Derrrr-ner, derrrr-ner, derrr-ner, derrr-ner, derr-ner, derr-ner, der-ner, der-ner, nerrrrrr…
Josh Langhoff: What is she, a serial killer?
Ian Mathers: I am guilty of prejudice; based only on the artists involved and the title of the song, I assumed this was going to be painful. And on one level it is, but at least it’s also far more lush and pillowy than I expected. But there still seems to be something corrosive and petty at the heart of “Fall for your Type,” something patronizing and arrogant. Certainly “can I save you from you” isn’t a good way to begin this song. Maybe if we knew more about her ‘type’ this would feel less like a hysterical indictment of an entire gender, and then I could just sink back into that chorus.
Zach Lyon: Foxx turns in a performance utterly filled with pathos, exactly the right level to turn a cliche (“I always fall for your type”) into a statement of great depression. And then Drake shows up.
Al Shipley: Noah “40” Shebib’s woozy, brooding ’80s power ballad aesthetic taking over R&B radio is one of the most depressing byproducts of Drake’s rise to stardom. And depressive moaning is an especially ill-fitting look for a proudly entertaining douchebag like Foxx.
Katherine St Asaph: It’s 3 a.m., and the bedroom’s still dark. She’s asleep; you’ve been woken by a thought. It’s late enough, and few enough things are close, that you hear air rush through the room, the faint taps of debris blown by the fan coalescing into beats. Every sound becomes a portent. The most remarkable thing about “Fall for Your Type” is that Jamie Foxx is behind it; going by title and artist alone, you’d expect more “Blame It” braggadocio. His vocals are full-throated, hesitant and ghostly when each is called for, and they’re all the more gorgeous for how halting his delivery is. Normally this means the singer’s got breath control issues, but here it’s about pain. The same goes for how the lines in the chorus run into each other, as if the producer gave them too little space yet made that work. The production’s among the moodiest and most vulnerable of the year, very much akin to Kanye’s work on “Find Your Love”. Unfortunately, it’s reminiscent of “Find Your Love” in another way: fucking Drake. Even the backing track excuses itself once he unnnghs his way onstage, mistaking word count for skill, cockiness for confidence and himself for someone worthwhile. Just look at how he cockblocks the poor couple in the video! Can’t he find bad songs to crap on?
Jonathan Bogart: The score reflects how much Foxx surprised me: I knew he’d done loverman stuff before, but the elegance and burnished gauziness (yes, that’s an oxymoron, that’s the point) of this really grabbed me by the throat. And then Fucking Drake bleats his signature “uh” (HE’S SO BORING HIS SIGNATURE CALLING CARD IS “UH”) and kills the mood hard. So for the third time in recent memory, I’m left wishing for a Drakeless edit.
Alfred Soto: To my surprise, Foxx handles the dynamics with ease; the spareness of the backing track bestirs him into the kind of erotic contemplation that love men from time immemorial must fake. But Drake, atonal and perfunctory, lets him down. It’s as if Foxx left his fiancee alone with the valet so that he could fetch the car himself.
Martin Skidmore: Much as R&B is very often my type, sleepy, droney, autotuned vocals are very much not. The restrained, muted production is close to compelling, and this might be terrific with a singer like, say, R Kelly, but as it is the performers let it down badly.
Chuck Eddy: So, are they just having a contest to see who can be more boring than the other one, or what? Who won?