Like Daughtry, perhaps…

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[3.29]

Anthony Easton: Two middle aged men teaching the younger generation how to work through the aesthetics of pleasure. The problem is that people like Gilbert or Ford or Aldean or Moore are much better at the drinking, yelling, riding kind of songs, while both McGraw and Chesney were never really pleasure for pleasure’s sake kind of fellows. So they seem like pathetic old men a decade out of practice on at least two levels. The interesting question, and I don’t quite have an answer for this, is how come Shelton can play with Levine and Cee Lo and appear to fit in with people 20 years younger than him, or how come a song like “Red Solo Cup” fits in at the ACM Awards without much silliness or out of place oddity?
[4]

Iain Mew: I’ve never really wanted to be a rock star, especially after a week of busting my ass. It seems like too much hard work, an impression which this song isn’t doing anything to change.
[2]

Alfred Soto: With McGraw stopping by like a long-married dad whose wife and daughters are at Target, Chez can’t offer his guest tastier beer than Coors. McGraw, too polite to refuse, listens to Chez complain about the divorcee he bagged last night, farts, and says his goodbyes.
[4]

Josh Langhoff: “Feeling like a rock star” apparently equals “going to some lengths to avoid facing the pain of everyday existence.” Like the Stones in “It’s Only Rock ‘n Roll”, these guys blend arena pandering with a seething contempt for their own audience; though I gotta say, any audience rocking out to this sorry-ass stomp halfway deserves the contempt.
[4]

Brad Shoup: Everyone, from the dude who wrote “Coke in the Crown” to the person who OKed the limp chord change into a deflated chorus to McGraw busting out a sleeve-stifled yawn of a “yeah,” seems to have a vested interest in keeping the secrets of rock stardom alive. The lead guitarist gets away with a Morello-style fillip, but you’re still nowhere close to getting your money’s worth.
[1]

Katherine St Asaph: “Let’s rock this house!” Kenny barked at the smattering outside the YMCA tent. Tim McGraw emerged from behind an ersatz chafing dish of sloppy joes, pumped his barbecue-sauced fist and chugged a plastic cup of Bud Lite in response. They all shuffled to guitar feedback until the wee hour of nine o’clock.
[4]

Jonathan Bogart: You mean all posturing and self-indulgence, with nothing but the vacant world you’ve created feeding itself back to you? Yeah, sounds like a rock star too.
[4]