ROCHELLE JORDAN - FOLLOW ME
It’s Monday. It’s only natural for us to want to talk about the weekend…
Crystal Leww: Okay, yeah, I can hear that Weeknd influence here.
Patrick St. Michel: This is how I wish The Weeknd would have adjusted to being in the pop spotlight.
Katherine St Asaph: So effortless — breezing through melisma then affectless flirt, slinking through clouds, being a perfect distaff counterpart to her Toronto pals in every way but the creepy — that I can’t tell whether she’s crushed-out and pretending to be uninvested or the other way round. Probably that’s on purpose.
Anthony Easton: The softness of this is a rhetorical gesture that convinces without a need for the violence of hot power. There is a feminist message in how much information it processes, without spitting or screaming. Not that spitting or screaming are without their uses, but it is useful to have more than one knife in the kit.
Jonathan Bradley: Rochelle Jordan’s R&B never tethers itself, and in its haziness it is reminiscent of fellow Torontonians The Weeknd. But though “Follow Me” sounds like it’s in danger of being scattered by the slightest breeze, the multi-tracked vocal tones are warm and inviting — pastels, not greyscale — as if Jordan had figured out how the genre’s mid-’90s incarnation could be evaporated.
Alfred Soto: Multitracking the vocals creates the desired effect: hued hologram R&B, as shimmering and ephemeral as late winter sunlight. Fans of Amerie and an Aaliyah free of angst would do well to mix a gin and tonic and sit on the porch in sandals.
Brad Shoup: So light, so assured, so it’s up to the trap drums to drive it home. But I can’t really suspend my disbelief vis-a-vis the worthiness of this guy. If you’re going to play it cool, he really ought to be, too.
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