Rewolf ends up being a failure in two ways. The first is that the songs aren't strong enough to withstand the acoustic treatment....The second major flaw, and the one that really kills the album, has to do with what the lack of volume and energy uncovers.

The whole thing sounds like it was made fairly quickly, as if Tim came up with a clever idea and proceeded to fill out the track with whatever came to mind first, rather than truly enhance it.

It’s more interesting to ponder Wayne's reasons for making Rebirth than to actually listen to it, because the end result is a loud and ignorable bore.

This might be enjoyed by folks who are really into the Burzum albums Varg Vikernes made from his prison cell, but even Suicide fans will likely find Stigmata hard to get excited about.

Ingle's ability to write a pop melody is promising, perhaps, yet it's too hampered by nasal vocals to make much of an impression, and the album’s short running time proves to be one of its biggest assets.

It's a comfortable and familiar fit that poses only one significant problem: nobody bothered to write any songs; they're just playing for the sake of playing.

In the case of Nobody's Daughter, the tattered, ragged survivor in the gossip rags is no different than the one on record, both capturing Courtney in an inevitable, not so romantic decline, inadvertently turning every cliché into truth as she slowly slips into her final role as alt-rock's Norma Desmond.

The dividing line between these two types of songs is a subjective one, to be sure, but even devoted fans would probably agree that the bulk of The Bundles--the first recorded output from a longstanding though intermittent collaboration between these two leading lights of anti-folk--lands sadly but squarely in the latter category.

Perhaps if this production were scaled back a notch or two, Fearless Love wouldn’t feel quite so oppressive, but its oversized sound fits Etheridge’s sense of self: she’s boxed herself into a corner where she only makes music that sounds important…whether it actually is important winds up being beside the point.

For the most part, Versus falls in line with its parent release's mix of detached hedonism and pleading heartache.

The press pumps up the fact that Shontelle is Barbadian, just like Rihanna, but her functional dance-pop material and temperate ballads could be delivered by any moderately talented vocalist from the Midwest.

While this isn't necessarily a bad idea on paper, the Concretes unfortunately forgo much of what made them an enjoyable listen in the process.

The rallying choruses are not effective, and he's short on ideas; threatening to steal attached women is a default topic. 5.0 is, by a considerable margin, Nelly's least essential release to date.

When things are light and simple on Live It Up, DeWyze seems like himself: a threadbare talent who floated in on the vapors of Idol's empty tank.

As on their last two LPs, it's heavily reliant on nightclub anthems and will.i.am's throwback rapping, alongside Auto-Tune harmonies and waves of synth

Given Jones' legendary stature and reputation for taste, this set feels unnecessary at best, and downright cynical at worst.

The crew is still intentionally misogynistic and profane, sounding like caricatures of Eminem or Kid Rock as they rap and sing about gangsta cliches like puffing blunts, drinking Patron, getting booty, and "flossing."

Described as a rallying call to guitar bands by Bowman, Up, Guards and at 'Em isn't distinctive or original enough to inspire anyone to swap their synths for a six-string, and instead, sounds more like a final nail in the British indie coffin than the shot in the arm it needed.

Given her promotion to the Paula Abdul seat on American Idol, there's a distinct irony in having the first sounds on Jennifer Lopez's Love? all twisted through a vocoder: she may be judging the pop purity of legions of hopeful singers, but even she can't resist the siren call of the computer.

Free is just too derivative to make the impact the band appear to crave.

Because Light After Dark tries so hard to keep up with the tricks of the trade in 2011, it loses any sense of originality that Maguire brings to the table, which, especially in the pop music scene, is the only way to stand out.

London is far more charming when he's given some space and sings, as he does very sweetly in the chorus of "Why Even Try," featuring Tegan & Sara's Sara Quin. Those moments are scant.

Famous First Words was always going to struggle to live up to the band's bold promises, but it's still a shock at how a Brit-pop scene renowned for its color can be responsible for something so utterly drab.

Apart from ["You Make That Look Good" and "Write My Number on Your Hand"], the songs and production demand that all energy come from young Scotty, who amiably sleepwalks through the tunes.

If Famous Monsters was a step back for the Misfits legacy, this is a bigger step in the wrong direction.

Producer Kevin Antunes never recontextualizes the original recordings; he favors hits-on-parade medleys, letting the hooks--the melodies, the rhythms--sink in before moving on to the next snippet.

It all winds up as an ungodly mess: Crazy Horse do, as Young asserted they would, make these songs their own, but by doing so, they've made them so nobody else would ever want them.

At the very least, it would do Avary a world of good to have someone to urge him to ease up on the throttle of his vocals.