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.