Once again, Keef’s annual plea to the BBWAA goes unheeded.

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[6.50]

Jonathan Bradley: Keef pares back his rap to mere syllables — he crumbles the longer words into nuggety, discrete units — so that “Love Sosa” arrives as a rolling series of repeating and alliterative sonic chunks: “so-sa,” “ra-ris,” “broke boys,” “no noise.” (“Disrespect” is the only word in the song longer than two syllables.) The blank epistrophe and airless beat, characterized by synth stabs that could rise and fall forever, is numbing, and the few ideas Keef allows into his lyric accentuates the nihilism. A shifted pronoun is all he needs to shift meaning — “She gon’ clap for Sosa; he gon’ clap for Sosa” — but it’s also all he’ll use. Grimly entrancing, and even more so the further you fall into it.
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Alfred Soto: “Chief Keef isn’t a lyricist. At all,” Jayson Green wrote in a complimentary review. But Keef knows how to extract sounds from his throat, and his insistent four-note hook — basic variations on “o” phonemes — dovetails with his quite unbelievable surliness. Copies of copies they may be, his poses are — for now — compelling.
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Patrick St. Michel: All of it’s simplistic, from Chief Keef’s words to Young Chop’s beat, but the borderline nursery-rhyme delivery serves to make Keef’s detached threats and boasts all the more chilling. Despite the chill wrapped around this, it’s a catchy, menacing number.
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Brad Shoup: This is exactly the melody a child would invent out of the air. And hearing him on Young Chop’s pattering, proggy track is like watching a teenager valet; it’s a miracle no one gets killed. 
[5]

Daniel Montesinos-Donaghy: It really is all about that amateurish little drum fill that Young Chop utilises at 1:40 — a quick moment of musical vulnerability in three minutes of Godzilla-status stomp. Keef’s closer to Minya than King of the Monsters, but a hook this super-charged makes that irrelevant: “these BITCHES love SO-SA! GOD y’all some BROKE BOYS!” We’ve made it from the tantrums of “I Don’t Like” to genuine malevolence in under a year – progress, no matter how morally questionable the lily-livered might find it. (Thing called gangsta rap, you ever heard of it?) Like many Keef songs, it falters on the verses, but stay for an effective double-entendre that promises far better sixteens on the horizon: “she gon’ clap for Sosa/he gon’ clap for Sosa.” Think about it. You’ll get it.
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Edward Okulicz: The words read like placeholders put in to fit a rhythm until their writer comes up with something more substantial. How they sound is oddly compelling and commanding. Sure it sounds like anyone could have made it, but if you can tune out the fact that “drama” and “llama” are rhymed with “fuck your mama,” the more subtle touches come to the fore. I’m particularly talking about the stress on the last two syllables of each line, which coupled with the storm clouds of the production, give it a stiff muscularity and menace.
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Anthony Easton: Is it “you can meet my llama,” or “you can meet my lama“? Are we talking about some kind of Peruvian beast of burden, or some kind of buddhist saint/guru? Because I really need more cameloid themed rap battles. 
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Josh Langhoff: Internet discourse and 500+ Chicago homicides have made it hard to listen to this guy dispassionately, but appreciating the music in all those “ovah”s and “sosa”s and their honking vowels demands a moment of unfeeling amorality, so here goes — Keef sounds like a French horn. Maybe it’s the brass in the track or his singsong cadence, but “Love Sosa” is yet another reminder that good rapping remains a musical achievement, apart from any apparent virtuosity or creative storytelling, and that there are various ways to get there. Keef’s way includes a slight rushing of the beat, the irresistible separation of “know – it,” and all those murmuring Keefs down in the mix that Jordan called to my attention. If that stuff gets us to listen over and over until we finally contemplate the identities of all those slumped-over bodies, isn’t that a good thing?
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