It’s Past Jukebox Favorites day! These ones seem to have hit a snag…
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[5.00]
Iain Mew: One simple concept successfully carried out over a song’s length and three contributors, like watching a perfectly executed team sports move. BJ does the initial work to get them in place, sounding warm, contemplative and genuinely torn. Buddy does the setup with a hint of a twist, “hopefully we can go to heaven… ’cause I’m staying”, not quite clear what heaven he means. There’s the chance, and there’s Chance to emphatically take it, making the sex and drugs sound like a religious experience.
[8]
Thomas Inskeep: Appealingly boom-bap, solid verse from Chance, but I wish BJ had more to say.
[5]
Micha Cavaseno: BJ the Chicago Kid sounds here like a young Bilal, but unfortunately he remains one of the most struggliest struggle R&Bers; his attempts to sound modern are all cribbed from less self-conscious acts who don’t want to just fit in when they act like goofs, and his more noble attempts at being a real “soulful dude” (© of one Sean “Camel-Face” Carter-Knowles) are flat and listless. Just the mere presence of Buddy’s less explicit and ambiguous bursts or the effortless way Chance has worked towards writing about this theme to such gratifying results here undermine who is supposed to be the important part of the song.
[4]
Alfred Soto: If The Weeknd had written the drugs versus going to church chorus, he would’ve deflected blame to the party girl who wants to distract him from the Lord (and had sex with her afterwards). BJ doesn’t abandon the take-me-to-the-riverisms, but inserting an adverb in the line “hopefully we can go to heaven” at least signals doubt. The track’s still not great: as lethargic as a mediocre preacher delivering a boilerplate sermon, with backwards tapes and click track the only hint of momentum.
[5]
Juana Giaimo: Am I the only one who feels this is incredibly slow? The fakely innocent attitude interested me in the beginning but not even Chance the Rapper could make this song more dynamic.
[4]
Will Adams: A molasses tempo that gets mired in itself. The few times I’ve been hungover in church do not make me empathize more.
[4]