I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling stomach flu…

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[3.89]

Katherine St Asaph: John Mayer is an asshole. This, by now, is common knowledge — everywhere, that is, but in his songs, which are pleasant display after pleasant display of the sort of kindly, anodyne proficiency that gets guys called “sensitive.” Generally the lyrics are less so, but it’s nevertheless easy while listening to forget that the man strumming once bragged about having a “David Duke cock,” in a tone that suggested it was at least the fifth time he’d used the brag. “Paper Doll,” though, brings his persona far closer to his personality: a cut of endless condescension and lines like “this [dress] we made just for fall — in winter it runs a bit too small.” (For any aspiring RapGenius annotators out there, some free IQ: he’s calling her fat.) The titular doll is Taylor Swift, and Mayer plants Speak Now and Red references like clickbait beacons or — with apologies to Maggie Nelson — like red flags on a moon whose sole purpose it is to host red flags. (His celestial body is a — no.) Predictably, this has nabbed all the press — because it’s the only compelling thing about “Paper Doll”: too overwrought to be a lullaby, too inert to be a song. (Ironically, that’s also the problem with Swift’s ballads, but I doubt that’s what Mayer was going for.) Mayer betrays a pulse only once: on “someone’s gonna paint you another sky,” where in a spot of synesthesia you can actually see him triumphantly slam his pen and nod solemnly at his cleverness. He should’ve left it there, because voice, guitar and tempo fade again to muddling, and dear John is left smirking alone into silence. John Mayer’s only good at demolishing himself.
[1]

Anthony Easton: This might be the most misogynist song that we have blurbed this year. (“Blurred Lines” might be worse.) But the problem with Mayer is that he is very good at what he does. The guitar is immaculate, the vocals are sumptuous, and the song is so well-constructed that it’s floating. Even worse, I find his presentation seductive. That line about his undershirt, the smallest intimate detail, and I am on board. I would fuck John Mayer. No one should fuck John Mayer. But knowing the games he is playing and falling for those games are two different tasks. 
[6]

Alfred Soto: Playing his instrument with the anonymous proficiency of a George Benson, John Mayer edges closer to sessioneer territory. But he can’t resist turning songs into Tweet repositories. From “you’re like 22 girls in one/and none of ’em know what they’re running from” to the bit about the heels and undershirt, he’s on one knee begging for a kick in the jaw.
[5]

Edward Okulicz: See, what was so biting about “Dear John” was that it was a response song to John Mayer that sounded like John Mayer. A counter-response to Taylor Swift whose lyrical blows can all be denied in case of backlash, delivered in Mayer’s usual style with Mayer’s usual maudlin mouth affliction, is just a nothing of a song with a nothing of a talking point.
[4]

Patrick St. Michel: The fact that countless websites can run a “Is This John Mayer’s Diss Song Towards Taylor Swift?” headline regarding this track sums up its biggest problem — as a response song aimed at a specific person, “Paper Doll” comes off as wishy-washy and passive-aggressive, soft-rock swagger propping up some petty “u mad?” sentiments.
[2]

Iain Mew: “Paper Doll” has a lovely guitar lick, relaxed atmosphere and enough instrumental touches to keep from getting boring. The first couple of times it drifted by pleasantly. Then I caught “you’re like 22 girls in one, and none of them know what they’re running from/was it just too far to fall for a little paper doll?” and now it snags every time, both condescending and more smugly clever than its metaphor deserves.
[4]

Jonathan Bradley: “Sure was fun being good to you,” sulks Mayer while his fingers weave wispy guitar threads into fussy lace trim. The acidity is an awkward counterpoint to the tune’s blousy softness, as if a sour undertone had been allowed to drift into the tune’s bourgeois placidity by mistake. Nonetheless, this turn about soft rock’s manicured lawn would be pleasant were it not waylaid by that nursery rhyme coda. Condescend to your subject if you must, John, but please don’t offer the listener the same treatment.
[4]

Brad Shoup: Now I’m thinking Johnny should take his Daniel Fichelscher guitar and join Fuck Buttons. Single after single, we’ve watched him unmoored, falling into a black hole of studio placidity. But there’s a hint of holy wonder in the final 20 seconds, with some lovely canine whine courtesy of (I guess?) a guitar mimicking a steel. Maybe Mayer should just explore sound for a while.
[5]

Jonathan Bogart: I like lullaby-peddling John Mayer far more than joke-telling John Mayer, douche-bro John Mayer, or guitar-hero John Mayer. I still don’t like any of him that much.
[4]