Sadly, though, if Petty's fourteenth album fails to emulate the success of his best work, it won't be because corporations have conspired to turn off his mic, but because it's simply not as good. [#10, p.127]

Too much about Tracy Chapman's Let It Rain is austere. [#12, p.138]

The second half drops off badly--the band seem to think that the tonic for a weak lyric is to slow the tempo to a crawl. [Nov 2005, p.130]

It's unfortunate that the balladry is rendered via anesthetized soul instead of the ambitious arrangements of Timbaland. [May 2003, p.118]

Without the blue-eyed soul conviction of the original, it's enough to make even second-tier grunge has-beens like Seven Mary Three seem like innovators. [Dec 2003, p.145]

Deadening, obnoxious stuff. [Mar 2006, p.115]

Keith has a gift for wrapping angry thoughts in man-of-the-people plain-speak, with a Lynyrd Skynyrd-meet-Jimmy Buffett friendliness. But underneath, there's often a set of mean cliches. [Dec 2003, p.138]

This is simply a useful rampage through the best and worst impulses of the most important group in hip-hop history. [#9, p.153]

Her hits are underrepresented, more recent songs are overrepresented, and [Vince] Mendoza's overly ornate orchestrations are dull, self-absorbed affairs, frequently swamping the great songs and Mitchell's vocals. [#12, p.147]

An ultrapolite, jazz-inflected collection of tunes that will reassure coming-down ravers, but it offers little to quicken the pulse. [Oct/Nov 2001, p.104]

Meanders aimlessly, stumbling into bits of tune but never taking them anywhere. [Aug/Sep 2001, p.123]

Bunkka proves he can't write songs to save his slipmats. [#8, p.120]

The first few songs on their fourth might fool you into thinking they have a future.... But it's downhill after the highpoint: 'Sirens in the Deep Sea.'

Even the presence of A-list guests can't redeem such jaded, formulaic songs. [#4, p.118]

Would have benefited from more stringent editing... [Jun/Jul 2001, p.108]

There's clearly imagination here, with strange little sonic tweaks and tics at every turn, but only once does it gel into something satisfying. [Dec 2003, p.141]

Their third albums smells less of revivalist chic than tribute-band nostalgia. New wave knockoffs have rarely sounded so old.

Touching Down needs vocals, stylistic variation or any kind of respite from the relentless percussive onslaught. [#13, p.98]

It's music that's all cleverness and fury from a distance, but when studied up close, it turns out to be pretty hollow. [Apr 2004, p.126]

Here, [Saliva] temper their mid-tempo crunch with '80s-metal guitar heroics and Southern-rock fundamentalism. [Sep 2004, p.141]

Despite scattered flashes of uncharacteristic lightness, she rarely tempers the fury that drove the originals with the more accepting perspective that's guided her subsequent efforts. [Jul 2005, p.119]

The record feels uneven, as the oscillation between frivolous and serious makes both less convincing. [Nov 2003, p.108]

He devotes himself largely to unremarkable romance chronicles and blandly competent hooks. [Oct 2007, p.107]

The bulk of One Monkey finds the boys trying too hard to distance themselves from their former weirdness. [Aug 2004, p.132]

Like [David Gray and Damien Rice], Powter writes faceless tunes landmined with unsubtle hooks that can devour your brain in less time than it takes for an expert barista to whip up a cappuccino. [Jun 2006, p.143]

Their youthful gusto is admirable. The results, alas, are not. [#14, p.141]

Almost a total wreck -- even decent melodies are hard to come by. [Aug/Sep 2001, p.130]

Monotonous in its R&B pleasantry. [Mar 2005, p.137]

There aren't many things worse than a pretentious hippie. [Apr 2006, p.112]

Prince made sexual audacity a trademark ages ago, but Legend is just too cautious to put it over--he sounds like a CPA on his first trip to the Hustler Club.

Their sense of perfection is also their downfall. [#11, p.124]

The production sparkles.... But the songs are dull. [#14, p.131]

There is little... to compare with either the work of his Genesis heyday or his still heartbreaking 1981 solo debut. [#12, p.139]

Album four is especially monochrome gut-check metal, so flourishes of mellow pianos or cargo-shorts funk are as welcome as a bag of Skittles in a pack of combat rations.

The MC turns largely to the Neptunes for music, and their lithe, bombastic space-porno sonatas provide a vitality and playfulness he’s still capable of matching. But a string of increasingly awkward and thoroughly ludicrous sex jams finds him slapping asses, and may leave his devotees smacking their foreheads.

In attempting to be energetic, the band merely sounds busy. [Jun/Jul 2001, p.105]

Like [J.J.] Cale, Knopfler prefers murmuring to emoting while threading fancy little guitar figures through songs that can't decide whether to shuffle into the haze or nod off. [Nov 2004, p.136]

Even Booth's uncanny vocal resemblance to Bono isn't enough to keep this overlong set interesting. [#10, p.118]

While Air and Daft Punk have taken discarded pop styles and created modern classics, Trans Am seem happy to wallow in early-MTV nostalgia. [Jun/Jul 2002, p.114]

An elegant soundtrack, but not much of an album. [Feb/Mar 2002, p.116]

New touches only further dilute P.O.D.'s already watered-down sound. [Jan/Feb 2006, p.96]

Cook's dance music has seen better days. [Oct 2004, p.115]

The musical treatment is Depeche Mode-lite, setting generally passionate songs in an antiseptic electronic context, and Gore's over-earnest voice lacks the presence to reinvigorate them. [May 2003, p.120]

[He] falls back on stagnant street tropes and the tinny synth-and-sneer antics of old standby Swizz Beatz. [Sep 2006, p.139]

His campiest, and skimpiest, since his debut. [#17, p.138]

An assured yet curiously unsatisfying shamble. [Apr 2005, p.119]

Only the fuzzy reggae of "Power of One" is lively enough to rouse a dozing listener and hint at what the record might have been with a little less midnight meditation. [May 2003, p.121]

Its attempts at a more ethereal sound crash up against Common's cumbersome intellectualizing. [#13, p.91]

For all their craft, the songs are bland and vague. [May 2004, p.126]

Weakened by a slew of club-oriented pieces that drown its personality in repetitive grooves. [Apr/May 2002, p.113]

What initially feels jubilant soon turns grating. [Jul 2005, p.115]

When they slow the tempos and introduce "soulful" singers and the dreaded jazzy flute, their music stinks like old fromage. [Apr/May 2002, p.118]

"Beer for My Horses," a rangy duet with Willie Nelson, and easy grooves like "Ain't It Just Like You" don't chase away the overbearing taste of "Red, White and Blue," the album's centerpiece first single. [#9, p.150]

Rossdale still has that sexy catch in his throat, but his new songs are ass, evoking a mealy-mouthed, cliché-ridden, bombastic Chris Cornell solo joint more than Bush, and whoever Auto-Tuned the vocals has some explaining to do.

This time they've vacuumed all the loose dirt out of the silicon chamber and left a low-funk environment. [Nov 2006, p.154]

Tom Smith's stentorian baritone, irritating in its overenunciated approximations of gravitas, is better suited to some community-theater group than a rock band.

The mood is too inconsistent to connect. [Oct 2003, p.127]

With this kind of self-pity, Kid Rock was better off staying shallow. [Jan 2004, p.110]

The melodies are strikingly generic for a star act. [Dec 2005, p.144]

A band that traffics in momentum can't afford to take their foot off the gas as often as Yellowcard does. [Mar 2006, p.112]

Now, on only their third major-label release, they sound almost middle-aged. [Oct 2007, p.110]

All the post-punk components are here, but they don't jell into anything more than a mannered take on the punk that punk forgot. [Jun/Jul 2002, p.112]

Live In New York City may be the first example of Springsteen allowing himself to be reduced to what he has carefully avoided becoming up to now: pure product. [Jun/Jul 2001, p.112]

He's never tried so actively to fuse prescriptive politics into [the] mix, and the move feels suspect. [Aug 2005, p.115]

Oliveri needs a grounding element; without it, he just plays the Neanderthal wild-ass screamer. [Sep 2003, p.126]

This is rock theater of the most uninspired kind. [Aug 2004, p.136]

What remains is a concept that's been stewing too long and a singer who's one scream away from a hernia. [Dec 2006, p.180]

Green manages to charm even as he annoys. [Aug 2006, p.108]

The Hazrds Of Love is a medieval romance that feels like homework. [Apr 2009, p.80]

A great deal, unfortunately, fall into chugga-lugga tedium. [#9, p.148]

Their collaboration suggests a nice philosophical dissonance, but only in theory. In practice, Scream is nearly awful.

The momentum collapses with ballads that would suit not only his band but even the Backstreet Boys. [May 2005, 124]

It doesn't help that Live operate at two speeds: overamped anthems and over-the-top ballads, which render [Kowalczyk's] doubtless heartfelt homilies rather empty. [Aug/Sep 2001, p.125]

[Deadsy's] interchangeable keyboard noodling and flat, faintly robotic vocals will excite only those desperate for labelmates Orgy to hurry up and knock out another album. [Jun/Jul 2002, p.104]

His choked yelp and hootenanny backing suggest fun should be had. It isn't. [#10, p.116]

If shards of symbolist vision and baroque virtuosity remain, they're smoothed out on the beekeeping tip, avoiding any sharp stings, leaving barely a spoonful of honey. [Apr 2005, p.112]

The joke isn't well-conceived or funny enough to sustain over an hour. [#16, p.123]

Though Loeb can weave a pleasant, elaborate melody, her originality wavers. [Apr/May 2002, p.115]

Problem is, that kind of constant high gets as dull as life on Prozac. [Aug 2003, p.120]

Sturdy (and bland) anthems built on overused U2 chords and several barnstorming R&B vamps notable for thowback horn riffs and Aretha Franklin-style backing vocals. [Sep 2004, p.138]

They still spit nervous energy, but Shelly's melodies have suffered, and his pubescent whines have unfortunately matured into apologies for bad behavior. [#15, p.121]

At his best, Berman used to refract sage-with-guitar tropes into dryly perverse insights; but this time he's just smothering them in weird phrases. [July 2008, p.76]

They come off more than ever like a caricature. [Aug 2004, p.130]

The novelty of the all-star show has worn off, especially as the caliber of the all-stars has declined dramatically. [Nov 2005, p.140]

Many beats... sound cheap, and many rhymes... trade drama for tough-guy same-old. [Oct 2004, p.128]

Instead of sunshine-pop sugar, there's the cloying tang of saccharine. [Jun 2005, p.109]

Distraught longtime fans can take comfort in the gothic ire of the Banner-fronted, Hurricane Katrina–lamenting “Seein’ Thangs” and the ambling blues-hop storytelling of Phonte Coleman on “Backstage Girl,” but little else can be salvaged from the wreckage of Shadow’s abruptly imploding talent.

At home, it's hard to see the point of these whiny raps, tongue-in-cheek R&B jams and lo-fi funk grooves. [#13, p.93]

A strangely dispassionate exercise in record-collection rock. [#17, p.133]

This rote Los Angeles studio rock is dominated by the radio-friendliest songwriters money can buy. [Jun/Jul 2002, p.112]

Being shallow and immature is both his strength and his weakness. [Apr 2003, p.131]

An energetic, derivative genre exercise. [Oct 2003, p.118]

It's ultimately unconvincing. [Jun 2005, p.115]

This is very much another case of: nice lyrics, but a shame about the tunes. [#4, p.118]

Our suggestion for a more honest band name: Used Cars. [Jul 2006, p.100]

Unfortunately, it translates into kohl-eyed pantomime, rather than cathartic music, with lyrics so hopelessly trite they sound like a feel-good tract for preschoolers.

He's labored, bombastic and pitch-challenged.... The lyrics are embarrassing. [Aug 2004, p.143]

Honors shifts in style over substance. [#11, p.124]