Mullumbimby say…
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[4.00]
Scott Mildenhall: America really liked Fergie last go-round, didn’t they? That was a very long time ago. On this showing she must have used the parts of it not with the Peas in a desperate, continued effort to find the actual London Bridge (will.i.am probably has bought it, to be fair), because it feels a five-minute job with a retained myopia. There’s naught compelling, just US-specific references wrapped inside a supposedly inclusive invocation to the world. Surely it’ll be downgraded to “buzz single” once the proper banger/ballad comes out.
[4]
Alfred Soto: For someone away so long she presumes a global ubiquity. I doubt Swedes and Russians say “la la la la.” Venice maybe — Venice, Florida.
[3]
Katherine St Asaph: Fergie takes a dizzying global pandering tour of atlas shoutouts and wordless singalong hooks — which is canny, given that in a decade Eurodance will be the last refuge for Fergie and her will.i.amtics. But sonically, she never leaves SoCal at its machine-gleamingest — and “Don’t Lie” piano sunshine aside, she mostly means the SoCal of DJ Mustard and “Rack City.” It’s entirely because we live in Anno Azalea that Fergie gets away with this; decide how you feel. The breathy pre-(pre?)-chorus bangs for a moment, but overall the Fergie/BEP stranglehold of the mid-2000s produced some of the worst years of the pop charts, and I’m not eager to revisit them.
[4]
Jer Fairall: In lifting the chorus hook of a dumb-catchy millennial hit, Ferg inadvertently calls back to the very last point in time that pop didn’t have her and will.i.am’s greasy fingerprints all over it, only to render it predictably stilted and shrill. A bonus point for inciting some unexpected nostalgia, though, and one more for the way she says “France.”
[3]
Kat Stevens: Thanks to Sporcle quizzes I’m pretty hot on my geographical knowledge and can name the capitals of the world in order of increasing difficulty in 9 minutes 56 seconds (Top Tip: it will accept “Colombo” for Sri Lanka as well as “Sri Jayawardenepura Kotte.”) I adore Fergie-Ferg, but she doesn’t need to read out place names to me, any more than I need to inform her where the “floowr” is. “London Bridge” was a shamelessly filthy, half-pissed and wholly navigationally challenged road trip. “L.A. Love” barely spends any time in L.A. and offers little to love.
[3]
Brad Shoup: It’s like she never left. It’s also like DJ Mustard never had an idea.
[2]
Micha Cavaseno: Fergie holds a special place in my heart, born not of genuine appreciation (though I have a soft spot for Wild Orchid and generally she’s made some good songs) but because that the advent of Stacy Ferguson resulted in the swift deflation of Gwen Stefani’s inexplicable rap cred for doing her lamb bleats on a terrible Eve song. Now Ferguson’s fooling about on authentic Mustard beats, as opposed to The Iguana’s mutant Frankenstein of a hit. I secretly imagine that’s what Mustard would want, as he’s had it to here with the Aussie’s antics. And while I doubt this is going to be the destructive weapon that “London Bridge” was, so many years have passed where folks might have forgotten her presence as the grafted-on Lauryn of a superior Fugees. I’d like to imagine this might help fight off some of the evils in the world.
[5]
Crystal Leww: Parts of “L.A. Love (La La)” I am thrilled about: the return of Fergie and the convergence of DJ Mustard’s rap and pop halves to create an amazing hybrid situation. Parts of “L.A. Love (La La)” I am less than thrilled about: surprisingly enough, Fergie herself, who seems to think that because she is from the wonderfully cosmopolitan Los Angeles it is not fucking gross that she is stealing from other people’s cultures. The fake patois that comes in and out throughout the track (even while referring to Jamaica and Kingston!) is gross; the “th” on Ibiza is laughably bad. Hell, even the cover art is quietly taken from chola culture. Even without the grossness, this is basically a song made of names of places and “lalalala.” Sometimes this simplicity works. This is not one of those times.
[5]
Jonathan Bradley: As preposterous as it is, Iggy Azalea’s fake accent was a smart move: a white woman who spits amateurish rhymes in an American inflection can go triple-plat, but if Iggy-Iggs on record actually sounded like a Mullumbimby girl she’d be scrambling for Thursday late night local alt-radio plays. It makes less sense for Fergie-Ferg to be aping Azalea, though I guess she’s feeling squeezed by a rising Miley Cyrus, who fills Fergie’s role in the pop landscape, only with more charisma and savvy. The bad Southern drawl makes even less sense for Fergie considering she’s proved she can use her not-quite-plausibly-down white girl schtick for enjoyable ends: the ethereally aspirational “Glamorous,” for instance, or her unexpectedly resonant guest spot on Kanye’s “All of the Lights.” “L.A. Love,” however, is a chore: a performer who always is better when she’s doing less paired with production that demands a rapper who can provide more.
[3]
Anthony Easton: I do like that Fergie makes little differentiation of her traveling to various places, and her fandom doing the same adds a layer of digital frisson to the bored and slightly isolated jet-setting of the rest of the track — even more so by reports that both Ibiza and St. Tropez are over.
[6]
Thomas Inskeep: Everything about this single is terrible and makes Fergie’s mid-’00s run seem good. Why is she trying so hard to sound “street”? And I guess naming lots of locations is her version of those market-specific drops included in different versions of Starship’s “We Built This City.” I’d never expect a Fergie single to be any good, but I’d expect her to at least try. (And for the record, “Fergalicious” is stupid fun.)
[2]
Megan Harrington: Fergie’s the master of swinging a sledgehammer at the piece of paper that divides annoying pop and party pop. All her singles are a murk of catchy bits and nasal mumble. I find this combination irresistible. I know “L.A. Love (La La)” is a fragile and precarious proposition, but I could listen to it for an hour straight and never mind. The ambiguity of whether I love or hate this song is a challenge I wholeheartedly accept.
[8]