Like Fabian in the first generation of sexy teen idols, all Rick Springfield has to do is growl and, wow, legions of ponytails are at his feet. For them, this record, replete with dreamy photos, probably has it all: a lot of autobiographical details make their way into Springfield's writing, and that's the fodder–set to rocklike music–that feeds those teenage crushes. We learn of an actress he fell for in "Alyson," a buddy he went to concerts with (they were "gonna be McCartney clones") in "Me and Johnny," the groupies he's banishing from the bedroom in "Motel Eyes" and the Catholic-boy trauma of "Like Father, Like Son." And he's mulling over his new confusion about success. But for the uninfatuated, he makes too many wrong turns of phrase, and the music is milquetoast power pop – not heavy enough on the metal to really rip or strong enough on the melodies to be infectious pop.

Springfield has written some winning songs in the past; "Jessie's Girl" was his finest moment, and "What Kind of Fool Am I" had a cheery hook. But he got more, well, experimental this time around, throwing in some synthesizer work that only slows him down and copping a secondhand Police sound (thirdhand, if this was filtered through Men at Work) for a couple of songs that are blatantly unoriginal. But original has nothing to do with his success.... The little girls understand.

Debby Miller - Rolling Stone