The Singles Jukebox

It’s my body party, and I’ll cry if I want to…

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[6.38]

Michelle Ofiwe: When Future finally slipped up in public and Ciara called things off, Future went on to write “Pussy Overrated” with fellow ain’t-shitter Wiz Khalifa and hip-hop’s favorite template revisionist, Mike Will “Made” It. “I Bet” is Ciara’s tactical response, and It’s a great response. Strong women wronged in the limelight are always expected to come back large and in charge, with a diss for their ex in tow. Ciara does employ some of this vibe here, but opting for a slowed-down ballad jam makes it feel much more like a punch than, say, “I’m Out.” I love “I’m Out” for its apparent ~solidarity~ among women wronged, but I like “I Bet” for calling out the pain behind Future’s machismo. “I know that hurts/You know that it hurts your pride,” she sings, maybe hinting at something not even Future comprehends just yet. If Future’s cooking up a response to this, I invite him to just sit this one out.
[6]

Micha Cavaseno: The Tantalus of R&B returns. Ciara is eternally marked with the memories of hang-ups throughout her career: unfair Aaliyah comparisons, seas of misogynistic jokes about her features, the Fantasy Ride debacle, the worst song in The-Dream’s catalog, getting caught up in the Mike Will/Future extravaganza only to be cast aside once more, the works. Here we have her going in on her ex with harsh digs and a mock Future on the adlibs. It makes great Mediatakeout, but it’s not that nourishing with how rudimentary the production sounds.
[3]

Alfred Soto: Granted self-possession of herculean proportions, Ciara has wandered for years in search of commensurate material. 2013’s Body Talk came close. Here she plays the game of love with a vocal confidence that like Jazmine Sullivan on “Mascara” suggests she’s not in it to win so much as to smile as her opponent squirms. The quiet acoustic guitar is deceptive: she isn’t ruminative, not her. 
[7]

Mo Kim: Has the tone of a confessional: Ciara rides the hi-hat beat like it’s her B-Day, pouring out doubts and brags and accusations and digs at side bitches with silicone asses and Brazilian hair. For all the messiness of the verses, though (and there is an argument to be made that this conception of female rivalry and authenticity is problematic), everything is rooted in the quiet insecurity of that chorus. There’s a reason the title line is written as a hypothetical–this aches with the promise of something better waiting and the frustration of wanting to go for it yet not quite being able to.
[8]

John Seroff: There’s a lot of interesting parts: a juicy breakup backstory, an admirable facsimile of prime-era Ne-Yo lyrics, what I’m pretty sure is one of the dudes from Migos YEAH YEAH YEAH-ing in the background, trap percussion holding up a meandering spanish guitar, a wounded Ciara angrily purring buttery sweet nothings and cutting jibes. All those face cards still don’t make much of a hand; the song is too monotone and the wound feels too fresh for “I Bet” to heat up more than lukewarm.  
[5]

Josh Winters: This is basically “U Got It Bad” from the woman’s perspective, which automatically makes it a winner in my book.
[7]

Anthony Easton: I love how Ciara sings, and I love how she speeds down and slows down here, like she is trying to tamp down her ire. It has the effect of being dismissive without being catty, and seeming genuinely furious. The line about the silicone ass is one of the great, subtle, pieces of pure bitchery. Extra points for how it turns to syllables at the very end. 
[9]

Brad Shoup: Maybe it’s Spotify, but during the second tilt at the new girl, Ciara’s vocal takes on a shuddering, metallic tone; I half expected my living room wall to crack. But a real  melancholy creeps into the song, as she lingers on the “you” in “better than you”. Plus there’s that downcast admission at the end. Just because you can find someone else doesn’t mean it’s easy. It doesn’t mean it’s not a shame. The retro acoustic backing foregrounds the singer; the trap skitter is, like the from-the-headlines text, an attempt to keep her in the conversation. The ad-libs are just hijacking.
[6]