![]() In a generation of music that loves throwback sounds, there's really nothing that throws it back quite this far. ![]() It starts sounding like a sweet Victorian ballroom song sparse pianos and a simple yet charming melody, coupled with the lack of percussion really leads to a magical sound. "Like Lovers Do" is a completely mystical, wholly unexpected masterpiece. Greater songs have been kept out of sight. From the melodies to the cloying attempt at a catchphrase, it feels so disconnected from any real attempt at a hit to the point you wonder why this was released as it was. Plus, this bad Duke Dumont hijack of Maya Jane Coles doesn't even sound like anything plugged into what was hot at any particular time. It's a bitter irony: someone desperate to change who never needed to, and someone too stubborn to recognize how antiquated they've become. And Minaj's verse-by-numbers, complete with unnecessary sung outro and dustbin bars, feels like someone who's been sleepwalking since 2012. In Perry's case, there's been an insistent attempt to change what's working for her and mimic other people's successes when, considering how the personality-bleached "Rise" was a home run for her, that's the last thing she needed to do. Maxwell Cavaseno: The "dance like dubstep" line by Nicki is the perfect thing to overstate as to why both artists have been failing to hit their marks. Yet somehow it works: the unsweet tea to Meghan Trainor's Arnold Palmer of "Me Too," a machine that looks inexplicably polished. If you're going to keep glomming onto sports because they're now the monoculture that music is not, at least stick to the metaphor." Managing editor: "STOP BEING MUSIC GEEKY.") Everything suggests the kind of song that only coheres with the memes and fake context. (Editors one and two: "what the fuck?" Editor three: "And every bad lyric has nothing to do with basketball anyway. But at least it belongs in a house track - unlike the hook (probably Starrah), which belongs in a track that draws out its menace, or the verses (probably Sarah Hudson evidence), which belong in Pink's "Can't Take Me Home" and in the care of several more editors. (He's not disowning it, at least.) If you're very charitable you might see this as Duke Dumont trying, as all pop-house producers do, to prove he Knows His History, but perhaps not, given the aforementioned infinite samples and how Katy's team uses it as a reaction GIF. ![]() "Things have changed from true believers of the music to a more commercialized version of what used to be," said Roland Clark about his infinitely sampled "I Get Deep," so I'm sure he's just thrilled about his words trickling up uncredited, via Fatboy Slim via Duke Dumont, to a Katy Perry song. Katherine St Asaph: "Walking on Air" was the best track on Prism, and I'm still not sure how Maya Jane Coles isn't everywhere for how much she's influenced pop, so the synthesis was bound to be both good and ascribed to no one involved. Cartman feels victorious, but Taylor Swift shows up, saying that she just convinced the president to tack a 2014 Nicki Minaj verse he found in his Recycle Bin onto the end and release the damn song anyway." ![]() The president decides to pull the new Katy Perry album before its release. Cartman convinces the president that they need to show them what is what. Cartman secretly removes a ball from their tank, causing Katy Perry to stop working, and then convinces the Capitol Records president that she is spoiled and abusing the executives' generosity. Katy Perry refuses to sing if any idea ball is removed from their tank, making critique an unfeasible practice with her. The staff, who live in a large tank, pick up "idea balls" from a large pile of them, each of which has a different animal, quote from direct-to-DVD sleeper hit Bring It On 4: The Bringing On Of The It, or gentrified black slang term written on it, and deliver them, five at a time, to a machine that then forms a verse based on those ideas. Mo Kim: "Cartman is introduced to Katy Perry's songwriting staff, who turn out to be a group of manatees.
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