How I Knew Her glides by in 40 minutes without making any kind of impression at all, other than giving you a vague desire to hit up Starbucks.

Dreary production from hometown benefactor Eminem does little to liven things up. [Aug 2006, p.82]

Believe sounds so dry and crisp it could have been recorded on a Dell laptop. [Oct 2002, p.113]

The record is so one-note it makes its predecessor sound like an entire season at the London Philharmonic.

A confused, confusing album, MGMT treats contemporaneity as if it were an insulin shot.

Rafter-reaching wuss rock that might appeal to those who find Snow Patrol a little too heavy. [Mar 2007, p.86]

Expectations for a crowdfunded album should be naturally tempered, and yet it’s hard to ignore that none of the songs on TLC present an engaging point of view as smoothly or with as much brass as the group’s biggest hits, “Waterfalls” or “Creep.”

What aren't here are coherently shaped songs, or hooks, or riffs, or melodies that stick.

Ripped is about three- or four-minute songcraft--never the highlight of their resume. [Jul 2006, p.88]

The vibe here is mellow, unremarkable, and a touch contrived. [May 2007, p.85]

Only a third of the album works. Obscure, seemingly unfinished, and nattering, this is Tune-Yards’ weakest album to date at a moment when Garbus, distrusting her music’s ability to explain itself, doesn’t need the slings and arrows.

Listening to the man find his voice is the only “thrill” here, as familiar (if hardly marquee-level) Nirvana staples like “Been a Son,” “Scoff,” “Sappy,” and “Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge on Seattle” all appear sans finished lyrics, or sung in too-high or too-low range-testing cadences like a very bored kid performing for a live studio audience of stuffed animals.

Imperfect Harmonies plays as if Frank Zappa had lived to experience the glories of the Crystal Method, Ozzfest, George W. Bush, and Final Fantasy X.

Patti Smith misplaces her fearless edge. [May 2007, p.90]

Like Good Charlotte and Fall Out Boy before them, these multiplantinum Canadian heartthrobs have finally covered up their pop-punk roots completely, on their fourth album. [Feb 2008, p.99]

There are no such standout cuts here.

Unleashes a torrent of bloated, if occasionally lovely, romantic anthems that aspire to cosmic insight, yet settle for greeting-card corn. [Sep 2006, p.112]

At its best ("Great Wide Open"), Tales recalls Foo Fighters' wimpier singles, but for the most part, it's just a reminder of why even Dave Grohl turns up the screaming now and then.

These thumping, Ibiza-inflected excursions into pop and R&B aren't quite as catchy [as "Starry Eyed Surprise"]. [Jun 2006, p.83]

Zoom in on this overproduced second album, dripping with newly emboldened lyrical pretensions, and you'll find cracks in the enjoyable cliches. [Jun 2007, p.91]

Seedy, feel-bad music. Half-dead, sometimes gorgeous, and willfully dumb beyond repair. Call it alienation porn. Sound awful? Well, it is kind of awful--and rivetingly so.

Unfortunately, despite now working with David Bowie producer Tony Visconti, who infuses their angular, system-smashing screeds with timpani ("Good and Ready"), brass ("Shadow of the Dead"), and harmonica ("Go West"), Anti-Flag still don't possess the innate pop sensibility that's allowed Against Me! to make a mainstream move.

Snoop's sing-song flow might seem ideal for pop-reggae, but he disappears into the background of his own album.

Ruess’ songs are a puzzle: They contain no memorable lines but the arrangements act as if they do.

Elbogen pens lively lyrics about car chases and hot DJ ladies, but his arrangements trundle along stiffly, each song rendering an imitation of rock that's as finely detailed as a hobbyist's diorama, and ultimately about as exciting.

On Delta, the scope of Mumford & Sons’ ambition is far wider than their abilities as songwriters. The result is an hour-long slog with only a few brief realizations of their old potential before the next crescendo hits.

So faceless that it'll make you hanker for Dirty Vegas deep cuts. [Oct 2006, p.96]

Instead of psychedelic pop or Princely funk, they regurgitate limp fake reggae, crappy country yee-haw, dorky Eurodance, and nasty New Age. [Dec 2007, p.126]

Recalling the stridency of Soul Asylum without the rock ferocity, Two Gallants are a minor annoyance. [Oct 2007, p.112]

Cardiology dials down the sparkle, which is kind of a bummer; plodding fake-U2 anthems such as "Right Where I Belong" are definitely not Good Charlotte's sweet spot.

The good news is that they haven't completely lost their nerve; they still play their bombastic brat-rock like it's the apotheosis of Western pop culture. Sadly, this is also the bad news. [Aug 2002, p.113]

Even with precisely triggered drums and sensuously distorted bass lines, the band seems stuck in place. [Sep 2007, p.138]

Maintaining Rhye’s style while enlivening it with non-synthesized instruments is the only real statement the album chooses to deliver--Blood is too gentle to telegraph much of anything concrete. Milosh’s lyrics are vague mattresses of assonance on which he lays down impressions of emotion.

Her insights plumb poetic shallows. [Jun 2006, p.81]

The quintet conjures the Mars Volta doing Zeppelin karaoke over two-bit Mr. Bungle. [Feb 2007, p.84]

Sasha is an intriguing but diluted direction.

The tracks that are anchored by [Sia and Jose Gonzalez] have a soulful edge, but elsewhere the instrumentals drift aimlessly toward the hotel jazz bar. [Jul 2006, p.90]

Signature oh-so-mellow, mumblin' beat, only this time with just too much remove and far too little energy to make it work.

The Donnas have never seemed less enthused; none of the 14 tracks contains a melody as catchy or a beat as pumping as those on "Spend the Night" or "Gold Medal." [Oct 2007, p.99]

Eye Legacy renames and remixes several Supernova tracks and finishes off some previously unreleased jams with diminished results.

Each new album (arriving as it does with the requisitely pompous title: Absolution, Black Holes and Revelations, The Resistance) finds Muse attempting to out-blitz OK Computer and Kid A in terms of overly serious Englishmen weeping for modern civilization and its myriad alienations. Which simply makes The 2nd Law's 50-plus minutes of 21st-century-art-rock-meets-sappy-popera business as usual.

There are awkward attempts at the strutting pomp rock of Queen, the pop reggae of the Police, and the wardrobe of the Strokes. [Apr 2007, p.86]

The 23-year-old Malibu rapper's debut is as shallow as a spray-on tan; it's stocked with bro'd-out, giggly rhymes about 420-filled nights and T&A aplenty over lazy, midtempo beats from producer/reality-show rocker Cisco Adler.

The surface-heavy results suggest painstakingly remixed outtakes.

Its sound is bright, slick, and micromanaged.

These flat-voiced, fleetingly funky gangsta rips are too detached to be adorable. [Aug 2006, p.76]

There are no real highlights among these soggy minimalist jams. [Apr 2007, p.87]

Relapse is really just another overlong summer blockbuster. We sit through it, then go look at pictures of kittens on the Internet, and wait until our souls snap back into place.

Too bad the performances are so lamely tossed-off. Borrell's quavering vocals feel showy and shallow, while the quartet's glossy guitar pop could come from any crew of faceless studio hacks.

Fox gets tripped up by uninspired rap-reggae mashups, electro-pop beats better suited for Nelly Furtado, and rhymes that dwell on designer labels and raunchy sex. [Mar 2008, p.98]

It's a drag that so many of Mirage Rock's most transcendent moments--the stuff suggesting real maturity--are so quickly undone by such nonsensical toss-offs.

They've ditched velocity but neglected to replace it with anything worthwhile. [Jul 2006, p.88]

While there are still a couple of Jam-like snarlers on album two, the aping of Oasis’ more bloated days sinks things quickly.

Moodier moments respectably imitate Dylan and Neil Young, but often fall asleep at the wheel. [Sep 2006, p.110]

Expends a lot of energy hating the haters and growling at the gold diggers. [Jan 2003, p.99]

The delicate balance of good-then-bad-then-good-again ideas and taste appears rarely on WZRD.

Lacking a balance between pretty and ugly, their experimental alchemy is scabrously tiring, with cacophonous fragments that never connect. [Apr 2008, p.100]

For all the banging beauty in its beats, Evolve or Be Extinct is too forced and uncomfortable, as though he figured he'd evolve if he just over-thought it enough.

Tiller thinly stretches himself to 19 tracks with no added dimension. It ultimately amounts to a checklist for Broke Boys-turned-Hurt Boys, with Tiller listlessly ticking the boxes.

The album's most compelling sounds get saddled with songs either forgettable ("Trumpet Lights") or regrettable ("Mirage," a sinuous reggae fusion that's Nas-boosted but unnecessarily nasty).

Field Manual rests slight vocals atop memorable instrumentation, with surprisingly unshimmery production. [Feb 2008, p.98]

With nothing fresh to moan about, it's like a seventh James Bond movie without any new gadgets. [12/2000, p.223]

Wooly and long-winded, Weather Diaries gathers eleven rock songs of astonishing vapidity; it has the feel of a term paper printed five minutes before class and forgotten the moment of submission.

The static beats of... Scott Storch and Trackmasters do little to freshen up his sound. [Jun 2006, p.78]

Tough guitar scrimmages, soaring supergroup moments that last a lifetime, boner-like intensity, roto-toms--Astronauts has it all. [March 2002, p.130]

Wiz has a decent feel for hooks and occasionally does some interesting things with melody. But it’s simply not enough to retain interest.

A familiar blend of big-riff rockers and pseudo-sensitive power ballads, Dark Horse won't win the Canadian band any new fans--or will its hearty endorsements of oral sex disappoint the devoted.

Stepping out solo, the energetic multi-instrumentalist--assisted by guests including Dresden Dolls' Brian Viglione--does fine when he keeps things forceful. But when Nicolay decelerates, his weaknesses (cheesy croon, misguided piano) emerge, resulting in over-earnest, loungey balladeering.

We’re supposed to admire the fact that 30 years after their debut album, they haven’t moved an inch closer to definability.

Damn Right Rebel Proud, typically, raises less convincing hell than plenty of current mainstream Nashville product.

Their petulantly plagiaristic third album--mired in singer Sam Endicott's uncharismatic Robert Smith–in-a-wind-tunnel moan (imagine that hair)--continues to stuff downtown Gotham streets into predictable, rhyming-dictionary couplets.

If you're not already aware that this prog quartet's fifth album serves as both a prequel and a finale to something called "The Amory Wars," bemusement is probably the best you can hope for while enduring their overwrought, topsy-turvy blend of spiky metal riffs, Gollumesque vocals, and ambient melodrama.

Nothing ventures beyond the tunefully middle-of-the-road, nor does any song manage the effortless historicity of good album rock. [Nov. 2000, p.206]

Most of these ten tracks, though, make Jason Mraz sound daring.

Hyacinths and Thistles is not even a 6th as good as Wasps' Nests.... these vocalists have two things in common: a cold demeanor and a predilection for high drama.

The King & I wastes too much energy centering a known relationship on these formless descriptions, a flaw that turns a 72-minute project into a poshly produced endurance contest.

He mostly raps on point and with confidence. But the actual words coming out of his mouth sound like they were brainstormed by a bunch of kids idling in an eighth-grade English class.

Muse used to sound like a Radiohead tribute band; now they sound like a Muse knockoff. [Aug 2006, p.81]

These C-grade tracks ape RZA's trademark sound, but lack any sense of melody; and the album seems randomly cut-and-pasted. [Oct 2008, p.112]

So, it hurts to say it, but the duo's newest collection, Communicate, isn't that great. And the problem is simple: the flow is screwy.... the album, while not without a few stellar moments, is ultimately a let-down.

The new Fishing Blues feels so rote you’ll have to play the old records to remember that it’s not the Atmosphere norm.

Mostly frustrating... the spare instrumentation and samey melodies wear you down. [Oct 2006, p.96]

Gough pens poignant pop-rock tunes... but he overdresses them, adding bells and whistles where they're not needed. [Nov 2006, p.96]

The result is a nightmarish mess, but it's no relapse into disarray.

On every track, the mad-libs are paired with stylistically diverse arrangements--and invariably plodding tempos. The album’s lone sugar spike is “Dumb Blonde,” a rehashed “Girlfriend” that features a phoned-in Nicki Minaj guest verse midway through and, for some reason, a pre-chorus melody yanked from Lipps, Inc.’s “Funky Town.” In spite of everything, Head Above Water offers one brief moment where Lavigne’s emotional alchemy assumes a bolder musical form that’s properly befitting of her powerhouse vocals and enduring authenticity: the opening stunner of a title track.

Sadly, as Pit forges ahead in his campaign for world domination, his artistry is what's really being colonized.

For the Volta, more is always more, but rarely has a band with this much potential been so willing to squander its strengths.

On record, though--and particularly this one, which presents churchy performances in mixes both realistic and surreal--these same Up With People tropes don't work as well, particularly with prolonged exposure, as inferior follow-ups to promising debuts by the Polyphonic Spree and I'm From Barcelona have proven.

Maybe this is what living in France does to you. [Jun 2007, p.92]

Johnson uses his brain instead, bumming over the war, airplane turbulance, and the widespread deterioration of manners on chewy, Moog-speckled ditties that reveal an arty streak he's kept secret until now. [Feb 2008, p.94]

Between the singer/songwriter's hectoring-preacher delivery and predictable surf-guitar-noir arrangements, the result is one dreary sermon.

Overreaches. [Jul 2006, p.88]

Mostly, though, Destroyed is about as appetizing as a warmed-over deli tray.

Ultimately these would-be activists end up with more nervous bark than bite. [Aug 2006, p.77]

TEN$ION, by contrast [to $0$], hews a little too close to the fake-gangster thing to be nearly as fun.

Paring down his tuneful new-wave pop to a bare-bones piano-bass-drum lineup might not been the best idea for Joe Jackson. [Feb 2008, p.94]

This sophomore set from the Swedish acoustic troubadour is undeniably pretty but ultimately doesn't hint at much more. [Oct 2007, p.102]

Mud-footed trip-hop production... [Nov. 2000, p.208]