The problem is that for all the slick operations and glorious machinations of the marketing and production, this band has run out of steam; soulless without being undead.

They are a handful of shit, of wan, barely extant songs and feeble musings, of worn gimmickry and careful over-production, aping Sufjan and a dozen others, flung against a cultural brick wall.

When it is instrumental, it’s “Get It,” which seems a timid remake of Since We Last Spoke’s title track, or it’s “Murs Beat,” which, tellingly, has no Murs. Some of the rest sounds like a softer, more overproduced, and generally shittier version of the Cars. The rest of the rest sounds like something duller than that.

Coming from an unknown artist, West would be disappointing if it was anything at all; coming from Williams, it’s entirely abysmal.

It shows little of Oberst’s usual dramatic flair.

Granted, thanks to the kind of company Mr. Combs’ platinum chain reels in, almost half of these tracks have some modest amount of entertainment value to them, but all the Just Blazes and Rich Harrisons and Big Bois and Pharoahes and Kanyes and Nasirs in the world can’t cover the Proactiv-shiny mug up front, the shifty but proudly brand-name-not-person-name emblazoned on the border, the voice that bumbles through every song.

Maddeningly diffuse at best, and an engorged sonic clusterfuck at worst.

It's nice that Primal Scream attacks these tunes with gusto, but the passionate performance doesn't hide the fact that this album is utterly inessential, little more than a sampler for what amounts to a really swell wedding band.

Bloated on the rotting corpses of hackneyed scratching, hackneyed drums, hackneyed sampling technique and hackneyed key work (all that in hackneyed combinations), Feedback makes it difficult to differentiate the acceptable from the tired.

The problem this time out isn’t a lack of interesting material, it’s that these aren’t lyrics, these aren’t songs, these are for the most part spoken word stories backed by some of the most horrific and baroque music ever recorded.

Young Adults Against Suicide comes off as the less talented, R-rated Beastie Boys doing PSAs.

This album is as fake as Kim’s physique, as vapid as the fashion she flaunts, as undeservedly praised as her entire career.

CocoRosie are clearly talented when they keep things focused; fact is, though, that Noah’s Ark is so steeped in its own random, garbled universe that it makes for a frustrating, unrewarding listen.

If it’s funny and not unlistenable, we may have a kitsch classic on our hands, right? No. The third way to describe this album is: reprehensible.

The tragedy here is not that this is a mid-nineties retread, though, as much as Corgan’s songwriting is Machina level unmemorable.

Don’t Believe the Truth... probably isn’t Oasis’ nadir (that distinction arguably being due to 2002’s atrocious Heathen Chemistry), but one could be fooled for thinking so.

Make Believe finds Cuomo donkey-punching the formaldehyde-soaked corpse of his former glory.

It’s music so frothy and unsubstantial that you could practically meditate to it: listen to it often enough, and it just kind of floats away, even if you’re blasting it at full volume.

Of all the glaring sonic crimes, it’s Moby’s nonexistent voice that most solidifies Hotel’s future infamy.

Tasteless Rolling Stones apers rip off an entire decade of rock music.

There are hardly any virtues to this record at all.

Urn is a chore.

Razorlight is nearly everything wrong with rock and roll today.

Sets a new bar for self-consciously unlikeable indie rock.

The problem most people are going to make is taking the record too seriously, but even recognizing it as being overly tongue-in-cheek won't save it from being, at very best, painfully frustrating.