The Singles Jukebox

The Singles Jukebox Tuesday Post Subheading

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[4.29]Edward Okulicz: Flat talk-singing and a solo that sounds like ass for some; miniature American flags for others! Where’s the charisma this guy had in bucketloads circa Barefoot Blue Jean Night?
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Alfred Soto: The return of talk-singing is one of the more lamentable trends because it reeks of gimmick, and gimmicks bore me. Sam Hunt barely gets away with it. Not only hasn’t Jake Owen shown much personality despite the bare feet and going all Samson with his hair, but his songwriters get details wrong. I get it: this is a romance. But the cowboy and country girl would drive a 2005 Rav 4, not an old Ford, and if they want to get outta town it’s to get a job. The beatings of their hearts is financial anxiety.
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Lauren Gilbert: OK, is he off-key in his own song? Because it certainly sounds like it. Also, if you want country to survive a genre and perhaps gain some listeners that aren’t white men, it would help if you didn’t write songs that sound like they should be played at a Rick Perry campaign rally.
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Cassy Gress: Oh hell. The imagery here is so “paid for by the committee to elect Real America”: Budweiser and Daytona and Ford trucks and fireworks. I don’t know if it’s that or if it’s the vaguely arena-rock sound, but something about this feels contextually familiar to me, like maybe yeah, I was getting chatted up on a beach towel in a Spring Break town, maybe I did make out with boys in trucks. Maybe it’s just that I am absolutely positive that I’ve spent time in places where these things did happen, even if they weren’t happening to me.  I can tell you what isn’t ringing cultural memory bells, which is that C.W. McCall rap and the chorus that loses its momentum every time it gets to “American… country… love song.”
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Patrick St. Michel: A song that wants to be a great American country love song but settles on just being about great American country love songs.
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Juana Giaimo: I’m glad I’m Argentine so I don’t have to blame my heartless soul for not identifying with the evocation of traditional young — “American” — love.
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Brad Shoup: In a heroic attempt, Owen attempts to tow the tailgate ‘n’ tanline genre into a museum. It’s corny, he notes over a hopped-up backbeat and laconic guitar, but it’s true.
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