Frontman Krayg Burton's voice is a desperately weak instrument, his whispered snatches of melody never quite coalescing into memorable tunes. [Feb 2006, p.102]

The lyrics tend towards the banal and, at times, there is a palpable sense of awkwardness. [Dec 2004, p.134]

Their debut's wilful eccentricity is mostly unconvincing. [Mar 2020, p.119]

It's a confusing affair, where [Urie] foolishly tries to croon like Frank Sinatra on the title track and never quite nails down whatever the big idea was supposed to be. Still, there are moments to cherish. [Feb 2016, p.115]

They have their moments, including the electro-rock riffs on Bambi, but elsewhere the lack of variety soon grates. [Sep 2010, p.121]

Nothing here is essential, but there will always be enough completeist to warrent airing of Dylan's old laundry. [Nov 2008, p.127]

By throwing everything at the wall and nailing up the stuff that didn't stick, he's done himself--and more importantly what he clearly views as his masterpiece--a grand disservice. [Jan 2009, p.110]

It's a boring splodge on the pop landscape, so relentlessly samey and entitled. [Aug 2017, p.106]

The Diving Board is less engaging, widescreen lyrics paired with waddling blues and maudlin balladry. [Oct 2013, p.104]

Even the welcome presence of Boston's original singer Brad Delp, who committed suicide in 2007, can't save it. [Feb 2014, p.119]

My God Is Blue is sorely lacking in vision. [Jun 2012, p.112]

[Her] penchant for pretension remains irksome: the dot in her name, the cringey album title, the worthy lyrics and constant namechecking of soul greats. [December 2002, p.96]

Simone and Amedeo Pace weave intricate musical patterns on a collection of songs distinguished by their fundamental lack of tunes. Aside from the exuberant frisson of This Is Not, the album staggers unsteadily between serene chamber pop, looping layered electronics and shouty, full-on hyperactive thrashy punk...

It's [an album] whose tricks... we've heard done before. [Aug 2004, p.115]

The occasional glimmer of pop genius seen in the albums past is mostly absent, with plodding piano ballads in place instead. [Jul 2012, p.112]

The bulk sounds little different from most of what passes for mainstream country these days. [Jul 2006, p.113]

The admirable rhetoric might mean something were it not backed by such a generic pastiche of Editors/White Lies/Interpol, all cavernous bass and drums and two-note guitar solos. [Apr 2011, p.98]

The music is terribly dull, like a watered-down Weezer. [Dec 2007, p.125]

The album has a polished sheen, but Leto's delivery of his earnest, sci-fi-tinged lyrics gets monotonous over the course of the album. [Dec 2002, p.96]

Everything here is overdone, whether it's Nick Thorburn's thatrical vocals, the myriad pointless time changes or J'aime Vous Von Quitter's horrid La Bamba-style outero. [June 2008, p.142]

Turns out that melancholy is his band's key constiturnt, however for without it the result is a bit too sugary. [Apr 2010, p.112]

Ambition too often trumps listenability. [Oct 2012, p.104]

The 37-minute length is not the only thing about this album that's slight. [May 2006, p.116]

Thier relentless pursuit of "the craic" is wearing, evocative song titles not hiding the fact Dublin-native Dave King's lyrics lack the romanticism of Shane MacGowan. [June 2008, p.138]

The Californian four-piece's follow-up is less inspired, however, lacking any memorable tunes or winning hoks to distract from Nathan Willett's grating falsetto, and much of the album is heavy going. [Oct 2008, p.141]

The solemn dream-pop of Dominic is a rare highlight that serves only to demonstrate the rest of the album's shortcomings. [May 2014, p.116]

Unfortunately, too many of their other choruses aim high yet fall flat. [May 2011, p.109]

Lyrically unambitious, musically on its laurels, there's no oomph here. [Jul 2015, p.113]