Supermodel's failing is that it's copying one of the foundational records of this trend, which is, you guessed it, Torches. It's hard to think outside a box you built yourself.

This time around, ATR's protest platitudes ("Are you ready to testify?") and electronic skronk-thud ("Digital 
Decay," with female member Nic Endo holding forth on Internet freedom), sound awkwardly dated.

But two decades deep in the game, Busta is still beholden to a style that ping-pongs between silly and steroidal, making his stabs at honesty fall awkwardly flat.

This London group's second studio album is pleasant but rather uneventful. [Sep 2007, p.129]

This LP sounds too close to unfocused jamming. [Apr 2007, p.95]

Port of Miami 2 further cements Ross as a mainstay among the aging elite—those rappers whose names now carry them further than their music does. Playing it safe with the sequel to his far more ambitious debut LP, Ross regurgitates that which people have come to love from him, or at least have accepted as his standard.

Occasionally, Lee's wit triumphs over his predictability. [Oct 2007, p.106]

The deadpan humor that animated the band's early werk is missing. [Nov 2003, p.117]

M83 needs to step out of the '80s, and back into the future. [Apr 2008, p.100]

Longer on nuance than hook. [Mar 2007, p.98]

Sadly, Mayer's idea of a good time involves hiring jazz musicians to make himself sound like '80s James Taylor. [Dec 2003, p.128]

All Night Long posits Buckcherry as your ultimate all-night rager soundtrack; the fist-pumping anthem-makers who are best heard on 5 a.m. IHOP runs.

There’s not even anything very embarrassing about Black Laden Crown, the first Danzig album since 2010’s Deth Red Sabaoth--it’s just plain old boring.

Straining to prove something to the haters, the Ring flee from their strengths, trading enthusiastic bash-and-pop for slow songs as soggy as deep cuts from a Train album. [May 2002, p.115]

Dead Petz is a short-lived album by design.

Only the electric "It Begins Tonight," righteous of riff and bonkers of solo, plays to his strengths; the rest is like watching Michael Jordan bat .235 in Birmingham.

He’s turned in 12 tracks of heavily orchestrated and unbearably sincere acoustic pop, territory that he hasn’t touched since the late ’90s.

Em is largely in defense mode; it’s a self-consciousness that leans closer to stagnation than catharsis.

The arrangements are so ponderous, the vowel-masticating vocal languor so excessive, you almost wish he'd go whole hog and cover "Ave Maria." [Nov 2003, p.117]

His avant-electro minimalism can get pretty vacant--to the point where you may not be able to tell it's on. [Jan 2004, p.100]

Jammed with cheesy effects, weak orchestration, and paper-thin vocals, this is a mix that nobody would dream of Californicating to. [Apr 2004, p.94]

His mildewy folk rock is dourly impenetrable. [Apr 2005, p.108]

After one truly cool tune, their feeble musicianship becomes a problem. [Oct 2003, p.113]

Evidence and Iriscience remain so humorlessly hard they could guard Buckingham Palace. [May 2004, p.108]

Where 2001's Discovery coyly gene-spliced cock rock and New York garage, Human merely cuts and pastes. [Apr 2005, p.105]

Songs like the predictably ribald "Porno Bitches" are little more than by-the-numbers, behind-the-music tracks. [Jul 2005, p.104]

This album would be better without Scott screaming about absolute nonsense. [Sep 2004, p.119]

They sound like they can't be bothered. [Oct 2004, p.120]