer-offers swoon for, another third’s vulnerable like the Weakerthans, and the last third’s whiny pap Kate Bush prematurely demolished in the ’80s. Which makes two-thirds of this OK.
[6]

No country for old men? Lol.

[Video][Website]
[6.67]

Alfred Soto: So sure he’ll never approach Garth Brooks’ sales figures, George Strait is nevertheless comfortable as hell; the sheer ubiquity of this man on the country charts (look at his stats) will shock pop audiences who have never rewarded him with a crossover hit as big as Tim McGraw, Toby Keith, or Alan Jackson’s. But while he’s often complacent he’s still a helluva singer – relaxed and crinkly. He’s the sort of guy whose vast catalog offers pleasures for anyone with half an ear inclined already: 1984’s “You’re The Cloud I”m On (When I’m High)” has graced my iPod for months. The positive vibes emanating from “Here For a Good Time” is defiant instead of triumphalist; he sounds like he’s fallen into his cups a few times. Neither here nor there, actually. But rest assured: Strait will be back in a few months and we’ll take him for granted again.
[6]

Brad Shoup: A delightful shuffle that makes good use of George’s lower register. Ever the old pro, he shades each instance of the word “like” in the second verse with a different meaning. The half-cheerful philosophical conclusions are real similar to Billy Currington’s “Love Done Gone”; the what-the-hell tincture in the chorus is truly inspired, as well as remarkable for a guy who hasn’t let loose since 1991.
[9]

Josh Langhoff: Strait’s voice floats toward some Haggardian ideal of swingin’ good times, drowning his pain so thoroughly that pain and floating are inseparable. His epitaph is basically the same as the Temptations’ Papa, but dying destitute and alcoholic has rarely sounded so irresistible.
[8]

Jonathan Bogart: In which George is as comfortable as ever, which means he’s hitting no highs, but the man’s rarely hit even the usual lows. He’s been running a victory lap for over a decade now, but only the most youth-oriented and novelty-hungry chauvinists would begrudge him that.
[6]

Katherine St Asaph: It’s a nothing song, but play this back to back with one of Strait’s countless imitators and just sense the difference in vocal oomph.
[6]

Anthony Easton: Factory production, not awful, but nothing of note. 
[5]

I’m sorry I hung out with those sinners on The Voice, Lord!

[Video][Website]
[5.20]

Anthony Easton: The most explicitly religious song that Shelton has ever done doesn’t discuss the divine as an unknowable or interventionist god that is horribly generalized. The small details, and the explicit brokenness that begins the song, suggests a narrative of close relational power. When was the last time that chart country seriously addressed martyrdom? When was the last time — outside of certain corners of Mennonite/Amish/Anabaptists actually constructs eroticism as a martyrdom? The earnestness is a little much, and the bombast overwhelms, and his voice has been smoothed over — all of these things need to be noted. But the theology is much more sound than you see in other places. 
[7]

Jonathan Bogart: I can’t begrudge anyone their expression of heartfelt faith slash love. I can begrudge them not expressing it in any but the most simplistic, unimaginative terms possible.
[2]

Katherine St Asaph: It’s so overtly Christian because Christian rock musician Dave Barnes did it first. Blake’s contribution was to pump up the guitars, ratchet down the key and clobber the original in sales. Someone more in touch with the church community will have to tell me whether there’s been a backlash to that; the answer will probably be more interesting than the song.
[5]

Alfred Soto: A squish like Shelton marrying the decidedly earthbound Miranda Lambert suggests divine intervention, and so does this hymn’s ringing 12-string hook. But Shelton, much better at midtempo yearning than uptempo bellowing, must contend with a pedestrian chorus.
[6]

Brad Shoup: Blake sails the high C’s of adult contemporary/contemporary Christian with a fidgety, keening song of devotion. It bursts and babbles with a winning sense of momentum — by contrast, Dave Barnes’ original feels like running through a snowstorm — but the phrases “love’s great martyr” and “flattered fool” are, respectively, troubling and kinda weeny. How will our Christian boys become men if they constantly jabber about how inadequate their women make them feel?
[6]

Hey, did anyone ever tell you you look like…?

[Video][Website]
[5.00]

Katherine St Asaph: I don’t remember much country of late being this bluesy in sound or lyrics, except possibly the Pistol Annies. Unfortunately, Sweeney doesn’t seem to know; I’d love to believe her character doesn’t realize how miserable she is, but I think it’s just Sunny.
[5]

Sally O’Rourke: The guitar and fiddle try their damnedest to rock out within the limits of Nashville-prescribed tastefulness, but Sunny’s wan, non-committal vocals suggest she’s unaware the lyrics call for ass-kickin’ and hell-raisin’. If this is what drinking herself single sounds like, maybe she should try drinking herself doubles.
[5]

Jonathan Bogart: I guess I didn’t realize how much I’d missed hearing an actual country rave-up (as opposed to Bon Jovi with twang) in a really long time.
[8]

Brad Shoup: I’m glad to entertain a proper boot-scootin’ blackout on the charts, but it’s a shame the opening guitar snarl gets buried under a trad arrangement in which guitar and pedal steel exchange the same old solos. The title’s a red herring: the song is fascinated with the sickly aftermath of revelry. Sweeney’s more bemused than pissed, yielding a so-so portrait of a dysfunctional relationship that ain’t any closer to fixing.
[4]

Alfred Soto: I admit it: I gave this an extra listen because it’s Sweeney and not Eric Church. Her immobile voice sounds resistant to every indulgence, including the overstuffed arrangement. She’s like the straight A student who lets herself gets talked into taking a shot by rowdier friends.
[4]

Anthony Easton: I like her better when she is sad. 
[4]

It’s the cute one! No, wait, the quiet one! The funny one?

[Video][Website]
[4.88]

Alex Ostroff: A vast improvement over the first single. I like the clattering percussion, and the digital waterfall right before the chorus. I’m not sure how he loves her in “a whole nother language”, and I’m not sure if she‘s trying to change it, or if the mysterious ‘they’ are, but it all sounds very compelling. Still, when he insists that there are “no other words to use” besides “just in love with you”, I can’t help but wonder if he only paid James Fauntleroy II less than his normal rate. It’s called a thesaurus, dude.
[5]

Edward Okulicz: Joe Jonas is basically Justin Timberlake without the ambition, which means until he puts out a single as good as “Rock Your Body,” he’s going to be ignorable no matter how cute he is.
[4]

Jonathan Bogart: If you’re trying to establish yourself as a credible pop singer in the vein of, oh, Justin Timberlake, it helps to actually be able to sing. Tweens will take half-assed emoting in place of things like breath control and note sustaining, but you either need solid technique or a Weezy guest spot to make it in the wider pop market.
[4]

Jer Fairall: The Jonas Brothers always sounded pained to me, and Joe hasn’t let completely let go of that blue-balled angst yet, but his music has, bumping and snapping like the best Justified single that never was, sinuous and creamy in a way in which the Brothers could never be back when they were trying way too hard to be rock stars.  The video, too, is sexy as hell.
[7]

Brad Shoup: An oppression of voices: pitched low and crowding together, like a team of R&B hostage negotiators. The cowbell groove and slo-mo refrain melody do yeoman’s salvaging work. If you broke Joe down and rebuilt him, you might get a nice freestyle track out of this.
[6]

Katherine St Asaph: Big whapping beats and a guy whisper-singing in at least three tracks. If it helps, pretend it’s by an anonymous dance-sigher and not a Jonas.
[7]

Anthony Easton: September Vogue visuals, and eroticism by the numbers, not enlightened by the frisson of heresy or good boys gone bad — which is a disappointment because the hype for it suggests more Bertulloci’s The Dreamers than whatever this is. 
[4]

Alfred Soto: “Love is more wild when you’re angry,” the bushy-eyebrowiest Jonas bro avers ungrammatically. So where’s the wildness? Where’s the anger?
[2]

Rocking clubs all over the European continent…

[Video][Website]
[4.78]

Iain Mew: I first heard of this many months ago from a (British) colleague who listens to Swedish radio online. He also explained that the radio station has a whole ad campaign based around the fact that they have to bleep out Swedish swear words but are free to swear in English as much as they like, and have a station ident which gleefully revels in the phrase “it’s the dog’s bollocks!” In that context it’s easy to see what the appeal of this song was in the rest of Europe, but what the programmers of radio stations in the English-speaking world are seeing in it now I have no idea.
[3]

Jonathan Bogart: A celebration of universal delights, from drinking and dancing to gleefully swearing in in languages not your own.
[7]

Katherine St Asaph: For everyone who finds Dev too mannered, wispy and American. Fifty YouTube yahoos could produce hundreds of passable copies of this with the right training and eavesdropping. 
[5]

Alex Ostroff: Haven’t we done this twice before? After an endless parade of continental European dance music that seems to take its cues from Crazy Frog, I’m no longer confused about what I’m hearing, but I will wholeheartedly agree: La gente esta muy loca. What the fuck?
[2]

Alfred Soto: It means what it says — can Lucinda Williams make this claim? BLAH. BLAH. BLAH.
[4]

Anthony Easton: Sounds like vinyl — obv. the DJ, but also the kind of plastic that cheap toys are made of, squeaks and compounds with a kind of hipster Betty Boop vocals. Especially love the breakdowns, and how it tries to push for some kind of repetition as profoundity, but falls off into something cheap and delightful. 
[9]

Brad Shoup: I’m on Majorca, trick!
[1]

Sally O’Rourke: The Let’s Go guidebook Spanish, the endless boshing beat that makes you lose track of time, the WTF disorientation of being packed suffocatingly tight into a strange place with a bunch of crazies — “Loca People” is Ibiza in miniature. Like that island, I can see the appeal for people who are into that sort of thing; personally, I’d rather spend my time elsewhere.
[5]

Jer Fairall: The entitled, disaffected, tweaked-out sound of entitled, disaffected, tweaked-out club kids (one of the assholes in the video even wears a Peter Griffin shirt.  In 2011.  Ugh.), and thus something I should rightfully recoil from in horror.  But such hedonism can as seductive as it is repellant, and even though this “fuck” is a “fuck” of blasé derision, these mechanical throbs and mantra-like repetitions feel like a simulacrum of the rhythms of actual fucking, in this case anonymous, slightly exotic and possibly bad for you, but still ending less in a walk of shame than a happy, exhausted haze.
[7]