Aw, don’t feel so down! Just stick up your chin, and grin, and say…

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[6.00]

Megan Harrington: These poor lovesick teenagers! I just want to hammer out a few piano chords, turn to the camera and croon “Oh, but don’t you believe them!” Broods manage to line up their dreamy electronics with a generically effective sentiment and sink their shot. My “Never Gonna Change” was The Stills’ “Still in Love Song,” and I truly believe that regardless of whether the song will become a generational treasure, it’s important to keep re-birthing the endless love template. I’m certain there’s a high schooler wrapping themselves in “Never Gonna Change” like a personalized electric blanket; this song is their first confirmation that things did and will change. 
[6]

Anthony Easton: This does not give the proper masochistic pleasure of a good brood. I am disappointed that it fails to live up to its potential as a melancholy winter mood setter. 
[5]

Alfred Soto: I don’t know what it means to write that this sounds okay despite the minor key whispers over ’96-era coffeehouse jungle beats. It means I miss Martina Topley-Bird, I guess. But Shara Nelson needs more respect — and more work.
[5]

Jer Fairall: So much atmosphere, so little song.
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Daniel Montesinos-Donaghy: That title is a warning to the listener – seriously, when are you bands gonna stop taunting us with this easy ammunition? Substantially moody and scene-setting, but what’s the point of a scene with no action in it?
[4]

Juana Giaimo: “Never Gonna Change” is a lonely nocturnal lullaby. The dreamy synths are just the disguise for her struggles to reveal her feelings or keep them to herself. As a secret pact, the weak cadence of her voice let us know that this is a silent weep soothing her to sleep. It’s not necessarily sorrowful, but it has bittersweet notes that bring genuine emotion to what could have been a simple unmemorable song. 
[8]

Brad Shoup: They cram two choruses into one. I like the second better. The static stutters will probably mess with commuters, and Broods spend most of the song trading elbows with the stuffed mix, but anything to distract from 60% of a song, I guess.
[6]

Will Adams: “It’s never gonna feel like it’s done, ’cause it’s never gonna change” sounds dramatic until I remember how it feels to see that flame — now demoted to person, detached from symbol — from a distance a week, a month, a year later. The tiny knot in the stomach, the averted eyes, the teeth clenching as I prepare what to say in case we cross paths or, worse, make eye contact — I often wonder if this is what our new relationship is. “Never Gonna Change” is quick to encourage wallowing, but the beautiful chorus, like sun breaking through the clouds, is the moment of clarity, repeating the mantra until it reaches a restful, quiet acceptance.
[8]

Katherine St Asaph: 1) Broods is essentially Georgia Nott — if you can figure out what the fuck Caleb does, please inform me and probably him too — who is essentially Lorde: young, sullen, possessed of Imogen Heap’s scratchy plaint, wandering through a downtempo fog. “Bridges” floated them onto the blog transom, and this drifts farther into the night. Joel Little employs his usual palette: the spareness of “Royals” and grinding of “Yonkers”; the filtered electric guitar from a million reverbed songs, the moodiness of a million trip-hop tracks the subtle swell of a million choruses; the putter of a laptop you can only hear just after someone leaves your room. 2) Sullen, drifty, downtempo: the masses love that stuff. They also love Grammy wisecracks, and Lorde wasn’t exempt, getting mock Fiona Apple comparisons — though “this world is bullshit” really isn’t as much like her as “Sullen Girl” — and goth quips. Some were cheap — of course Katy Perry was gothy, she wears gothiness like she used to wear fruit props — but some were onto something. Think back on the commercials, on Lana Del Rey’s morosely guttural “Once Upon a Dream,” which reminds me of nothing so much as this old video of Amelia Brightman drowsing “Cry Me A River” except not even remotely a joke. Turn on the radio, where there is Lorde, and, in her wake, parallel trends: trip-hop by the youngs, sad spareness, teenage gloom. 3) Any woman who encounters this stuff has to confront the tough question: whether she’s only listening because she would have totally fallen for it at age 17. I would — I know I would. Thanks to the bully’s memory of the Internet, I have proof: my old Mandalay-filled last.fm page, my old Xanga now-playings, and a bunch of old emails from 17-year-old me. Gmail thinks New York me is logging in from an unusual location, that’s how old this shit is: “You mention peers quite often. I wouldn’t really know. I don’t particularly know of any peers that I have.” Just as certain fashion-ad music videos cater to those who wish they could war clothes like mysterious ingenues, Broods cater to teens who think they’re peerless. This isn’t a slight. I’d send this back a decade if I could. 4) That email was sent to a man 15 years older. Maybe I’m reading things in, but I sense some of those undertones in “Never Gonna Change”: “in a moment I’m older,” “hate that I’m always so young,” precocity turning against itself. But there are other, more ageless lessons here: what you thought was vulnerability can decay into words you shouldn’t have said; people don’t always disappear, but sometimes hover discarded in your orbit forever like dust; nothing ever feels over. All my old loves still live in FutureMe letters and recorded dreams and somewhere in the real world too. All the songs I loved get revived; all my old feelings get remastered. Nothing changes. Is that sad?
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