Mind plays like a collection of tracks destined for car commercials, Hollywood movies and Superbowl half-time shows. [Apr 2006, p.90]

Galore sounds like the stock "empowering dance pop" library compilations that music publishers bombard film music supervisors with.

It's hottest moments are tepid at best. [Feb 2004, p.77]

A failed merger of trip-hop's smoky grooves and psychedelic rock's galactic textures. [Mar 2003, p.94]

Doesn't fit comfortably into either the current musical landscape or the leftfield. [Mar 2004, p.109]

It's hard to explain the mindless metal riffing that weighs down this completely disappointing album. [May 2005, p.84]

A lot of these tracks sound like either near-misses or music made to play when your roomate's pissing you off. [Jan/Feb 2005, p.102]

If you bought Daybreaker, stop! You're done. [Dec 2003, p.89]

Hammond, Jr. paints an awfully pretentious portrait of a dude caught playing with his best friend’s b-sides.

The frustrating saving grace is a bonus disc of fluid, pain-killing Brian Eno pastiche. [Jun 2005, p.75]

It's an album crying out for one ounce of originality. [Oct 2004, p.103]

If The Bran Flakes managed to cleverly juxtapose their weird samples against each other in order to make a satirical point, maybe they'd get a pass. However, most of the tracks come off like two kids selfishly goofing off in the studio with long lost gems of nostalgia from their childhood.

The occasional slow track turned power ballad and the single quirky pop tune are not nearly enough to rescue this record from the depths of the depressing ditch it dug itself into.

A group this weird and quirky should be able to produce dozens of albums that never loose their delicious twee taste. Perhaps what FF should try next is trying nothing at all.

Is not a very interesting album for a number of reasons. [Jun 2003, p.94]

Thankfully this album is only 10 tracks long, otherwise I don't think I could have sat all the way through it. I had trouble enough as it is.

The big idea of real instruments and real people is a step backwards. [Oct 2004, p.102]

CYHSY seem to have set out to make their "important" sophomore record... which is only truly important if you believe that songs gain weight at the hand of bulbous studio wankage (they don't) and that unnecessarily inflated melodrama equals more fun (it doesn't). [Jan/Feb 2007, p.76]

The color palette Fatboy has assembled for this project—Justin Robertson, Martha Wainwright, Dizzee Rascal, Iggy Pop, and David Byrne, to name but a few--doesn’t trump the fact that musically, the BPA is mired in beats that smack of early 2000, if not the late ‘90s.

Done in by fussy, irritating delivery and lyrics that range from clunky moralizing to potshots at easy targets. [Nov 2004, p.98]

TCM has become utterly irrelevant. [Feb 2004, p.78]

Just feels stiff and over-produced. [Aug 2003, p.88]

The whole act is a gimmick, for sure, and one that wears itself thin awfully quick. [Nov 2004, p.98]

The few standout tracks are in the beginning, making the rest of the album sound like a monotonous waste of your time. [May 2007, p.94]

The disc's most memorable moments come in the musical ideas left abandoned. [Sep/Oct 2007, p.130]

The dominating reggae rhythms sound thin and dynamic moments are rare. [May 2006, p.94]

[A] rather perplexing, albeit tame ride. [Mar 2006, p.118]

The synths and cheese riffs have dawdled so far down the path of meaningless self-abuse that they give all forms of masturbation a bad name. [Jan/Feb 2006, p.81]