Pitchfork

The original plays self-empowerment as a snarl, Kelis calmly humming to herself as producer Bangladesh lays water-torture synth plinks over a drum track sparse enough to make "Laffy Taffy" sound like a damn symphony. So Braxe and Falke take it in the opposite direction, squishing muscles and organs and nerve-endings onto the track's cold skeleton. Minimal pop becomes lush, opulent disco-house: dinging cowbells, Seinfeld bass-popping, squelchy Moroder keyboards. And somehow, Kelis's valley-girl sneer morphs into a luxuriant sigh when Braxe and Falke speed it up just slightly. Halfway through, all the vocals drop out for a minute or two, so that the track builds and expands and breathes on its own. When Kelis returns, she suddenly sounds like the sort of boss who doesn't stare over your shoulder when you're finishing up that spreadsheet.