Today, by the by, is Scandopop Thursday! We shall celebrate with a MASSIVE BOSH ONSLAUGHT…

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Anthony Easton: Pure pleasure, like those 15 minutes you drive through a city past midnight after picking up someone at the airport. My friend Ray used to do this in his Firebird, and sometimes he drove us further, one time all the way to Vancouver — this song is like that Firebird opening up in the mountains between Banff and Golden, but you know, more Scandi. 
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Iain Mew: It would take a lot to recover from delivering a first line as stupid as “I’m lost in the streets in the city of pain” in a neutral-to-slightly-serious-fashion. The tame trance pop on offer here stands no chance of managing it.
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Brad Shoup: Same theme as Collin Raye’s “I Can Still Feel You” — a personal favorite — only Raye never thought to include a Romani cameo. We can throw “What Is Love” in there, too, but Darin answers his own question: it’s nothing. He’s super concerned with staying hurt, which is OK, but all that falsetto is too much: it’s like witnessing a tantrum in public.
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John Seroff: I am exhausted to the bone with Guettasplosion clones recklessly setting off drab, flashless firework displays. It’s music for sex that’s thirty seconds of foreplay, five strokes, and a one-sided, two minute orgasm. No wonder it’s so popular. But what about my needs?
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Edward Okulicz: If Sweden had the brains to send this to Eurovision they’d win for sure. It’s generic to nearly the point of banality, but unlike what, say, Guetta does (this is in the ballpark of “Without You”), the explosion into LOUD BANGER territory actually feels wanted, rather than just a ramp up of the volume because that’s what loud bangers do.
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Alfred Soto: I don’t know either. Maybe love sounds like mid nineties dance music and vocals so committed to reaching climax that they forget to include a bottom end.
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Michaela Drapes: Generically pretty/ugly, much like Darin himself, actually, this track has some delightfully overprocessed moments, burned hot around the edges. But there’s also some headache-inducing ultrasonics that make me think there’s a secret dolphin message hidden in here somewhere.
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Jonathan Bogart: The only reason Enrique Iglesias can get away with sounding like Enrique Iglesias is a) his name, and b) his looks. What’s Darin’s excuse?
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Katherine St Asaph: “I’m lost on the streets in the city of pain.” Wasn’t there a Lyttle Lytton winner like that? Judging by the bombast here, the city’s pain comes from blown-out eardrums.
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