The Singles Jukebox

#patricksegues

[Video][Website]
[3.45]

Patrick St. Michel: Do you like drugs? All of these guys do — and that’s pretty much all they fucking talk about.
[1]

Daniel Montesinos-Donaghy: After Tyga surprisingly lassoed a “Deep Cover” sample into one of the best hip-hop singles of the year, it seemed like he was destined to be more than a derivative Young Money benchwarmer. Yet here we are with “Molly” and hoo boy. Tyga’s voice is all flow with no grit, a blah presence on his own track. When he drops the obvious “All Gold Everything” joke (“woo!”), you’re praying when Trinidad James Bond and his pet puppy will swoop in and save the day. Next up is Wiz, whose “my bitch so bad that I’m never ever cheating” tribute to his wife is almost heartwarming — but not heartwarming enough to negate the fact he does his trademark cackle twice. If Mally Mal is a real person, “Molly” can’t find him/her, burying him/her under the sheer force of repetition: “MOLLY/MOLLY/MOLLY/MOLLY/…MOLLY”. As stupid as it is, “Molly” does make for a fascinating stitch-up of the last two years’ dominant mixtape trends: post-crunk pugilism, no-key strip club music and, yes, ecstasy. This is Frankenstein rap, ripped from the flesh of better artists and willed to life by an endless supply of Birdman money. As a testament to stupid budgets and daft decisions, it may be unparalleled for the rest of the year; as a testament to recreational drugs, it makes for a real lousy trip.
[2]

Jer Fairall: “I’m on a bad trip,” indeed: an ugly-ass bit of club noise becomes a jittery, tingling hip-hop track, the paranoid determination of the robot voice contrasting against the heedless urgency of the verses and rendering both all the more frightening as a result.
[7]

Katherine St Asaph: If “Rack City” was grim, this is grimmer still, though less obvious. Is this during a trip, before a trip, after a trip, somehow removed from a trip? Isn’t this dead affect precisely what tripping is designed to escape? Shouldn’t you not feel the synths prick like ants up your arms or like — I swear I’m not on anything — a late sedate ABBA song? Is that a Chief Keef reference? “All Gold Everything” too? Do people still tolerate Wiz Khalifa because of some rap game golden parachute? Who or where is Mally Mall, I can’t seem to find her? (Why aren’t either substantially more or fewer kids being named Molly nowadays?) Are we there yet? Is there any more? Who knows; who cares anymore.
[5]

Brad Shoup: It’s usually a bummer when a subcultural shibboleth loses its flavor, but sometimes it’s a blessing. Somehow, club kids cadging off each other turned into a wink instead of an eyeroll; even rappers — so good at playing acquisition — are asking for Molly instead of supplying it. Tyga’s pursuit of pleasure is backed by Dez Dynamic’s late-night murder mystery theme. Khalifa gets a smile for “bitch so bad that I’m never ever cheatin'”, but no one’s escaping that voice. The trip is bad, the trip is solo. This is not headspace you’d care to explore.
[4]

Josh Langhoff: Thank goodness for young Khalifa! Tyga’s technically accomplished and all, but it must suck to have less personality than your Siri robo-hook. On the other hand, Tyga’s Siri robo-hook is even more annoying than those people who spend 20 minutes asking Siri silly questions about love and woodchucks while Siri craftily transmits their whereabouts to Homeland Security — that’s that shit I don’t need. Why am I still listening to this?
[4]

Anthony Easton: I would really like to have a track sung by a woman who is being recorded and not another status prop like champagne or drugs. This is especially the case since it’s ambiguous exactly who is going to be the consumer of the drugged beverage. Minus a point for the sample. 
[1]

Iain Mew: This would be a better song without the vocal sample. Not a great one, but it has some decent dynamics; nothing anyone says even approaches the brainless dead weight of “I can’t seem to find Molly”. Plus, it doesn’t sound elsewhere like they’re having any trouble on that front.
[4]

Will Adams: It’s a weak hook, and it’s not entirely effective to use a robot voice to liven up an already-woozy strip club groove.
[3]

Cecily Nowell-Smith: We stopped going to that club in the end, and there were a lot of reasons for it — queues, crowding, the cost of entry, the cost of drinks, the cost of water, shirty bouncers, uneven lineups, unwanted hands in places that weren’t accidental with a frequency that was frankly insulting, all those things that turn a night from collective joy to an endurance test. But I guess what killed that place for me was one night, just as the feeling was starting to sour, just as the music was no longer enough, when every clumsy sweaty body that stumbled into us seemed to be asking the same hopeless, anhedonic question: you got any pills mate? got any pills? got any pills? got any pills? got any pills? got any pills?
[4]

Scott Mildenhall: Molly? She’s over there. Left a little. Right a little. Yeah, right there.
[3]