Apparently this sentence is the first time since 2006 that the Jukebox has mentioned “funk carioca”…
Madeleine Lee: Portuguese-speaking YouTube cover artists have latched onto this one quickly, few accompanied by anything more than a single guitar or ukulele and next to none going over two and a half minutes. It’s not so much that the song sounds better this way — Valesca’s syncopated rhythm and brass honks have their own pull, and can’t be replicated — but it fits the shortened bedroom recording format better, being not much more than a tune repeated a few times.
Brad Shoup: It’s the deliberate delivery, her raspy timbre, the sticky melody. Doesn’t matter that the percussion sounds like a cardboard door slamming.
Juana Giaimo: At least the awkward funeral organs end soon. Still, it doesn’t get much better.
Katherine St Asaph: A colossal opening in search of something, anything, else.
Anthony Easton: The organ, oh that organ, that fat, sexy organ with faintly blasphemous tensions. The rest is the kind of ass-shaking anthem you can hear from Angola to New Orleans to Croydon — maybe with a bit more brass and some nice abstract noise — but the organ intro makes it transcendent.
Alfred Soto: An awful lot percolates to the top: trumpet, soaking-in-it organ, sticks, and, my favorite, kisses. Popuzuda’s grainy timbre is an attractive element too. Trying to be all hook, though, means the hook better be insistent enough.
Daniel Montesinos-Donaghy: A personal apocalypse, a war of words, totally martial pop; hard, relentless, unfuckwithable, an epic battle cry of sorts. “I’m not a coward,” Popozuda attests with a rasp, and you wouldn’t dare disagree. Then a bomb drops.