Next, on album #256363636: posthumous supergroup EPS?

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[5.43]

Josh Langhoff: She had better chord changes, too.
[3]

Crystal Leww: I hate it when music theatre nerds get it in their heads that everyone wants to hear their rock opera. 
[4]

Alfred Soto: I have no problem with musical theater in rock, especially when the piano line on Sparks’ effort has house inflections. And they’re right: Edith Piaf did say it — sing it — better. I don’t care for Piaf’s affectations, though, which limits my response to this well-tuned recreation of the experience of adoring an idol.
[5]

Katherine St Asaph: About one-fourth through this, I started hearing this as a cabaret cover of “Cry For You” with occasional soundboard percussion and canned guitars. Not bad! But distracting enough for me to lose the lyrics. Oh well. Edith Piaf probably said it better.
[6]

Ian Mathers: Sparks are probably the cleverest songwriters to so consistently write about the insufficiency of language (give or take a Stephin Merritt), and like everything else they write about, they manage to do it in a way that feels both mocking and sincere. If there’s a better, catchier song about semi-regretting not living fast enough to die young, I haven’t heard it.
[7]

Edward Okulicz: The target of Sparks’ recent line in mocking theatre is hard to pinpoint — who are they mocking, if not themselves? It’s about 30 seconds too long, but I like how full-bodied this sounds, with an unexpectedly gravelly guitar building nicely on top of the piano and Russell Mael’s always theatric vocals. The effect is that of a diva ballad cut off at the knees, which is surely the point.
[7]

Alex Clifton: Sparks have said they were seeking to avoid a retread of their previous work on Hippopotamus, but this sounds pretty close to the material they produced with Franz Ferdinand as FFS minus Alex Kapranos’s vocals. That’s not necessarily bad, as we have Sparks in their best and most delightful mode, grandiose and melancholic while retaining a sense of humour. They’re mostly aware of their own absurdity. “Edith Piaf” sounds fine, with sweeping pianos, but Russell Mael warbles about not being able to live fast and die young, which is a weird juxtaposition for someone who has packed a lot of life into his 69 years. Once Piaf is evoked, her spectre overshadows the song; I half expected an entire verse in French. But as it stands, it’s a decent return to form.
[6]