A British national institution. No, not the X-Factor, wet Barlow ballads.

[Video][Website]
[2.88]

Doug Robertson: From the more obvious leaves turning brown, to the appearance of Christmas decorations in your local shop, the start of autumn these days is marked by just as many ceremonies as used to be carried out by pagans. But none are more modern than the release of a comeback single by a previous X Factor winner, ever hopeful that the launch of the new series will help people a) remember who he is and b) give an actual shit about him and his career. Sadly, the thought that went into the timing of this release hasn’t gone into the single, which is the usual string-laden, overblown and strenuously emoted nonsense that certain people still believe is what “real” music sounds like. He wore a hat, remember? Crazy days.
[2]

Anthony Easton: The face of great emotion that Mr Cardle makes might be his O face, which is perhaps the most terrifying thing I have encountered this week. 
[1]

Edward Okulicz: Having had their post-Eyes Open meal ticket provided by Leona Lewis, Snow Patrol find that Matt Cardle and writer Gary Barlow are well and truly eating their lunch with this.
[5]

Iain Mew: It’s really damning with faint praise to say that this is an improvement on both the songs given to past male X Factor winners and his car crash Biffy Clyro cover. The only way that its debt to Snow Patrol could be more obvious would be if the last three words were removed from the title.
[3]

Mallory O’Donnell: Why are all songs containing a phrase upon the theme of “I’m not who you think I am” written and performed by people who are nearly always exactly what you think they are?
[2]

Katherine St Asaph: Let there be no more complaints about blandly competent voices. You could instead get bland and incompetent. 
[1]

Brad Shoup: I get what the chorus is trying to do, and it’s kind of neat, but instead of dwelling in the minor spaces of the verses, Cardle keeps bringing in brightness. Maybe it would be fine if he were just setting his caged bird free and not maintaining a platitude dispensary masked as vertiginous rambling. The seasick verses will probably be hell on karaoke singers, and those opening chords are clearly the work of someone who thinks Radiohead is forbidden fruit, but they’re interesting choices and a few steps up from His Barlowness’ torporific solo efforts.
[4]

Jonathan Bogart: The average for white-guy kind-of-rock has fallen so low that it’s a refreshing surprise when one of them shows a hint of self-awareness. Now if he would just do something about the music.
[5]