Many of the tracks on Dos! are merely soulless specters of previous work from Green Day's "golden-age."

Sleep Mountain isn’t entirely unenjoyable; its two main crimes are that it’s too safe with its simple chord patterns and unimaginative riffs, and that it’s too in thrall to the records that have inspired it.

We get a record that is surprisingly dull, which alternates between syrupy, unremarkable ballads and uptempo tracks that sound like they’ve been assembled by a committee of consultants.

For what it is, it may in fact be quite good. But, to her discarded fans, at least, she's given the ultimate finger.

At its weakest, the album is merely boring with the lamely typical Can't You See, an album opener of distorted rumbling and vocals so low you'd strain to make them out. Arguably worse than a bland track is that the album actually offers some hope for a reasonably enjoyable experience.

Liam Lynch is about as funny as the plague, and even that had its moments in Monty Python. This doesn't have any.

I'll admit, the songs on Babel wouldn't be so painful if it weren't for the god-awful "deep" lyricism of Marcus Mumford.

Awful.

Apparently The Wombats only managed to write the one song for the album and so have decided to just repeat it ten times, offering little-to-no variation in tone or tempo--although to be fair to them, they do stick a different synth preset on for each song so you can tell them apart.

It is samey, ugly and spectacularly stupid at the same time.

This album is an abomination. It's a rancid pile of regurgitated tripe.

Owl City is electro-pop's unwanted bastard child, combining all the worst elements of the genre. The production is lazy and unbelievably dull.

Polished to the point of being nausea-inducing, this album has been packaged to a precise remit: robotic, stadium-rock-lite that follows the tried and tested formula of acoustic quiet bit, drums come in, second verse, chorus, repeat to fade so strictly that you’ll feel like banging your head against a brick wall and/or adding your own beat-box percussion.

The record sounds phoned in, plain and simple, and its awkward concessions to cliche, its trash heap lyrical conceits, and its dopey production have a cumulative effect that would be insulting if it weren’t so transparently uninspired and uninteresting.