15 years young and on their third album. Feeling old yet?

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[4.71]

Claire Biddles: Norway’s less weird version of Jedward singing collaged platitudes about blocking haters out/killing the game/etc between bouncy choruses? Sign me up for this objectively bad taste mid-table Eurovision bop!
[7]

Alfred Soto: Years & Years write this kind of blank clopping Europop too, and they wear an ampersand better too. 
[3]

Iain Mew: Funnily enough, I never thought that the problem with Shawn Mendes was that there weren’t two of him singing in stereo.
[3]

Ian Mathers: This is so aggressively Not For Me that it makes me feel like I need a kindly younger person to take me gently by the hand to a quiet, dimly-lit room where I can sit down and try and remember Grandpa Simpson’s “it’ll happen to youuuuuuu” monologue. Which is not the same thing as it being bad, and god knows why this inoffensive slice of kidpop is giving me the mortality heebie jeebies when dozens of more outlandish/inexplicable-to-me songs didn’t, but that’s where I’m at and I can’t even say I’m upset about it.
[5]

Scott Mildenhall: Undeterred by their inability to form an amenable Jedward-like portmanteau, “the biggest pop act in the Nordic region” swing into a chorus that is so RedOne it could practically be Mohombi. Their question is rhetorical and their posing of it is ebullient, which must make it a fun wave to be swept on. Even from a distance, it’s one to admire; a glance at the charts currently offers little that’s even a tenth as positive.
[7]

Edward Okulicz: The way the voices  curl into sneers on the verses feels incongruous with the song or the terrifyingly small children singing it. That’s “attitude,” of the kind that gets educated out of good pop stars when they get older. The RedOne-to-a-formula jaunt of the chorus is a much better fit. Truly, nobody who was never a member of Ace of Base could say “make you a believer” with less ill-intent than this.
[5]

Will Adams: “Do you believe in love?” the pair ask over and over, the Spongebob & Patrick to my Eugene Krabs. At the end of their relentless perk and sugar-addled raving, I don’t explode but rather respond, tersely: no one believes in love anymore.
[3]