Throughout, the Foos are as tight as ever, even if the songs are mostly unmemorable. [Oct 2007, p.108]

The melodies are often limp, the rhythm section disappointingly friction-free, and Cumming’s main lyrical M.O. is to name-drop coke constantly, like the doofus at a party who mistakes a key bump for a badge of cool.

A downer. [Jul 2007, p.116]

It's sweet. And dull. And, OK, excruciting. [July 2008, p.74]

No distinct personality emerges. [Oct 2006, p.132]

Hit-and-miss. [Jul 2006, p.104]

It sounds half-heard no matter how many times you hear it. [Sep 2006, p.142]

If she doesn't follow commercial formulas, she's following creative ones, and selling herself short in the process. [Jun 2005, p.111]

The quartet fills out the album by executing almost eactly the same formula [as the first track] four more times... and the dramatic shock wears off quickly. [Jan 2004, p.103]

Roman's politically spiked lyrics sound shrugged-off and flimsy. [Sep 2004, p.141]

This is a classic 1970s-style headphones record that is both arty and unusually undisciplined. [Nov 2003, p.108]

He lays it on so thick, the music all but drowns in pretty surfaces. [Oct 2003, p.129]

The End is rather ordinary--severe, belligerent riffs and vocals that sound as though singer Chud gargles molten lava. [#12, p.148]

Mostly, he's outmuscled by the production. [Oct 2004, p.122]

Never Gone's rock ballads are painfully and sometimes powerfully earnest demands for meaning and redemption. [Aug 2005, p.108]

Consists almost entirely of antagonistic digs at 50, Eminem and Dr Dre, none of which are terribly sharp. [Jan 2004, p.105]

As likely to put you to sleep as influence your choice in cars. [#8, p.116]

Skips from one song to the next without leaving any great impression or displaying a single sentiment Jessica Simpson would find distressing. [#4, p.118]

Isn't so much minimalist as just plain minimal. [Aug 2003, p.120]

McCabe is bearable, even fun. But he oversings like a guy who's mistaken a North Dakota rock club for Madison Square Garden. [Oct 2006, p.142]

Staggers under the unbearable preciousness of donkey-voiced singer Colin Meloy. [Sep 2003, p.122]

While perfectly accomplished, this is big-budget background noise, purpose-built for any one of the plush cocktail bars it's soon to be endlessly played in, but lacking anything as distinct as, say, a personality of its own. [#10, p.130]

The results are disappointingly uneven. [Oct/Nov 2001, p.103]

The album's fine pedigree might have worked in a more conservative era. [#9, p.144]

Without much international color or guest flourish. [Nov 2003, p.122]

Green's cutesy Bacharach-ish chamber pop loses all novelty after a few spins. [Apr 2005, p.118]

Creeper retain their melodic ingenuity and slowly ascending anthems, but their vision is scattered -- the band can't decide on a single melody per song, so they ramble from one promising yet half-formed tune to the next. [Jun/Jul 2001, p.107]

Similar inventiveness [to that on debut album 'Vertigo'] has been markedly absent from the London duo's subsequent work, and sadly, Lovebox continues the trend. [#14, p.136]