This song has an awful title. It sounds like it should be the name of some horrible bar in Tijuana. That's okay—ignore it. Drake's latest is lush and lovely. And perfect for a Monday.
For me, the front of the weekday choo choo train means balancing the blast of workplace brain chemicals (INTERNET INTERNET!) with the lingering looseness of the weekend. A little bit white wine, a little bit giant glass of scotch and jet fuel. Nobody needs a shock to their system, but I need to hit the ground running. Hi, Drake!
R&B and rap and singing and synths and drums and talking about fucking and stress and working hard and what you're working for. Club Paradise sounds like every other Drake song, and that's fine. Drake's a multifaceted guy, and for a multifaceted day, that's what I want blasted in my ears. I need to think about robots, sex, stealth fighters, hackers, tablets, LTE, and a trillion other things. And I need to love it. And I do. And so does Drake—swimming through this blobby beat, preoccupied, determined. Monday starts with a rolling boil. [From the forthcoming Take Care, released next month]
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