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.