That’s about one point per cheap lyrical shot, then.

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[5.29]

Anthony Easton: I found this quite seductive — maybe because of the speed of his flow, and the lassitude of the musical bed rock, or maybe because of the odd lyrical detail that seem well thought out, or perhaps because it almost reminds me of something Anglo-Caribbean, but they are both as American as it comes — no idea why this is affecting me as much as it is, but it’s great. 
[9]

Alfred Soto: This track has promise — excellent sample, propulsion, the attractive sheen of the thing — so why am I underwhelmed? Blame the flat tire of a chorus, which apes T.I. without the swag.
[6]

Al Shipley: I actually have no problem with J. Cole when he’s making his own beats and projecting an earnest nice guy persona. But when he’s pathetically puffing his chest out over budget Timbaland (courtesy of erstwhile Timbo protege Brian Kidd) the stench of his desperation is appalling.
[2]

Jonathan Bogart: I’m really, really loving this beat. Cole’s verses not so much — sure man, you’re a player, whatever — but the country-fried dub of the backing track, and Trey’s buttery hook, makes this instantly one of my favorite hip-hop songs all year.
[8]

Edward Okulicz: J Cole has crafted a fine track and sounds pretty pleased about it, odd because it suggests satiety on the part of the woman and trying too hard on his part. The best lines, or at least the ones everyone involved thinks are the best, are gratuitous in their blog baiting lameness. The song didn’t need beating pussies up to be the hook right thurr.
[7]

Brad Shoup: It’s still potential for J; whatever dusty curse or dodekathlon Drake performed, Mr. Cole hasn’t found a similar path. The parts are hurting the sum here, with nagging details like T.I.-style nerd hating (how down with the underground are you, man? and where’s the NC love?), a wafer-thin joke about fluid sexual orientation, and a giant hole where a hook goes. Kudos to Brian Kidd for unearthing the proto-Timbaland sounds of Balla et ses Balladins, but the futuristic folk, transferred in bulk, points up the lack in Cole’s muddled mission statement.
[4]

Sally O’Rourke: J Cole rattles off a string of sexual cacophemisms in decreasing order of eroticism, pausing occasionally to let Trey Songz yawn out a chorus with his usual level of commitment and personality (i.e., none). I’m not sure which is grosser: the line “I’ll beat the pussy up,” or J smirking “that’s the hook right there,” smug in the knowledge his place in the internet hype/outrage machine is secure.
[1]