Still a decade or two too soon for the Lifehouse reevaluation, then…
Katherine St Asaph: xx + y decibels – college kids making out =
Jonathan Bogart: I hate prosperity theology so fucking much.
Will Adams: For those who enjoy some melancholy while walking down the cereal aisle.
Alfred Soto: That spectral guitar riff deserves a restraint beyond or beneath or between the raindrops or whatever else this band offers. Bedingfield, all restraint, deserves another early ’00s B-lister to record with.
Anthony Easton: I really like Natasha Bedingfield’s voice — enough that I can almost ignore Lifehouse, but not enough that I can ignore the writing or production. The ooohs almost wrestle it to a tie.
Patrick St. Michel: The minimal clip-clop beat sounds intriguing for the first fifty seconds, then the dramatic-for-a-dentist’s-office chorus butts in and throws whatever this song had off. Then the same process repeats for nearly five minutes, with Natasha Bedingfield and a whole lot of diminished returns.
Brad Shoup: I see Mr. Lifehouse still sings with the underbite. I got a thing for male tenors working within limitations of range, and he wrings as much feeling as he can from this soppy chill-rock. Any hope of this becoming an AAA “Two of Us” is scuttled by humorlessness, insistence of smile notwithstanding.
Iain Forrester: You can try to walk between the raindrops, but you just end up wet.