Kitty dust the crystal…
Alfred Soto: A prologue to a one-act drama to which we aren’t introduced. I can almost see the italics.
Anthony Easton: She has flow. Some of the metaphors are fantastic, some of the callouts are even better, the underlying sound similar to “Get High” is fascinating, and the track’s mobility is worth something. With regards to Pryde, I am still not quite sure what I am being sold.
Patrick St. Michel: The beat is bonkers, producer WATER turning Major Lazer into a hypnotic dream beat. Kitty, meanwhile, blends in really well with the music, choosing to let the song’s atmosphere stand out more than her words, which was probably the right choice.
Doug Robertson: As this song fades in and out it feels like you’re eavesdropping as you walk past a party that’s clearly about to go out of control and is on the cusp of exploding into something either brilliant or destructive. Either way it’s going to be a mess. The muddy — in a positive sense — production adds to this voyeuristic viewpoint and you find yourself hovering near the window, wanting to hear more and desperate to get involved. The last thing I remember is ringing the doorbell, hoping to get invited in to join the party but scared about what will happen if I do.
Jer Fairall: Unifying the brattiness of white teenage suburban girlhood with the wordy, druggy, free-associative verbal splays of Why?’s Yoni Wolf (Lindsay Zoladz got there first, lest I be accused of not citing sources) made Kitty Pryde’s shambolic sketches one of 2012′s most unexpectedly indelible pleasures, particularly when tracks like “Okay Cupid” or “Justin Bieber” sneakily revealed something of the insecurities and longings behind the snickers and whatevers. This, however, is frustratingly vague, with the vocal mixed so low that there’s no chance of latching onto the flow of the song, never mind picking any but the most fleeting references (Transformers – yes. Chris Crocker — uh, maybe?) out of the murk.
Ian Mathers: I guess this is her “A Milli”? If only anything here was funny or compelling, or she possessed the craft to get by just by being impressive. But she’s right; I don’t know why she gets blogged.
Pete Baran: There is a little bit of an “is that all there is” vibe to this, because Kitty’s mixed down rap is addictive here. Leave them wanting more is a good guide, and this leaves you partially wanting a whole track, but oddly even as it stands it works. Ambient rap, which favours a careful listen.
Brad Shoup: Normally artists addressing criticism make me cringe, and internet criticism even more so. Maybe it’s the volume of her voice, hiding the bite. And maybe it’s the propulsion of the ambient-leaning track: an insistent Greek chorus interrupting itself over and over and over. Or maybe it’s because it’s barely on the wrong side of two minutes.
Daniel Montesinos-Donaghy: Kitty sounds worlds more confident since her “Okay Cupid” breakthrough, and on “Dead Island” she’s flowing harder than ever before, finally dropping the self-deprecating focus on her supposed novelty factor: “You don’t know why I get blogged?!”. She is still experimenting with presenting her voice in interesting ways, bringing her verse up for air then submerging it to the recesses of her mind whence it came from. It’s reminiscent of shoegaze, if only because shoegaze was #BASED before #BASED.
Will Adams: The track is a gorgeous patchwork of Beyoncé and Lady Gaga over soft pads. I could listen to it by itself for hours. Judging by the vocal levels, the track feels the same.
Sabina Tang: Trapped on her island, Kitty whiles away the time with girly rap, weaving Tumblr emoji packs and beats jacked from the Soundclouds of bedsit remixers into a daisy-studded Lisa Frank web. And moving through a chandelier, that the other day she bought from Claire’s, shadows of the world appear; there she sees the blogosphere… All may yet end badly, but neither Kitty nor I am half-sick of the Internet just yet. (If, as may be extrapolated from WATER!’s nomenclature system, “Dead Island” is Diplo at a remove, then this music is a thrice-scraped palimpsest; its Ur-text profoundly lost.)