We’ve reviewed four songs by him now, apparently. I remember the one about him inventing sex, but beyond that I’m struggling…
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[6.75]
Martin Skidmore: Trey has never been a terribly interesting singer, and while he gets a cheery party beat here, it’s inevitably Nicki who totally steals the show, with a guest verse that is ridiculous even by her crazy standards, with bizarre mentions of Anna Nicole Smith and Joseph & Mary, all in a rather childish voice. Fantastic, though the rest is just okay.
[7]
Anthony Easton: This is the first track I have heard by Minaj where the manic aesthetic presentation matches the vocal presentation.
[8]
Al Shipley: This is such a rote and perfunctory “club banger” that it all but demands scarequotes. But that also means that for once manic Minaj is a welcome presence just for breaking up the monotony and bringing the energy level to where it should be, if briefly.
[5]
Chuck Eddy: Trey’s butts-equal-bottles and Thuggish Ruggish operatics actually make me smile a bit, despite their dumb crassness. Then Nicki makes me smile more, until I realize she’s just spinning wheels.
[5]
John Seroff: I’ve already established my process for properly enjoying Trey’s singlez: regardless of how unpleasant it seems at first, listen ten times through and they come around. My earlier thoughts about Trey being the noughties Ginuwine Junior seem even more apt when Songz is riding oddly syncopated “550 What” clone production, complete with Timbo’s signature burble over the breakdowns. Nicki’s guest verse sounds furious but signifies nothing; her flow has gotten steadily better but her lyrical prowess remains lacking. These days she’s vying to edge out Marshall Mathers for 2010’s “best form/lousiest function” award; confounding shout outs to Anna Nicole Smith aside, how the hell are you going to shout “RIM RIM RIM” in a song called “Bottoms Up” and not connect the dots to a juicier topic than salt on your margarita glass? I appreciate the fourteen different voices. Now say something.
[8]
Alfred Soto: Maybe Nicki was attracted to Trey’s unexpected vocal elongations. As a cartoonish gold digger incarnating the stupid fantasies of yet another victim of VIP lounge envy, she’s welcome. But their vocals don’t interact at all; he could be singing from the line outside the club. Poetic justice, I suppose.
[4]
Alex Macpherson: On the first 10 or so listens, “Bottoms Up” is all about Nicki Minaj upstaging a lead artist yet again (and who more prone to being upstaged than the inescapably inconsequential Trey Songz?). Her verse is a marvel: intoxicated not by booze but by her own schizophrenia, Minaj veers from an alcoholic’s inner monologue to club coquettery to hard-ass swagger (with lesbian subtext) to unhinged, merciless sadism to a butter-wouldn’t-melt goodie-goodie charity drive to an Anna Nicole Smith impression out of nowhere and then downs it all in one. Just trying to keep up with the madly spinning gyroscope in Minaj’s brain – RIMRIMRIMRIM – leaves you breathless. Don’t be fooled by her ur-generic surroundings, though: ostensibly a mere foil for a rampaging Minaj, a host of odd little distinctive details bubble throughout the rest of “Bottoms Up”: Songz’ pained, echoing backing vocals, a certain clutching claustrophobia in the beat’s tautness. [10] for Minaj, [7] for the rest of it.
[8]
Mark Sinker: The arrangement’s curiously barbershop — as in striped blazers, straw hats, lyric and melody distilled into drops and pops, very whiffenpoof song — which obviously suits the careening-through-a-champagne-binge mood: to top it Nicki M pulls off a tricky triple entrechat of doing fake-drunk well, doing fake-drunk funny, and actually being funny-drunk the way a very few drunks know they are.
[9]