It's hard to get too hot and bothered. [No.88 p.55]

"Invisible" offers spacy prog; "Waiting" could be a sitcom theme song, and "Living in Song" and "Mexico City Christmas" are slinky, murky and devo-ish. There are also rapid-fire, traditional indie rockers and happy summer jams. [No. 103, p.55]

Even though bombast spawned the band's biggest hit, it sinks a lot of this record's second half. [No. 85, p.53]

Structurally stripped-down and bulked up by Randall Dunn's satisfyingly solid production, too many of these songs fall short of memorability. [No. 97, p.56]

There are plenty of vocal effects and a seductive use of harmonies, but they're seldom more than pleasant. [No. 111, p.61]

Turgid at best. [#57, p.102]

Great production flourishes dominate, with horns and steady percussion rising out of the mix to provide the listener with an enveloping atmosphere. [No.87, p.53]

Hefner is new at this, so things get clumsy. But it's endearing, because [Darren] Hayman's melodies and the idiosyncratic worldview he espouses are still irresistible. [#53, p.79]

The rather unimaginative song selection is enlivened by inventive medleys, stylistic reinterpretations, and playfully arranged instrumentals. [No.89 p.55]

Phillip Ekstrom's vocals echo the tortured moan of Robert Smith with a trace of Ian McCulloch's attitude, but he never manages to find his own voice. Except for the implied reggae pulse on "Blues," neither does the band. [No. 96, p.56]

THe duo has undeniable songstress skills, but it delivers its flawless melodies with the enthusiasm of a sewing circle. [#71, p.113]

It's still, ultimately, a novelty rather than something that's likely to become part of your life. [No. 115, p.55]

This album isn’t a total disaster, but it’s difficult to imagine most people wanting to listen to Anywhere I Lay My Head more than once.

Admittedly, it's hard not to respect Patton's creative adventurousness, but sweet Jesus, the gulf between admiration and enjoyment of one of his projects has never been so wide. [No.89, p.57]

[Frontman Jesse] Elliott seems more preoccupied with packing prosaic lyrics with regional references than encouraging the participatory response these large-band arrangements often beg for. [#88, p.60]

Joker unwittingly set the bar high for his debut full-length. Unsurprisingly, it falls short. [#82, p.56]

The way-cute, we're-just-messing-around-with-our-computer feel of Out Of The loop is missed, but The Tight Connection gives a crisper picture of the duo at work. [#55, p.80]

[It sounds] little more than controlled and reserved stabs at Lower East Side new/no-wave of early talking Heads, Social Climbers and Blondie driven by some uppity Britpop rhythms. [#86, p.54]

Picks up where [their debut] left off. [#69, p.108]

If you're not already a fan, this won't convert you. But if its obtuse kraut-rockabilly's your particular addiction, this will be pure manna, pilgrim-uh. [No. 116, p.57]

Like a good deal of Hendrix’s posthumous material, whether you dig this or not depends largely upon your expectations. [No. 129, p.54]

The rest of Pleiades isn't so memorable [as "further"], but it's never less than pleasant and frequently pleasurable. [#82, p.53]

It's the sort of record today's 15-year-olds are going to feel embarrassed about owning five or six years from now. [No. 108, p.56]

On a very small and exclusive CD rack, you'd file I snugly between the recent albums by Air and Cornelius. [#53, p.72]

What lends Bee its buzz--beyond the purring keyboards, the plump wah-wahs and sexy whistles--is its subtle edits: dreary snowdrifts in synthetic time that cautiously subvert the electro-charge like a savage nipple twist on the pale body of the vestal virgin that is Llama pop. [#48, p.93]

It's unlistenable dreck. [No. 126, p.55]

If Morning Glory was Oasis' Rumours, then Be Here is its messy, glorious Tusk. [No. 136, p.59]

Stale, vapid and generally awful. [No. 105, p.55]