More of the same, really, and what same is that anyway? His beats, hooks and musicality tread slightly above water.

The seven-, eight- and nine-minute lengths grow as wearing as the man’s past releases always threatened to, without actually losing momentum.

Though still sunny and hooky, Leave No Trace lacks the enigmatic spark of its predecessor, especially now that the words are more readily understandable.

Two Matchsticks evokes the Everly Brothers' sibling intimacy, but Kenny's lonely campfire songs cling to a limited number of minor keys, similar tempos, and virtually identical arrangements.

The middle of the road was always their destiny, it seems, and they arrive with blatantly pleasant but character-free ditties to accompany you while shopping for a smart new Ben Sherman shirt, though those ditties likely will be forgotten the moment 
you exit the store.

Both sides would be well served by a bit of mingling. [Mar 2007, p.91]

Overall, Hawk faithfully follows its predecessors' dusty Americana blueprint, trading a standout Hank Williams cover for two by Townes Van Zandt.

She's more convincing as a moper, but the album's alternately punchy and slinky conclusion is heartening proof that's she's no quitter. [Nov 2008, p.102]

He, like the Beta Band, deftly creates a patchwork of Britain's mushiest styles, from Rubber Soul-era Beatles to Badly Drawn Boy's acoustic wanderings. [Sep 2006, p.108]

Comes off like a less foreboding version of [Sigur Ros'] moody orchestral drift. [Oct 2006, p.94]

All in all, this is a well-written, smartly paced, tightly played, thematically cohesive, musically tidy piece of work. It's just that quite a lot of Camper fans probably never considered those qualities to be particularly appealing virtues.

You start out rooting for Lucas when his ex keeps his Pretenders album. But the more mean-spirited he gets, the more his melodies fail him.

The title track gusts in more forcefully, but on the duo's best songs, they harmonize like Simon & Garfunkel shutting their eyes against approaching shades of winter.

Old-school Weezer fans won't like it, and neither will blog-rock acolytes. But that's the point. Raditude is the murderous revenge of the middlebrow.

The results are hit-or-miss.

Smith sounds less joyful than usual, unable to reconcile religious faith with everyday hope. [Jun 2006, p.79]

[Brown] comes on like a lovable, if genetically engineered, soulman. [Oct 2006, p.95]

Thunderheist is all about the quick dance-floor fix, but Isis imbues her characters with quick-witted wickedness, and producer Graham Zilla churns out Spartan synth tracks that have an undeniably funky buzz.

Indistinct lyrics and plodding dynamics confine most of the songs to "just okay" status, but a few arresting tracks seem destined for a yet-to-be-built rock Valhalla.

Harper sounds most engaged on the disc's loudest, least melodic cuts: "Clearly Severely" is a furious, TV on the Radio–style soul-punk blast.

They're Old Schooled enough to ace history, but the science they drop is strictly C+. [Sep 2004, p.120]

Suddenly, these longtime collaborators seem like a mismatch worthy of Blind Date. [Mar 2004, p.95]

Until they ditch folksy archaisms... maybe it's best for 'em young indie-blues fellers... [to] work on the good ol'-fashioned songwriting. [Mar 2006, p.95]

Odditorium... is a chance to repair their cred, and insofar as they have any, they do all right. [Sep 2005, p.102]

Uneven, overly reverential. [May 2005, p.110]

They vacillate between flotational devices and skull-crushers. [Apr 2006, p.91]

Shows a weakness for arena-rock voguing and Dawson's Creek-dipping melancholia. [Jun 2003, p.108]

To divide Hella's mind is to hack their talent in half. [May 2005, p.105]