It’s always a thrill when someone makes the jump to the other side of the “ft.” divide.

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Katherine St Asaph: Music’s latest entity-out-of-nothing has been deemed ready and pop-steps out of the vegetable steamer, accompanied by the gaudy-trendiest ’10s typeface this year and PR as cutting-edge. What doesn’t “Wild Heart” have? Max Martin, Dr. Luke, RedOne, Benny Blanco, Stargate or anyone else you’re sick of. Producers the Dream Machine instead adapts for the States the Brits’ melodic adaptation of dubstep, except somewhere in the adaptation process crept Sophie B. Hawkins’ best word. Sabi could stand to sing more than prove she can sing, and the meter’s got some bad syllabic lability, but we’re overdue for a new pop template. This will work fine.
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Anthony Easton: The fear, panic, and paranoia peaks at 2:29, and that skittering beat turns against the subject of the song. I like when my dance music is so anxious, not quite afraid, but worried about the implications of it’s sexuality. 
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Brad Shoup: A draggy, unconvincing stab at R&B, put under by a reedy scenery-chewer. The way Sabi pronounces “damn” recalls silent-movie villains. Her spot on the Cobra Starship single indicates that quickened tempo suits her, if nothing else.
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Jer Fairall: Given that there have been, what, 548 Rihanna singles this year alone, the existence of this slavish soundalike feels even less necessary, particularly one backed by such an ugly-ass production monstrosity.  
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Alfred Soto: Great — a girl with Rihanna envy!
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Ian Mathers: Am I the only one who thinks that chorus here sounds like a slowed down version of that Nero song that was actually decent? That and the bit where she goes “and we don’t know why/we’re in love” and for a second it sounds like those are two unrelated thoughts (which would make the song much more interesting). Ultimately I’d rather listen to “Promises,” but this is fine too.
[6]

Jonathan Bogart: Look, I’m not going to lie and say I didn’t love alt-rock in the 90s. I was a straight white teenage boy who admired the depths of his own angst and was desperate to prove his masculinity. But this trend of young pop singers and rappers borrowing the minor-key whininess and doldrum-chords of alt-rock has got to stop. Skylar Grey was one thing, but now this too? I know, I know, every generation gets to admire the depths of their own angst. But I don’t have to listen to it.
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