Many compounds start out linked by a hyphen but as the compound form becomes more established there is a tendency for the hyphen to disappear. In general, adjectives formed in this way become one word, nouns become either two words or one word set solid. This process of compounding should be distinguished from the ad hoc formation of compounds which in adjectival forms at least demand the hyphen so that the reader can see which elements are attached…
[Video][Website]
[5.00]
[5]
Will Adams: Everything in “Tom Ford” is interesting except its star. Timbaland’s beat — a concoction of 8-bit flurries and pinging percussion — is interesting. Beyoncé’s uncredited appearance — mysterious, almost unrecognizable — is interesting. That the hook’s “I don’t pop molly I rock Tom Ford” features a bizarre drop in volume on the title, like it was haphazardly spliced in from another take, is interesting. Jay-Z, however, is not interesting, unless you find it interesting to wonder how long he’s prepared to keep this up.
[4]
Anthony Easton: I am not sure this is boring because I know no longer care about Jay Z, or if this is boring because it is boring. It might be like Tom Ford’s fragrances (which last forever, are swooningly gorgeous, are filled with old school glamour, and have a central blankness that only a genial expense for expense’s sake can fill), or it might be like Tom Ford’s clothes (which aren’t that well made, are terribly boring, are closer to Halston in the 1970s, and are very close to being sold at JC Penney). That Tom Ford is making perfume for Sephora is telling on where Jay Z fits into this metaphor.
[4]
Crystal Leww: The beat on this is fine; the video game-esque flourishes during the hook are a little out of place and annoying, but the rest of the beat does a good job of echoing all over. However, nothing sounds more old and sad and out of touch than Jay Z rapping about how Tumblr and Twitter are irrelevant. Bro, you are friends with Obama! How can you think that the Internet doesn’t matter?
[4]
Jonathan Bradley: As the next “On to the Next One,” “I don’t pop molly; I rock Tom Ford” is an upgrade on “D.O.A.” if only because rap’s fixation with the drug is truly becoming tedious and an artist as adept at selling out as Hov should never have pretended he was too thug for Auto-Tune. (Barely noticed in the Rick Ross furore was that that’s not even how molly works! Can we at least bring “thizz” back?) Jay rhymes “District of Columbia” and “Tumblr,” and even if he sounds like your dad a trend-spotting news reporter when he says it, “140 characters in these streets” is nice. Even better is the perfectly-pitched humblebraggy ambivalence of “party[ing] with weirdos.” As a younger man, however, he wouldn’t have been outshined by Timbo’s airplane hangar-sized beat.
[8]
Alfred Soto: “Tom Ford” signifies as opulence for the Condé Nast set, but the way Jay uses the name and nods towards the vaguely tribal beat you’d think he meant Gerald Ford.
[4]
John Seroff: “Tom Ford” falls under the umbrella of what my twenty-something hip hop loving friend calls “rich people shit” but who else does corporate synergy better than Jay-Z? Timbo’s robotically precise bass and click track, ghostly percussion echoes, and an electronic raspberry of chiptune offer a slight but definite throwback to creatively better days. Jay isn’t rapping about much of anything (“140 characters in these streets” is some forty-something shit) but he tackles the lyrics with a vitality and brio I haven’t heard in him since ’07. All in all, far better than it has any right to be; appropriately, it’s an extravagantly expensive cut that looks good on the right people.
[7]
Brad Shoup: I’m not interested in docking Jay for 1% subject matter, especially because the Black portion of that portion is minuscule. Hell, I don’t have the slightest what it means to be set for life, or to run in rarified financial circles. Any glimpse would be neat. So let him have fun. But let it be fun. Unfortunately, Mr. Carter mails it in, settling for wobbly bars, gassed pauses, and half-hearted hashtags. There’s a glimpse of some interesting class-based frisson: the phrase “weird clothes” sticks out, and the second half is given uncomfortably back to the hustle and some Houston authenticity. Meanwhile, Timbo’s gurgling snap track is immaculate but not immediate: the synth raspberries rest in the bowl like a still life. No one here is interested in breaking into a higher sonic bracket, and that’s a problem only partially attributable to cash on hand.
[4]