[He is] an exceptional mandolinist and brilliant composer ... however, Thile's deficiency as songwriter has begun to bleed through, and the quintet's third album quickly wears thin.

Through it all, The Great Awakening feels like a far-off summer lightning storm: all low rumbles punctuated by occasional flashes of grandeur that tease something major awaiting without delivering a single drop of anything with impact.

For those who truly want to rock around the clock, Black Ice never brings the heat.

Nelson's debut on seminal jazz imprint Blue Note lacks the luster of its 1978 counterpart.

It's perfect for getting some shut-eye, but the boy wonder bores when cast upon alert ears.

It would seem Wainwright has traded his operatic sensibilities for Broadway flair, which is as tired as swapping stilettos for orthopedic loafers.

Just a little less inscrutability, and this could have been a real contender.

This is not the sound of a band with anything on the line.

Anyone turned off by last year's octogenarian opera Rehearsing My Choir, recorded at the same time as Bitter Tea, will find little solace here.

Pierce shows neither the vocal presence nor the songwriting chops to justify Let It Come Down's bloated orchestral excess.

Too True offers the very definition of postmodern pastiche: a collection of ultimately empty gestures to previous forms.

No Line on the Horizon reaches for "The Unforgettable Fire's" post-"War" reinvention but misfires this side of "Pop" without the songs.

Fool Metal Jack looks at modern America with kaleidoscope eyes, but it's more bad parody than pastiche.

Those farty sounds and the guy with the deeeeeeeeeep voice on "It Overtakes Me" are called "bells and whistles." That's what bands do when they don't have anything to say.

It's tedious where there should be tension.

50 sounds redundant.

Based on this evidence, Cold Cave is merely the New Coke of New Wave.

Maybe this is what passes for rebellion now -- a major label, videogenic looks, and VH1's stamp of approval -- but it equals undistinguished California rock and will probably sell a couple million.

Pharrell's all-too-shallow schtick becomes monumentally tired over the course of an entire album.

The onetime rapper's new foray into Lionism deviates so far from the norm that its proprietor's been edged out, melded into a nonconfrontational reggae singer whose drops can't muster a single memorable moment.

The band's full-length debut, however, still turns up drier than Laurel Canyon. Like most of Modern Rituals, "Nothing's Wrong" because it was assembled piecemeal in Pro Tools, stiff and lifeless.

'Cotopaxi' and 'Desperate Graves' are the Volta's most straightforward carbon-burners since Frances the Mute's 'Cygnus ... Vismund Cygnus' yet lack structure and memorable hooks, while the introductory ballad 'Since We've Been Wrong' soars closer to the Eagles than Led Zeppelin.

Sure, there's Somethin 'Bout Kreay, but it's not good.

It's one thing to be eclectic; it's another thing entirely for an album to lack a cohesive conceit that connects one track to all the others.

Ultimately, The Civil Wars plays out lyrically insipid and completely oblivious to the fact that their vocals strive for meaningful but define overbearing.

Effort isn't lacking, but inspiration is.

Oberst's voice trembles with the emotion of his youth, only ripped with spite instead of vulnerability. That solipsism has shifted to an even more detached universalism, which leaves little for the listener to connect with.

What stands out are shallow hooks ("I Stand Alone"), disjointed memoirs ("Love Is Real"), and the painful lyrical repetition of "Girls Girls $" littering a nightclub-ready canvas. "Stop It."

The Watson Twins have inherent and proven talent, but it hardly shows here.

Kweli's generic sounds belie the so-called revolutionary front of his lyrics.

Digital garnishment works for Wilco, but not so much for the beat-impaired Oberst.

Kings of Leon here depend on a major label production budget rather than hooks. Caleb Followill's nasal yelp remains totally disarming, but the stupidity of 'Sex on Fire' douses all credibility.

Square-peg/round-hole pairings of the Kinkster and guests seldom jell as duets (Bruce Springsteen), but covers from Lucinda Williams ("Long Way From Home") and Jackson Browne ("Waterloo Sunset") make for choice B-sides.

Everything about The Cost is inflated and with little payoff, a blight for a band worth so much more.

All filler, no killer.

A nearly unlistenable, shiny mess of weepy college rock.

Unlistenable, grade-A manure.

The remainder of the 16-song, hourlong question mark is emphatic spoken word hurled over a sound check--pretentious, superfluous, and ultimately unlistenable.

Bogged down by Meth's lackadaisical approach and reliance on guest appearances, Tical 0: The Prequel falls flat on its befuddled front.

An alternate and/or nascent mix of Achtung Baby not only doesn't add to the dialog, it perhaps subtracts from it.

Duffy's the Clay Aiken of nuevo "soul."

Save for Lyfe Jennings' refreshing cues on 'Hood Star,' there's nothing original about Last.