Seems shambled and unfinished. [No. 85, p.58]

It's fine that none of this is the least bit subtle. Memorable, or anything other than baseline catchy, is another thing entirely. [#81, p. 56]

Mercury Rev has talked about reinvention and veering away from its comfort zone, which is only to be commended, but the band has really fallen flat on its face here.

Brightblack Morning Light has always been a druggie band; this time, however, the drug of choice is Dramamine.

Forget Evil Urges entirely; call this one Zzz.

Aside from a handful of tunes, little here is all that memorable, namely because the hooks can’t see their way clear of the repetitive, robotic arrangements.

Strength In Numbers makes you wonder if you ever really liked this band at all. [#75, p.94]

What had been a fascinating display of aural minimalism has morphed into a haphazard, ill-advised mess. [#75, p.96]

The truth is, even Angels & Airwaves do this sort of epic-emo thing with more verve, if not more Verve. [#73, p.96]

How in god's name did Damon Gough fall so far? [#74, p.90]

Where 2005's harrowing Frances The Mute strikes the right balance between inspiration and indulgence, the Mars Volta loses its equilibrium with Amputechture. [#73, p.96]

There are but three words to describe the sixth album from [Nightmares On Wax]... "repetition"... "derivative"... "listless."[#71, p.108]

On Rehearsing My Choir, the Furnaces are just defiant because they can be, indulging every impulse but neglecting to make any of them even remotely compelling. [#70, p.96]

A dull collection of dreary drone-rock songs. [#69, p.111]

Suggests some arcane Canuck payment scheme in which lyricists are compensated by the syllable. [#70, p.106]

Only a couple of tracks on Nightbird flicker with any sparks of life. [#67, p.96]

Feels like a product of the past. Not the distant past, either, where at least its retrofits could be forgiven as homage. Lemon Jelly captures electronica circa 1993. [#67, p.102]

Doesn't offer much in the way of anything appealing. [#67, p.90]

By stripping away the symphonic, avant edge... [Gomez] loses much of what made it unique in the first place. [#64, p.96]

Tepid, predictable.... It's sleek and stylized, the spastic, jittery punk replaced by impassioned, searching guitar lines. [#60, p.110]

Oh, big breathy bombast, they name is Sense Field. [#60, p.113]

Sounds like musicians so thoroughly bereft of ideas and energy that they've resorted to lifting melodies from their record collections wholesale while crossing their fingers for luck, hoping no one will notice the difference between inspiration and theft. [#59, p.88]

This batch of 11 half-baked songs is whiny, lifeless and not even close to stimulating. [#60, p.106]

Not even Linkous can prop up this house of cards for long. [#58, p.94]

He sandbags every song with gigantic, syrupy string arrangements that make John Williams sound like John Cage. [#58, p.82]

Give Up is a record that says, well, nothing. [#58, p.100]

The unintentionally hilarious Mount Eerie misfires so dramatically, it makes you want to reconsider not the Second Amendment but the First. [#57, p.98]

Turgid at best. [#57, p.102]