The album's production work is predictable, and its high-concept narratives (Hold Me Back, Diced Pineapples) are painfully over thought.

Unfortunately, his songwriting isn’t much better, which is surprising given the catchy, melodic bass lines he’s consistently laid down at his day job.

Too bad the missteps and poorly executed collaborations stink badly enough to make the borderline stupid/genius party rockers get tainted by proximity.

Unlikely to win over any feminists, or win any literary prizes, Here We Stand’s main problem is being overlong and under-chorused.

The 25-year-old Earle may have the false front teeth to show for his hard livin’, but he hasn’t yet figured out how to translate it into unique, memorable songs.

After four albums of American girls, dirt roads and fingers in dust with the radio on, it's tough to overlook the clichés.

What he winds up with is an unfocused yet sonically balanced mess.

Let's face it, outside of the obvious singles, it's filler town.

The end result is a safe, predictable record that could very well be Metallica-lite (like the new Metallica), in addition to being pretty close to silly.

Drake's hooks are flimsy and irritating. His long-winded emo choruses gnaw at your brain. He complains about fame way too much. He mentions Kelsey Grammer for no reason. He's completely humourless. Worst of all, he sounds like a frog – not like Kermit in Rainbow Connection, but actual croaking.

Somehow, Ta-Dah feels like the Sisters covering themselves, and the glitter and gloss have worn off.

Just cold, robotic electro beats with Wiley's aggressive cockney flows on the usual subjects.

This lengthy offering comes complete with a detailed manifesto about its inspiration. Too bad it reads like your kid brother’s first ’shroom trip.

While the concept is inspired and resoundingly current, the jangly blues-bar rock seems an afterthought.

This disc is dullsville.

There’s a built-in redundancy to a Linkin Park remix album. Their music already sounds like hard rock that’s been tweaked by a knowledgable 15-year-old on his first laptop.

Andorra feels downhearted, often recalling Elliott Smith; even on 'She's The One,' a collabo with Junior Boys's Jeremy Greenspan, it sounds like she's a real drag.

While the production displays a genuine level of talent, including excellent drummer Atom Willard, just about every song teases with potential before going absolutely nowhere.

Sadly, Talk About Body has the flat, dated electro-pop sound of Le Tigre, who are still a few years away from needing a rebirth.

Much of the record is stuck in a good but not great sound from 10 years back.

Henry, fresh from co-producing the Knocked Up soundtrack, doesn't have an exceptional voice. It's croaky, with little range, and the piano- and acoustic-based music on Civilians (out Sept 11) is kept unobtrusive, serving his writerly lyrics well.

Quicken The Heart, however, goes nowhere new and hardly bests its predecessor.

He seems bent on making a career out of his adolescent emotional turmoil, resulting in a thematically stagnant, myopic and ultimately immature record.

Whatever the case, Ratitude is both a clunker and a fitting end to a decade in which Weezer continuously spiralled downward.

¡Tré! offers a few ballads, swelling string-laden anthems and even a six-minute medley à la American Idiot--styles that once represented a new aesthetic for the band but now sound forced and exhausted.

She’s become her own worst nightmare – boring.

A few songs recall the off-the-cuff, askew rock 'n' roll they built their name on. Others, though, are barely listenable.

It's all a bit of a muddle.