Our weekly Adam Levine single…

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[3.86]

Hazel Robinson: FUCK OFF MAN, OUT OF MAROON 5. This is so fucking great in the verses — that almost wobbly beat and Travi sounds like he’s been practising or something, still clever and quick-lazy but tight and then — FUCK, IT IS HAPPENING AGAIN. Oh god, man, if you love Bruno Mars so much, why don’t you go guest on his fucking record and shit me, is that Autotune? Oh he did not just say “good music can be so hard to find,” did he? And yet and yet and yet I can’t resist this; maybe it’s because the bass of the verse sounds like my old tape of Juicy just before it burst; maybe it’s because I have unreasonable amounts of love for the first two Gym Class Heroes albums or maybe it’s just the senselessly irresistable mix of about forty different speeds. I just… the guy from Maroon 5? Really?
[9]

Katherine St Asaph: As wistful as a highway commute at sunset or the last party of the summer, as rote as last year’s soundtrack to both, and as rockist as Gym Class Heroes shouldn’t be.
[5]

Anthony Easton: I can’t really hear Levine here (or Levine’s voice is so generic I couldn’t place it separately) , and the extended metaphor was done decades earlier by Joni Mitchell (the radio as sex metaphor) or Daft Punk (the nostalgia for 50 lb boom boxes), so it’s competent, and it tries hard, but with meagre results.
[3]

Al Shipley: Levine’s moment as rap’s favorite token white boy seemed short-lived after that great Kanye song he was on kind of stiffed on the charts, so this comes off as both overdue and underwhelming. That little melodic post-chorus section is nice but in general I’m glad not to have to concede too much credit to a song by a grown man who calls himself “Travie.”
[3]

Michaela Drapes: Let’s see here: Stale beats, uninspired, trite rhymes and ADAM LEVINE. Gag me with spoon, y’all.
[1]

Alfred Soto: If Adam Levine’s heart is a stereo, it’s been stuck playing “Total Hits: 1999” for years. 
[2]

Jonathan Bogart: The bump of the “oh-oh-oh” chorus is so infectious that it almost makes Travie McCoy’s cretinous boombox metaphors palatable. Almost.
[4]