Russian TV personality goes sad, frosty electropop, as you do…
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[6.00]
Katherine St Asaph: It’s almost summer, and I’m woefully short on sad, sunsick Europop. This will do nicely as I melt.
[7]
Adaora Ede: “Privykayu” is evocative of falling into a turgid sleep, of which after you are awoken, you are greeted with a choice: take the red pill, and behold yourself to taking pleasure in the hot new track as ethereal nouveau new wave with a touch of minimalism, or take the blue pill, and leave this normie fodder subject to criticism to the awkward realm of tropo house that forgot to bring the marimba. It’s not in me to leave my poptimism at home, but it’s a struggle when Buzova comes off as despairing diva with a case of the shivers. The song could have done the whole minor key Calvin Harris piano thing that I heard in one of the last pre-choruses throughout the whole song, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers with their Garage Band synth kits.
[4]
Jessica Doyle: I am thankful to translators often — perhaps not as often as I should be — rarely more than when I found out that one Yaren F., God bless her, says that one of the lyrics is “Your oaths turned out to be pulp.” As if the sudden stop for actual piercing shrieks, followed by a renewed synth trying to gain control, weren’t impressive enough.
[7]
Will Adams: The contrast between the highly present synth bass — sticky and smacking like a sour hard candy — and everything else — frosty electropop — is compelling stuff. Olga herself isn’t too present, her sadness palpable but too often folded into the music.
[6]
David Sheffieck: I think a big part of the mistake here is leading with the chorus, which is good but not great: Buzova needs something more than a slightly-lusher version of the verses to really make the song click, and by the time the first verse lands she’s already shown her hand. Which is a shame; what’s here is pleasant enough, but sounds like the kind of track a DJ would drop in between a genuine floor-filler.
[6]
Ryo Miyauchi: While the sturdy synth-pop suggests a sense of newfound toughness fit to shed a haunting loneliness, Olga Buzova herself is nowhere ready. She’s tired to the point she starts to not recognize emotion: these aren’t tears, it’s water, so the chorus goes. The wear from routine masks hopelessness as nonchalance, and it adds an extra chill to the icy disco.
[6]