They're still making forays into metal (Crash), but most Sum fans will agree that the band just hasn't been the same since guitarist Brownsound left town.

The increased repetition of blurted nonsense phrases and the further dumbing down of their very basic progressions should serve to rid them of numerous long-time fans who hoped the Hives could save rock 'n' roll.

Though deftly orchestrated, Everyday Robots feels deflated and aimless, and the nature-versus-technology theme frequently results in clichés.

His intentions sound pure, but Shaggy's musical moonshine will leave all but the biggest fans with a heavy hangover.

Max Martin wrote the opening track on each of those early records, as he does here on their eighth. But even the anthemic title tune can’t hoist the group out of elevator-music territory.

He's still getting more women than a taping of Ellen, but on Tha Carter IV – his most emo album to date – it sounds like what he really needs is a hug.

Selway sounds like a space-age Badly Drawn Boy, only less lovable. His melodies are simplistic, his lyrics amateurish. If he weren't in the band, it'd be easy to write him off as a Radiohead rip-off.

G-Unit needs to stop remaking Lloyd Banks's first hit, On Fire, from, like, two years ago.

Whereas Chaplin's sharply drawn social comment is rightly considered a modern classic, Dylan's Modern Times -- sung in a strangely affected croak you'd expect to hear from Leon Redbone's grandfather -- comes off like a feeble anachronism in which our man cynically attempts to pass off public-domain blues and folk tunes as his own by changing a few words.

Ultimately, Candylion is more annoying than entertaining.

TBS's main problem is that they write precisely two kinds of songs: energetic pop rock with whiny vocals, and midtempo power rock, again with whiny vocals.

this sounds like the soundtrack to the hell of cheese-ball Las Vegas bottle service clubs.

They're still doing that brooding medieval ambient pop thing, but with less drama and inventiveness.

ew singer William DuVall spends half his time replicating Staley’s nasal misanthropy and the other half buried by Cantrell’s vocals.

The squelchy playfulness in Ewen’s arrangements that marked FBH’s most memorable tunes is now cloistered by cynicism and studiousness.

In the end, Horses is another addition to a catalogue short on standouts.

Isbell shows us his sensitive side in a collection of lightly strummed breakup ballads and weepy slow-dancers you'd expect to get from Ryan Adams. That's not an endorsement.

Ashanti’s still got a decent voice, but she’s badly in need of a better songwriting and production team.

And though her voice is strong enough to carry the tracks, most of the time it’s needlessly strained. Memorable as these songs may be, they could use a good kick of grit to truly set them in motion.

What made the band so charming--their indiscernible vocals, the prickly, overbearing guitars, the lo-fi grittiness of it all--has been lost in the makeover.

The hooks are in short supply, and the production, as on "Flashover," overstuffed and claustrophobic. That cat photo almost saves the day, but not quite.

The only tracks that don't make us cringe are the back-to-basics club bangers likely added to pad out the album, and even those don't contain anything to get excited about. Someone needs to explain to Digitalism that it's way too soon for mid-00s retro.

He composes rich, intimate electronic and acoustic soundscapes that suggest myriad emotions and intriguing songwriting possibilities. As a singer, however, he's maudlin.

Unfortunately, they mostly come across as predictable and chuckle-worthy for the wrong reasons.

Unfortunately, there are none of the ridiculous disses, insane freestyles or wacky interludes that make real mixtapes entertaining.

Unlike Rick Ross, who entertainingly describes his (completely fictitious) exploits in fantastically opulent terms, Joe brags with a dullness that betrays how often he's repeated this story. And the production seems dated all the way down to Kilo, which uses a sample that Ghostface Killah and Raekwon employed to much grimier effect in 2006.

Mopey, twee, orchestral, downbeat--the duo cover all these bases in the flattest, most sophomoric way. Worse, though, is that the album sounds like a bunch of outtakes.

Most of what Barnes throws together here doesn't get beyond annoying pastiche, and he still lacks the chops as a wordsmith to magically transform mediocre jams into memorable songs.