Blue Solo cups are for sensitive lovers, as we all know…
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[4]
Alfred Soto: It’s not Eldredge’s fault that he opens his mouth and out comes John Mayer in Laurel Canyon lech mode.
[4]
John Seroff: Maybe it’s just this creepy summer that we’re all caught up in but anyone who can listen to this without envisioning Eldredge whispering this song to himself, peering out of his car with binoculars and frantically masturbating with his free hand is a better (worse?) man than I.
[3]
Katherine St Asaph: The musical equivalent of a creepshot caption, sung as a caterwaul. (Does Brett even know that literally every store sells cutoffs?)
[2]
Daniel Montesinos-Donaghy: In an Anytown drinking an Anybeer, Brett Eldredge closely entertains a dance as it plays out between him and our Anywoman. He observes the moves she makes — brushing her hands past him, use of sultry body language, an ability to wear the right jean size. His attention to detail walks a thin line between teasing and creepy, the specifics delivered as starchly as possible. The chorus does away with the boogie-down banjos and strumalongs, stripping the track down to a kickdrum and Eldredge’s macho quiver: “Everythaaang about ya makes me want ya, want ya.” Finally, some urgency, some sex, some thing. But don’t worry! He only wants your “head on [his] shoulder,” nothing too raunchy ma’am. Eldredge attests to love the games you play, but God forbid if you dare take his advances beyond the plate and first base. He’s not a player, he just crushes a lot.
[5]
Brad Shoup: He handles his vowels like John Mayer. That’s my biggest takeaway. Oh, and pop’s utter inability of late to write a song about desire that doesn’t involve dudes breaking codes to get to the all-important sex inside. So many “don’t”s and “didn’t”s; am I really supposed to assent to this?
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