We’re irritated about the featured-credits order too…
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Jonathan Bogart: I take it this means he’s gotten over Nayer?
[4]
Brad Shoup: Still trying to decide what’s the saddest thing about this track. We’ve got some options: the title that surely began as a scrawl on the back of a topline writer’s Peet’s receipt, Pitbull trying to write a book report from his passport, Shakira slotting her vocals into the standard dance-pop melody sequence, or the OOPS POW SURPRISE synth solemnity at the end. I suppose when one manager emails a PDF contract to another, that’s a collaboration of sorts.
[1]
Patrick St. Michel: The first time Pitbull and Shakira got together was on “Rabiosa,” and that song laid out a pretty good template on how the two could work together — let Shakira take the lead while Pitbull circles around doing his semi-sleazy murmuring. The roles are reversed on “Get It Started,” but that’s not the problem, as Shakira’s segments sound fine and Pitbull is Pitbull, reminding us of how many stamps are in his passport in case we questioned the “Mr. Worldwide” title. Nope, problem here is that bleating electro portion, a bland eruption that still manages to overshadow the two artists.
[4]
Will Adams: Shakira wants to be an anonymous hook singer, but this pesky thing called personality gets in the way. RedOne and Afrojack want to make you dance, but they only make a third of something interesting. Pitbull wants to get it started, but he’s too busy being proud of his references like he’s Seth MacFarlane.
[4]
Edward Okulicz: I used to think I understood Pitbull, but he’s always the least interesting thing about even his good singles (“I Know You Want Me,” “Give Me Everything”). The overwhelming kitchen-sink deployment of every patch on the producer’s mixing desk that happens at the end is the star here, finally taking the nondescript dance-pop of the rest of the track and making something distinct and remarkable from it: a headache.
[3]
Anthony Easton: It’s aggressive and unsettling when Pitbull growls the line “don’t start what you can’t finish.” There’s been a punishing exchange between the two of them, and after that line, it moves past game-playing.
[6]
Alfred Soto: Thanks to trilly femme backups and a commitment to a non-existent hook, Shakira’s in her own head space. She’s not partying with a clod, she’s ignoring those sawtooth synths, she’s trembling on the edge of seventeen-and-fifteen. Who can blame her when her companion boasts that the only ball he drops is on New Year’s Eve, claims he’s the “thrilla from Manila” (really! so am I!), and wastes autobiographical material on Guetta-isms.
[3]
Colin Small: Shakira holding her own, standing at the center of a perfect storm of boring.
[4]