He falls into mawkishness far too often. [Jun 2007, p.93]

Constant club-pop hooks, courtesy of executive producer Dr. Luke (with help from mentor Max Martin plus Benny Blanco, Ammo, and others) render the hypocrisy nearly irrelevant; but if they dry up, yikes.

Flat... only a few songs flirt with her previous brilliance. [Apr 2005, p.102]

The songs drag in the middle, choruses become interchangeable, and too many tracks end with the same electronic stuttering. [May 2007, p.84]

Depending on your disposition, former Moldy Peach Kimya Dawson is either endearingly naïve or impossibly irritating. Parents who fall into the former camp could do worse than this children's album (it beats Kidz Bop!), but caveat emptor when uptight grandparents are around.

Her fresh attitude eventually gets lost in a slew of downtrodden ballads that sink the album's second half. In other words, business as usual.

While most of the music on Whip It On is somewhere in the vicinity of cool, the vocals sound like two people trying out for a Jesus and Mary Chain tribute band. [Jan 2003, p.101]

This is Ross at his least cohesive and most clueless since his 2006 debut, Port of Miami.

Like Seinfeld, as New York a document as Paul's Boutique, Quack presents itself as a comedy about nothing. But Seinfeld's nihilism, as a portrait of the neuroses of a certain class in a certain era, at least represented a kind of ethos (pace Walter Sobchak). Duck Sauce's "brain farts," on the other hand, take refuge in the idea that if you stand for nothing, you can't be held accountable for anything.

Drunk on ringing guitars, crashing drums, and swooning harmonies, singer Ross Flournoy and crew try to compensate for their shortage of fresh ideas with boundless enthusiasm -- and almost pull it off.

Get Awkward's forced rhymes and attitude sound almost calculated. [Apr 2008, p.92]

You know you're in trouble when Avril Lavigne starts sharing song titles with R.E.M. and Pink Floyd.

Last Light still follows a logical, workmanlike path, but detours into arch, twitchy guitar and languid, countrified ballads that show a poised sincerity. [Oct 2007, p.108]

Lorde’s least vital project by several leagues. There’s just very little magic here. The album lilts and meanders across 12 tracks, wholly avoiding the incendiary electronic percussion of past releases. ... Fewer drum machines would be fine if the tunes were particularly engaging, but the album’s general sense of self-satisfaction all but screams no pressure, friends, check this out when you get around to it. The lax style is no accident, of course. Lorde is a deft songwriter.

The record is 13 tracks long, sounds nice sometimes, and features Ty$, Juicy J, Project Pat, Curren$y, Chevy Woods, and Nicki Minaj, so it doesn't overstay its welcome and has decent taste in guests.

Singer/songwriter Shawn Christensen's yelping Oingo-Boingo-ish voice gets grating fast. [Nov 2003, p.117]

MGK is a talented rapper, but here, on his major label album, he sounds hollow.

Much of A.K.A. is still mawkish, midtempo melodrama that does too much to accentuate J. Lo's tunelessness.

Yes, the RZA is a legendary eccentric, but Digi Snacks is too impossibly weird.

aybe listeners trapped in the depths of mourning or an exceedingly bad breakup might find hypnotic comfort here; others will likely admire the pretty vocals, fingerpicked guitar, and spectral atmosphere--then crave songs just a little more eventful.

This full-length debut confirms Taylor's love for Arthur Russell's underwater electronic grooves, but these fussy, avant-prog slow jams rarely come up for air.

Like most comedy albums, this one loses its luster upon repeated hearings.

Sometimes Volume Two drifts in a Valium haze of deep sighs, or its lyrics wanly drain the fun out of romance.

For all its obvious wit and fizzy energy, Tones of Town ultimately feels self-congratulatory and a bit cold-hearted. [Feb 2007, p.83]

Scattered. [Jul 2007, p.95]

The Miami-born, Paris-based socialite subsequently wastes most of her somewhat-dated debut album boasting about MySpace friends and fiddling with torturous, Ed Banger-produced synth pop.

At his best - "The Veldt," "Closer," and "Channel 42," which has a nice, Cameo-like wah-funk wiggle - Deadmau5 is a topflight roots-of-EDM mimic. At his worst, he's a troll.

Despite refreshingly brief songs, frontman Fran Healy can't resist self-conscious vocal flourishes that insist he's imparting great truths (shades of Bono), and the bombastic arrangements encourage Andy Dunlop to uncork cheesy, stadium-seeking guitar riffs.