And finally, the return of Tove Lo, with a song untypeable at your editor’s workplace…

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Alex Clifton: Combine a more sexually explicit early Ellie Goulding song with a bizarre descending pre-chorus synth drop and the feeling of listening to “Get Lucky” underwater and you end up with “Disco Tits.” It screams “teenage house party”: you can hear the hangover on the horizon. It’s also empty, the equivalent of a watered-down vodka shot. Tove Lo does grandiose so well, but a song called “Disco Tits” needs way more disco.
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Micha Cavaseno: Over a groove that sounds like Al Bleek & Kid Drama trying to revive the Murk Records catalog for their own ghastly benefits, Tove Lo is both too concrete and too intangible a hedonist to be pinned down to one aesthetic; that said, were Abel Tesfaye ever to honestly admit to his egotism, maybe he could get something close to this level of divinity, but frankly the poor kid hasn’t actually convinced us he’s as much of a wastrel as he claims, y’know? Meanwhile, our Scandinavian friend’s falsetto sounds like #PEAK as much as her supposed peaks, and the lows both throb and entrench along the grooves of the record, resembling Kylie Minogue getting not so much trashed as Kristen-Bell-in-Deadwood-getting-concussed level battered. A coastal sinkhole of debauchery that you wouldn’t mind being inescapable.
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Alfred Soto: She’s never been uninteresting, and the organ line prodding the double tracked distorted vocals is one of the year’s shrewdest instrumental tricks. I have a distinct memory of a male friend called Disco Tits in the early ’00s too. Maybe I’d grade this on a curve if Nick Jonas sang it. On the merits, though, this “Disco Tits” is a goose pimply dance floor experience.
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Katherine St Asaph: Someone on ILX made an offhand comment that blew Tove Lo’s music wide open for me: comparing her to Liz Phair. Which would seem like the shallowest possible comparison to make about a hard-nipple-centric track called “Disco Tits” — but it’s the blunt affect, rendering cool girls and true disasters and being high as fuck as the same emotional shade. For Tove Lo it’s a specific effect: distanced, unreal (particular in the high register, with just a little much autotune) with no “there” there. What is there — hyper-there — is the track, careening through chromatics and repeats and Max Martin disco without quite sticking on either, as if you’re too far gone to register more than 66% of “Can’t Feel My Face.” Among life’s worse truths is that nothing is so seductive as the way music sounds when you’ve been drinking, how every song cracks itself open to reveal its neon Moonside version, then shuts itself back up the hours before and after. Lady Wood, unsurprisingly, was especially susceptible to the effect; probably this would be too. I wish I didn’t want to find out.
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Jessica Doyle: I can’t remember the last time I disliked a song so thoroughly and immediately as I do this piece of defeatist tripe, somehow titled “Disco Tits” despite having no relation to either disco or tits. We can argue about what disco was, and whether a callout to “disco” isn’t just another prop in the era of James Franco watching himself play two roles, but it would be giving the song a veneer of care it doesn’t have: “disco” and “tits” are empty signifiers, stripped of anything they might once have had, including humor. (A song about being high as fuck with references to disco, but no disco fries!) The sample accomplishes absolutely nothing besides calling attention to the fact that the producers involved have the power to sample. Tove Lo chants about hard nipples as if she’s vaguely aware that out there are people thinking about sex and robots and dehumanization but what’s the point of actually learning anything when you can just wander into a recording studio and walk out paid, who cares? This is such a complete waste of time I can’t even bring myself to hope that the people who created it have enough humanity to hate themselves a little.
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Julian Axelrod: Here’s a fun experiment: Imagine any other major pop star trying to pull this off. Imagine if Katy, or Ariana, or (god forbid) Taylor put out a single talking about hard nipples. No one but Tove Lo could sound this cool, this blase, this tongue-in-cheek. “Disco Tits” plays out like a prequel to “Habits” — specifically, the moment when you’ve had one drink too many and everything just looks like shapes and colors and you’re about fifteen minutes away from remembering why you don’t go out that much. But no one makes bad decisions sound more fun than Tove Lo.
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Leonel Manzanares de la Rosa: Come on, it’s a song called “Disco Tits,” it’s exactly what we expected, and exactly what we needed. Tove Lo out-Tove Lo-ing herself. The performance is still so engaging that dumb title ends up being the least interesting thing about it. It’s all about her embracing that silly, raunchy image, immorally catchy hooks and all. And so should you. 
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