This slippery debut from Odd Future's Syd the Kyd and Matt Martians embarks on a journey into Twilight Zone pop, with a lovelorn story arc that transitions from giddy crushing to it's-over melancholia.

Their Discodeine debut is surprisingly devoid of frothy sensationalism.

You don't really hear that stylistic growth, though, on this slab of down-tuned chug-and-glug, which finds the band returning to the grim recriminations of early tunes like "Mudshovel" and "Suffocate."

P.O.D. too often fall back on vanilla "bang boogie." [Feb 2006, p.85]

Spheres does just what they need it to do: land two or three easily digestible mega-jams to punch up the next concert setlist. ... The rest is, well, the rest. Four of the 12 tracks are interludes or faceless dance instrumentals. ... There’s just very little anchoring these songs. No sense of purpose, cohesion or emotional reckoning.

On every track, the mad-libs are paired with stylistically diverse arrangements--and invariably plodding tempos. The album’s lone sugar spike is “Dumb Blonde,” a rehashed “Girlfriend” that features a phoned-in Nicki Minaj guest verse midway through and, for some reason, a pre-chorus melody yanked from Lipps, Inc.’s “Funky Town.” In spite of everything, Head Above Water offers one brief moment where Lavigne’s emotional alchemy assumes a bolder musical form that’s properly befitting of her powerhouse vocals and enduring authenticity: the opening stunner of a title track.

What disappoints most about Full Speed though is how despite the slick sheen, its lasting impression is characterized by a lack of ambition or awareness.

They've returned to the frantic music of original heroes Gang of Four, banging out songs that vibrate with exactly the tense energy they'd mislaid. [Jun 2006, p.83]

With ridiculous Auto-Tuned hooks, filthy lyrics ("Bustin' on your ass / Can't believe I said that / Never been a racist / I left her with a wet back"), and jittery beats from Young L and the Cataracts, it's worth putting your name on the guest list.

T.R.U. Story contains few surprises, and one less once you realize that its own opening line--"Cut the top off, call it Amber Rose"--isn't threatening decapitation.

It’s a better album than 2012’s conflicted, twilit Four, but Okereke’s new grace awaits an engine as powerful as the one enjoyed by his old gracelessness.

Sound[s] like a band that's discovered how to enjoy itself again. [Aug 2006, p.85]

A couple of songs succeed on their own terms, like "Finally Begin"--destined for a rom-com trailer--but most float unmemorably down the highway of not-quite-modern rock.

Instead of the poppy makeover many anticipated, the Mobb's seventh album is a curious blend of gunz-money anthems, G-Unit-ized sex romps, and visions of the great beyond.

So faceless that it'll make you hanker for Dirty Vegas deep cuts. [Oct 2006, p.96]

For their previous temporary-reunion album, 2003's Strays, these dark alt gods created a superslick din seemingly designed for radio, but definitely not your heart.

Sometimes he veers too close to his source material and surrenders to sap... but mostly this U.K.-chart-topping magpie makes good with bountiful tunes and Broadway vocal dazzle that could slay even the High School Musical crowd. [May 2007, 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.

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]

On Excuse My French, he's outshone and undervalued.

The results are hit-or-miss.

He's relying on the same sad melodies. And they're still quite effective. [Oct 2006, p.96]

I-Empire still makes you wonder what constituency DeLonge hopes to attract with such an anti-fun platform. [Dec 2007, p.112]

This album is closer to 1998's whitechocolatespaceegg: mature and complicated. [Oct 2005, p.136]

Payable on Death's heaviest tracks... easily outcrunch the competition. [Dec 2003, p.124]

This far less satisfying collection of gussied-up outtakes and posthumously completed tracks shifts the focus back to the packaging that progressively dehumanized Jackson.

Where the album fails to eclipse its predecessor, and where it fails to match the band’s new Brooklyn buddies, is in Marcus Mumford’s vanilla songwriting.

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.