As in “Getting Out Our…”?
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[6.22]
Will Adams: A sharp turn from the subdued and gorgeous Morning Phase, “Dreams” is perhaps the most conventional Beck’s sounded in a long time. Drum machines and jangly guitars set the stage for a simple yet effective chorus in which the title arrives in gloriously layered deliveries: “DREAMS, dreams dreams, dr-dr-dr-dreams,” as if Beck is exploring the various possibilities of reverie, from nightmarish to idyllic. Polished and punchy, “Dreams” is a testament to both Beck’s versatility and knack for pop songwriting.
[8]
Thomas Inskeep: Being a guy in his mid-40s who loved Beck through the ’90s (and not so much since), this succeeds at precisely the kind of white-boy-funkiness that Walk the Moon (to my ears) stumble over. It’s even got a breakdown/ending reminiscent of the vibe, but not the music, of “Devil’s Haircut.” I suspect the key here is Beck’s former touring keyboardist Greg Kurstin, who’s not just a former member of Geggy Tah (!) but is now a Grammy-nommed producer for the likes of P!nk, Kelly Clarkson, and Sia. Credit him with bringing the “funk,” such as it is, back outta Beck. This is no Midnite Vultures, but it’s the closest thing he’s done to it since then, and I’ll take it.
[7]
Anthony Easton: One of the best things that the Beck of Midnight Vultures taught me is that respect and parody or pleasure and formal satire are not mutually exclusive. Beck as sex god is an excellent joke because it seems implausible until the music asserts itself, and the listener feels a bit guilty about ever doubting him. In the last few years, his work has been cerebral, and low key — often melancholy, and I have missed that ass-shaking, guttural, horn-laden moaner.
[8]
Juana Giaimo: Beck has always been known for reinventing himself; this doesn’t necessarily mean that he must be the most creative artist alive, as some people expect from him, but that he has a tendency to explore different aspects of music. “Dreams” isn’t, therefore, something brand new, but through it we get to know one of Beck’s abilities that’s not often pointed out: his pop sensibility, which was predominant in the overlooked Modern Guilt. It’s impossible not to feel the teenage vibes with a line like “Nothing’s gonna get me in my world,” which are also represented by the idealism of dreams. He hasn’t gone back to his crazy youth of the ’90s, but this is, instead, a mature way of rejuvenating himself.
[8]
David Sheffieck: It’s very pleasant, at least; but just because it’s upbeat doesn’t make it any more memorable than Beck’s snoozy last album. He’s mistaking anonymous jangle and straightforward drumbeats for hooks, and it seems a little desperate. The outro is a missed opportunity: distorted and heavy and unexpected, it’d be great to hear a song built around that sound. Instead, it just emphasizes what’s missing from the preceding three minutes.
[6]
Alfred Soto: I’m awake, the opening guitar riff, feisty drums, and oh-ohs scream (“wake up from your reverie,” he sings as if we’d missed the point). But these elements are a smokescreen. Beck’s written another number about tuning out, about girls who make him high, about avoiding the beautiful world.
[5]
Micha Cavaseno: Hearing Beck flirt with modernity via glitch-edits and the modern indie clapalong style, with his trademark dive-bomber slurs shaved into perfect shapes is an interesting development, suggesting Grammy success has him feeling an inexplicable desire to try and chase superstar status. In fact, had you told me this was a new artist and not the guy who’d made Mellow Gold, I wouldn’t raise an eyebrow twice honestly. The switch up into the “E-Pro” style “big groove” suggests he isn’t too far from calling up the Dust Brothers or Godrich and making a “real Beck song,” before succumbing to the groove again. Just to show that deep inside this anysong is a guy who made a specific kind of song. Once.
[4]
Brad Shoup: You can’t spell “mental image pictures” without MGMT. With the assistance of Greg Kurstin, Beck splits the difference between EDM pop and gloom-rock for yet another bout of obnosis. After some mighty Guero-style riffage, his covert hostility erupts at the end, in the paradoxical form of cool Liverpudlian lava. He spends so much time with his eyes closed it’s hard to find the comm line, but dancing’s as good a solitary pursuit as anything.
[6]
Ramzi Awn: Beck’s aim at relevance isn’t misguided, but it isn’t wholly convincing either. The yelps are borrowed, and the touch of Tori is welcome but uninspired. “Get Lucky” riffs won’t get you everywhere.
[4]