The negativity removes the focus from Busdriver's sizable musical talents and rests it squarely on his lyricism and themes (not a good idea).

Ultimately, it's a flimsy album; though it's pleasant enough as background music, upon closer listening it falls apart.

Ultimately Mudvayne gets lost between thrash and diluted Slipknot devotion.

While perhaps not on par with De La Soul falling from 3 Feet High and Rising to De La Soul Is Dead, this is almost as disappointing a plummet from Day-Glo genius to drab everyday product.

What the group made sound effortless in the past sounds strained and canned here.

If lightweight, it is often pleasant and amusing, if not utterly engaging.

It all glides by easily enough on its surface, but dig a little deeper and The Magic Numbers reveals itself to be not just a crashing bore, but an irritating one.

He really is pouring everything he has into the whole thing, but there's so much overly earnest, reverential, "let's get back to making real music" energy floating around that you can sense it nibbling away at the desire to make something that sounds like today.

Wikked Lil' Grrrls occasionally gets lost between songwriting, thematics, and stylistic flow.

With one or two exceptions, all of these songs are second and third rate by his standard.

For those who enjoyed the wise-ass undercurrent of his debut, this will be a delight. For those who enjoyed "The Remedy (I Won't Worry)," there will be too much narcissistic tomfoolery here to make this enjoyable. For those who never understood the appeal of Jason Mraz in the first place, Mr. A-Z will make them realize that they've really been taking John Mayer for granted.

Past Presents the Future falters between a coalesced pop sound and its pristine fragments.

Maybe it is too much to ask for Trinity to be as good and surprising and full of life as Dutty Rock; maybe it is unfair to ask Paul to catch lightning in a bottle twice. Probably so, but it's still disappointing for Trinity to be as empty and unenjoyable as it is.

Hefty Fine finds the Bloodhound Gang in a Catch-22 -- they've never wanted to be anything other than a dumb, silly hard rock band, but their shtick is getting tired, yet they're trapped by the confines of what they want to be.

Even within the album's murkiness, however, hints of the promise and intermittent brilliance Doherty had in the Libertines can still be heard.

Morningwood still feels like calculated fluff, even if it's calculated fluff that's mildly fun.

Generation's toughness rings hollow like a rerun.

This is endearing -- Hot Chip's sense of humor is as contagious as their knack for reinvention is obvious. But those traits can't make Coming on Strong sound any less unfinished or even tossed off at times.

They are trying very hard to be a specific thing, realize that they can't quite take it all the way, and add the occasional coating of camp in order to look less silly.

Secret Machines now sound uncannily like a fusion of U2 and INXS.

The flashes of brilliance that were once routinely delivered by Havoc and Prodigy are few and fleeting here.

Nearly every single thing about this album is a shout-out to the Clash or Gang of Four, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but why not just listen to the originals instead?

We Don't Have to Whisper is too doggedly dour and amorphous to be more than a curiosity.

Some serene, wide-angle numbers toward the end help a lot, making this safe album easier to recommend to the longtime trance addict.

Idlewild is certainly a spectacle, and an occasionally entertaining and enlightening one at that, but it translates into an elaborate diversion when compared to what this duo has done in the past.

It's more of the same old, same old.

Most of the musical content is diaphanous and fleeting.

Talk to La Bomb revisits nearly all the elements that made their 2005 self-titled debut such a thrill, but the songwriting has slipped a bit, welcoming the beloved act to the sophomore slump.