Google’s suggested searches thingy seems to absolutely insist you call him Travis…
Al Shipley: Usher said “gosh” on a #1, so yeah, I guess pop is ready for a hit with “frickin'” in the hook. The sad thing is, I can totally see Bruno Mars being able to buy and sell us all a couple years from now.
Chuck Eddy: They’ll never be billionaires (“a whole new tax bracket” — really??), but if they’re lucky maybe they’ll be Black Eyed Peas when they grow up. Then they can adopt all those babies “that ain’t never had shit.” And maybe even save on diapers!
Michaelangelo Matos: Is he kidding? Please? Pretty please?
Jonathan Bogart: Fuck these guys.
Martin Skidmore: Cutesy college indie hip hop by someone out of the Gym Class Heroes. Actually the beat is basic amateur pseudo-reggae rather than hip hop, and Bruno Mars’ singing is sweet and likeable, but Travie irritates me — there’s a college nerd self-satisfied smugness to his performance.
Matt Cibula: Sublime. No, not the adjective, but the band Sublime, which I never really liked. But I am pretty sure I am the only one around here who loved Gym Class Heroes — maybe in the world — and I like Travie’s easy flow here too. And my 11-year-old son, a huge music snob (favoring Detroit and Memphis soul, show tunes, Django Reinhardt, & Run-DMC), says “This isn’t the worst song out there,” which is pretty massive.
John Seroff: Two rich assholes queue up ska-preset #17 and mumble about all the good shit they’ll buy themselves and for us little people once they’re REALLY rich in an astonishing display of poorly-considered, self-entitled, junior-high level social consciousness besotted with consumerism and obsessed with unearned excess. It’s rare that I find a song this abhorrent in both concept and execution, but I’m hard pressed to find a single element here that doesn’t make me both uncomfortable and sad about the future. It’s a hands-down winner as the most obnoxious song I’ve heard in what’s shaping up to be an all-too-often obnoxious decade.
Alfred Soto: Accelerate the tempo and it sounds like 1997, with Sublime on the radio and fat 401Ks as far as Bill Clinton could see. But it’s 2010, and while McCoy’s president may play basketball, McCoy’s aspirational zeal sounds wistful. It’s not “so fucking bad” to pocket a six-figure advance and royalties in this climate.
Katherine St Asaph: It’s adorable how Travie thinks one stalwart billionaire can quell the recession or fix Katrina. His dream philanthropy, while a nice touch, is too tangled up in fame to come off as anything but cursory. He’ll be Warren Beatty, but only if he gets to fuck Madonna first.