While there are still some bright pop moments and interestingly demented freakouts like "Who's Running My Ranch," the album as a whole feels more hollow than even Pollard's sometimes tossed-off song fragments.

Unlike his previous two releases, Wainwright's musings seem less focused and a little meandering on a handful of the songs.

Without their old-timey affectations, the band seems interchangeable with any number of blandly attractive AAA rockers, a group that favors sound over song.

Combines instantly accessible power pop, synth-pop, glam, grunge, and Brit-pop influences with the resulting songs fitting together so seamlessly to be somewhat indecipherable from each other.

Thanks to the introspective nature of the songs and the mannered production, they took something totally alive and wild, and wonderfully fun and exciting, and not so magically turned themselves into just another dime-a-dozen indie rock band.

Far from being the second coming of Dylan, Oberst is as precious as Paul Simon, but without any sense of rhyme or meter or gift for imagery, puking out lines filled with cheap metaphors and clumsy words that don't scan.

The second half is a laborious crawl, a variety of glorified and slow bonus tracks.

Human is the sound of an artist painfully trying to sound modern but -- by trying to sound fresh -- sounding older than he ever has.

Certainly the musicianship and arrangements are impeccable, but even with differing vocalists, all of the tracks are so similar that it ends up being as tedious as the producer's later work.

As on their last two LPs, it's heavily reliant on nightclub anthems and will.i.am's throwback rapping, alongside Auto-Tune harmonies and waves of synth

When things are light and simple on Live It Up, DeWyze seems like himself: a threadbare talent who floated in on the vapors of Idol's empty tank.

It all winds up as an ungodly mess: Crazy Horse do, as Young asserted they would, make these songs their own, but by doing so, they've made them so nobody else would ever want them.

There are only two quality songs, a lot of redundant trash-talking, and an overall sense of ridiculousness that pervades.

It's the first time Adams has sounded completely worn out and spent, bereaved of either the craft or hucksterism at the core of his work.

Because Light After Dark tries so hard to keep up with the tricks of the trade in 2011, it loses any sense of originality that Maguire brings to the table, which, especially in the pop music scene, is the only way to stand out.

Stealing of a Nation is a slick, calculated record that misses its target on all accounts.

Famous First Words was always going to struggle to live up to the band's bold promises, but it's still a shock at how a Brit-pop scene renowned for its color can be responsible for something so utterly drab.

There's an abundance of low-wattage boasts about financial and libidinal surpluses, most of which could have been composed by a generator. Softer and more melodic cuts are indicated with all-lowercase track titles. ... If Yachty can find a way to be his goofy self and elevate his writing, he can rebound.

Compared to the originals, or even the better covers released during the intervening years, these versions are pleasant if sterile.

For the most part My Ride's Here is a misfire from an artist capable of much better work.

Jackpot is superior in every aspect.

Certainly, it's not the embarrassment of the live album, but it has its own internal logic that keeps it humming along, and that's good enough for a listen and to get the band out on tour again, even it's not good enough for a second spin.

Producer Kevin Antunes never recontextualizes the original recordings; he favors hits-on-parade medleys, letting the hooks--the melodies, the rhythms--sink in before moving on to the next snippet.

Unfortunately, their third album Fragments of Freedom scraps most of their signature sound for half-baked experiments in R&B, acid jazz, and hip-hop.

Given Jones' legendary stature and reputation for taste, this set feels unnecessary at best, and downright cynical at worst.

Corgan repeatedly buries his threadbare melodies beneath squeals of guitar that are too processed to either soar or sear. More than anything, it's this digitally dulled sound that saps Zeitgeist from any impact it may have.

It would be nice if some of the titular burn could be felt on Dierks Bentley's fourth studio album, but Feel That Fire is an atypically cautious, calculated affair from one of Nashville's best singer/songwriters of the 2000s.

Looper drops their bright playfulness for a sophisticated, darker counterpart which uses jazz, R&B, and trip-hop as its foundation.