Swedish blog mafia…
[Video]
[6.00]
Wayne Weizhen Zhang: “Listen up/Listen to me now,” Robyn repeats over and over, seemingly breaking the fourth wall for her cult following. On “Call My Name,” she hurls affirmation after affirmation, the dancehall matriarch of legions of fans begging to soak them up. The track lacks the full effervescence of the best that Robyn has to offer, but boy does this hit.
[8]
Leah Isobel: Robyn radiates empathy wherever she goes, and her mere presence connotes depth and subtlety. “Call My Name” finds her suspended in soupy psychedelia whispering sweet, vacuous platitudes, but she’s more than up to the challenge; she infuses every word with life, and her ad-libs at the end of the song sound like fireworks going off. It’s the kind of thing she can do in her sleep. Personally, though, I prefer the collabs that push her natural warmth into heat.
[6]
Katie Gill: I get the feeling that Robyn is doing most of the heavy lifting here. The instrumental is so deliberately loosey-goosey and gauzy that any vocal that isn’t as precise as Robyn’s offers the potential for everything to go south and for this to fall into a dreamlike pile of mush.
[5]
Anna Katrina Lockwood: Didn’t need to look at the credits to know that a member of Peter Bjorn and John was involved with this.
[5]
Scott Mildenhall: The richness of so many Robyn lyrics makes the times she sings something so open-hearted all the more affecting. Combined with the perpetual end-of-summer sound that presumably supports Björn Yttling just as steadfastly, her pledge bears a breeziness that belies its intensity of feeling; at least until the song’s crescendo. But by that point the sense of security is established. This is no grandstanding, no product of desperation — more the reassertion of an unbreakable bond, for whenever it might be needed.
[8]
Edward Okulicz: There’s nothing unpleasant about this, but the sing-songy, jingly nature of the tune itself doesn’t go well with Robyn’s 100-per-cent-feeling-it empathy. I suspect this would have made sense with a far worse — or at least far more blank and sunny — singer.
[5]
Alfred Soto: With Robyn singing and presumably writing the lyrics, there’s little chance amiably forgettable throwbacks like “Call My Name” can fail, but if you hear the trad rock arrangement acting as a bridle: bingo.
[6]
Andrew Karpan: Much like soft rock pilfered late ’60s psychedelia to find imagery to dress up middle-of-the-road communiques for truck drivers, the late blog rock era remains there for the pickings. Here, it’s done by some of its original progenitors: Robyn, who animates the recording efforts of a diligent duo of diligent Swedish indie scenesters and toys around with their sincere interest in cornball nostalgia. That the plane lands is no surprise, but the trip wasn’t very far.
[5]