The Singles Jukebox

She got money, money is got…

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Ramzi Awn: Good message. Mess being the operative word. 
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Alfred Soto: Before its inexorable disintegration into a mush of synthetic “exotic” touches designed for pop radio from Beantown to Bangkok, “My Money” is poignant and quietly pointed: if you’re white you can, ah, afford to forego material wealth; if you’re Kenyan like Victoria Kimani, it’s the money that matters because the so-called First World’s gonna take it from you.
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Rebecca A. Gowns: A defiant tune delivered with easy grace and smoothness. Even though Kimani’s voice is sometimes buried in the production, it still comes through as vibrant and clear for the best lines.
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Edward Okulicz: Kimani’s not tough or cool enough for this pose, or to get through that awful second verse with all of her dignity intact. It’s one cliché after another, but the chorus is as cheery and airheaded (and very satisfying) singalong as its lyrics would suggest the opposite. I like her voice, and something which emphasises the catchniess over the toughness would suit her much better than this.
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Jonathan Bogart: The galumphing beat and lovely synth washes provide a beautiful bed for one of the least convincing pseudo-hard lyrics in recent pop history. As a singer and a pop figure Victoria Kimani has many virtues, but any comparison with the Rihanna of “Bitch Better Have My Money” is going to be unflattering.
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Jonathan Bradley: “My Money” flitters along in vivid twilight, darker in atmosphere than other East African pop we’ve covered here at the Jukebox — more suited to the club and with a beat to match — yet more buoyant and less earthbound than a floor-filler is expected to be. The chorus resolves the tension somewhat: Kimani isn’t as vicious as Rihanna demanding “Bitch Better Have My Money” and she sounds like she’s hoping for nothing else but a good time, and yet she’s insistent nonetheless: this is her money. Don’t fuck with it.
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Thomas Inskeep: Musically, this is subtly Kenyan-spiced R&B and is refreshing, but lyrically, it’s just another “don’t fuck with my money” song (literally) and is accordingly dull — almost offensively so. Kimani doesn’t do much in particular to sell it, either.
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Tim de Reuse: A lush, beepy instrumental and a confident voice both start strong but unfortunately unravel. Some lines land well: “I don’t care if you’re self-employed or work a nine-to-five” is oddly specific enough to gain a certain charm. Others do not: “I could care less if you’re my dog or you’re my friend” would be a difficult line to pull off in any context, and Kimani fumbles it right out of the gate, throwing an awkward emphasis on every syllable like she’s singing karaoke to a song she’s never heard before. There are some great ideas here, but not enough of them, and not enough justice done to the ones that are there.
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