Would have been an 8.00 if it had featured Kurupt. Discuss.

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[6.75]

Jer Fairall: So smoothly and charmingly old-school in its lyrical flow and no-additives funk sample that I don’t even feel like questioning his rather dubious prioritizing.
[7]

Mallory O’Donnell: Quik returns to his roots, admittedly an easy option. It’s hard to argue when he plays his role so damn well, crafting and barely rocking a beat that sounds great in any car equipped with a soundsystem more advanced than a boombox propped up on the middle back seat. Actually, this sounds good on that shit too. Still, one could argue that life might consist of more than a whip, some cash, and a bottle of champagne whose name you can’t pronounce.
[6]

Asher Steinberg: In spite of the conventional wisdom, I’ve always found Quik to be just an alright producer but a really wonderful rapper. He doesn’t exactly have a ton of technique, which is perhaps a large part of his charm, but even when he’s saying the most ordinary things he comes off as a more genuine, reflective, honest and interesting person than 98% of the rappers out there. These qualities, including his just alright production, are epitomized here.
[8]

Edward Okulicz: The slap of the beat is a jarringly un-subtle touch on something as cruisy as this. Maybe it’s deliberate – but then again, someone who likes Dom Perignon enough to drink it but not learn how to say it is clearly interested in his own pleasure first. Fortunately the sparing tinkles and sinuous bass are finely-calibrated pieces of craftsmanship, and a wonder to behold, so the pleasure isn’t all his.
[7]

Erick Bieritz: Not a lot of mainstream hip-hop can claim the maturity and honesty that gracefully aging player DJ Quik finds between “Luv of My Life” and his similarly themed recent single “Real Women.” He still has that almost nasally young voice, but he’s the model for growing up without growing out of the music he made when he was a kid. “Luv of My Life” can’t quite match “Real Women”‘s lustrous chorus, but it is another accomplished entry from hip-hop’s most consistent veteran.
[6]

Alfred Soto: As casually imperious as ever, DJ Quik reduces more than two decades’ worth of cold surveillance into a hedonist’s manifesto from which Travis Porter could learn lots. As usual it’s Quik’s pauses, unexpected interrogatives, and gulped consonants that keep me listening, and not the deliberate mispronunciation of a champagne he’s too old to think is the shit.
[7]

Renato Pagnani: In which during a trip to their local luxury automobile dealer, Quik and Gift come up with the idea to write a song dedicated to the true love of their lives. The track glimmers like a just-off-the-lot Maserati at dusk, a pillowy digital throb illuminating Quik and Gift’s 100-in-the-shade flows, at once both sun-soaked and restless. When Quik claims to not give a fuck about his haters, he’s not posturing. It’s just the truth.
[7]

Jonathan Bogart: You’d think something this portentous would leave more of an impression.
[6]