Had there maybe been a more analytical approach to creating shamelessly tricked-out pop songs, maybe some of Brings on the Comets would sound more successful.

At its best, Recording a Tape still sounds like little more than the product of a few precocious marching-band dropouts, an empty warehouse, and good intentions.

Peeping Tom's almost exclusively synth-oriented songs (save the occasional bass and guitar) are ostensibly intended to highlight Patton's voice. This only accentuates his overwrought yet indifferent performances, however.

Spirals downstream into dreary non-sequiturs faster than the glue addict who lives four blocks from me.

On the whole Infinite Arms is an album buried under the weight of its own sound. It's hard to know how this album could have sounded with less ham-handed production, but as it stands the mix here feels like some sleight of hand.

The guitar work is clean and atmospheric, the vocals light and poppy and the rhythms playful to reflective, but we've been here before.

Most of the songs on Ester are like partially frozen ice cubes tossed into a drink on a warm day: they work for a little while, but they never turn into something truly solid, and end up dissolving pretty quickly.

Songs and Other Things' mid-tempo pop feels tossed-off, like Verlaine couldn't have been bothered to do more between walking the dog and a few dart games.

An awkward, uneven record that comes over like something they made in a week instead of something that was continually pushed back for more than a year.

Tracks such as "Boner" and "Peanut Dreams," stripped of any excitement, are nothing more than highly polished and easily forgettable songs to ignore at a swanky upstairs club.

There is not much on Here With Me that surprises or overwhelms, but that is not Jennifer O’Connor’s brief.

Anything that was either subtle or complicated has been erased to provide ready-made heart-on-sleeve love songs.

Lullabies is ultimately a demanding, schizophrenic, lopsided album. At its best, it's an elaboration on what Queens have become known for -- distinct, droning, melodic, heavy guitar rock. At its worst it's futile, go-nowhere studio sludge.

Wigflip feels like the type of thing Madlib could churn out on any given lazy Sunday afternoon.

After nearly a half-decade of records, Johnson still hasn’t learned anything about time signatures or experimentation, but at least he knows what he does best and sticks to it.

The songs on Without Feathers are fine, really, and for the most part pretty well-crafted, but there just doesn't seem to be a good reason to listen to them.

Richard Butler is a personal and, at times, beautiful album, but sadly not enough to qualify it as a success.

In the end, though, this is an unnecessary album that only clutters Folds's discography.

This is rut music and The Mars Volta are still stuck in it; even if they’ve managed to avoiding digging themselves any deeper with Goliath’s frenetic lateral slides into pseudo bedlam, momentum is only momentum if you’re going somewhere.

Lonely Island are among the funniest musical comedians around. But without video, their songs are more "A Night at the Roxbury" than "Wayne’s World."

It's more or less a corporate-rock distillation of nu-rave, three years too late.

With such a young, singular talent, it’s a shame to hear him aping other styles when he clearly is full of a wealth of unexplored talent.

Only a few moments stand out.

Where past Decemberists albums rewarded delving deeply into the milieu The Decemberists had created, Hazards of Love fails to provide much worth that probing.

By the time the final tracks roll around and Gardner and Hammel still haven't changed their sound much, their lovey-dovey frivolity gets old.

The album flows seamlessly from song to song, but the overall feel is sedated.

His tried-and-true lo-fi routine is still there, and die-hard Pipe fans will probably gobble up this release, but these thirteen smoggy ballads are like that week-old liter of Grape Fanta: you know, flat.

Turin Brakes’ expansive and more daring previous work held an encouraging arc that promised risks and excitement, but JackInABox, while a pleasant listen, fails to cash in on that potential, and is unfortunately a step back for the talented duo.