Yeezus is ultimately most repugnant in how it heedlessly collapses all the value dichotomies that Kanye has mined so fruitfully over the years into one bottomless cesspool of narcissism.

There are hardly any virtues to this record at all.

This is nothing even remotely new, but very rarely does it come off so obnoxiously, indelibly built to not be taken seriously when that’s the very action that could save these assholes from their own doom.

The type of pretension that rears its fluffy manicured head on Finding Forever is one flatly insidious, lying in plush vibing harpsichord wait ("Intro"), in pattered bongo spoken word nobility ("Black Maybe"), and finally erupting in a 7½ minute crossharp-cooing, Crash-namedropping, butterfuck of pretension, exploding the boundaries of how fucking wack we ever, ever, ever thought Common could get.

Folks, to my ultimate chagrin, this Divine Providence album wallows in such unencumbered, unmoving crap-it breaks my fucking heart.

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

The entirety of Within and Without is a mishmash of half-recalled thoughts sterilized in a cloud of sh*t production.

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

The garish cover of Ghostdini is apt: this is an elaborate and unfunny joke, not to mention--if it even bears mentioning at this point—profoundly hateful to women

MAYA, M.I.A.'s third and so obviously worst album, is the sound of a devoted audience getting f***ed over by a musical sociopath.

Substance-free, without a whit of melody or lyricism or artistry but flouncing about in a post-production fantasia, the album made sounds that sounded like music for people who wanted to like music and have music playing near them but make no investment in the enjoyment of such stuff.

The songs themselves are broad, indifferent things, no relation to the Thing that is this album.

Theater of the Mind is a disappointment and more--snickering through both high-minded social consciousness and insipid cash cows, the album, so flat and fucking boring, serves absolutely no one but Ludacris himself.

It shows little of Oberst’s usual dramatic flair.

If Chopped & Screwed implies that Micachu and the Shapes want to obscure their relation to the still wonderful Jewellery, then this album isn't just difficult and unsatisfying--it's unfortunate.

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.

After the Balls Drop is less than fans-only material; it’s a mostly unlistenable document appealing only to the people who were fortunate enough to be there.

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.

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.

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

Urn is a chore.

Razorlight is nearly everything wrong with rock and roll today.

Aesthetically the album is an equally awful collection of pabulum, completely derelict in its offerings of arrangements and tones, sanded smooth of its personality and as derivative in its every moment as the bands it’s most derivative of.

Even the fun disco of 'I’m That Chick' is too little, too late for E=MC²--an album that proves just how easy it is for a well-funded virtuoso and the world’s best hitmakers to create a steaming pile of shit.

Circus is a saddening step back to her glossy yet unengaging "In the Zone" era, which is a shame.

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.

As such, it is both a strong refutation of every album Weezer has made since "Green" (as it, in its time, seemed to balk at "Pinkerton") and a numbing confirmation of the only available place this band has left: comic shearing, loose plagiarism, three separate solo projects (all of which are balls).

Apollo is too much, too confusing, and too forgettable.

Gemini is an effort so manic and unfocused that it barely coheres enough around it's stilted little center to be called an album.

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.

I am...amused. But it's sort of like the horrific fascination of seeing a train wreck.

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.

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

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

It wants to be danceable, sexy, and a defiant response to the media shitstorm. It's not even that danceable.

The majority of Future This is a punishingly noisy, hookless mess that contains precious few of the qualities that endeared folks to the Big Pink to begin with.

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.

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.

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

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.

There was a time when he did these things for our id, for our deeply rooted disgust at our own celebrity culture and so at ourselves. But here he’s not standing in for anyone, working himself into a feverish sweat solely for his own satisfaction.

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

It’s all so cold and empty and irritating.

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.

So long as you approach Unkle Dysfunctional as little more than an excuse for Shaun Ryder to head back out on the road, I guess it works fine.

Raditude is thoroughly extraneous. It is Weezer’s worst album.

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.

A long collection of awful ideas and recycled ideas in the absence of an Idea.

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

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

With one bright, surprising exception, the songs here either make a terrible impression or they make none at all.

There are very limited redeeming qualities to this collection of poorly played, badly written tripe.

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.

Much more attention-getting has been Lil B's ambient mixtape Rain in England, an effort which doesn't seek so much to invert hip-hop as to merely slander it.