As if the lyrics (and the poop) weren't painful enough, the band actually makes us listen to music that, for the most part, amounts to cheap Blink 182 ripoff -- that is, if Blink 182 used more synthesizer and were (get this) less funny.

The once fist-raising anthems for the Lilith generation have been replaced by the bland.

Mraz apparently has some skill, and maybe if he gives up on showing that skill off, his next record could be a respectable one.

It's not that any of the songs are horrible; it's just that they are so shamelessly middle-of-the-road that you become sickened by the ambivalence that they instill.

What stops the Backstreet Boys from being any fun is, I think, their inability/refusal to wink at their audience.

Out of Nothing is the sound of music being super-sized and stuffed into a happy meal.... Extra large chorus? Check. Grandiose lyrics? Check. Towering instrumentation? Check.

For the discerning music listener, JackInABox is only bound to be a disappointment at best, and annoying at worst.

A very disappointing step backwards.

Lost and Found is ultimately a pointless album, one that might have sold well six years ago, but comes across as drab and hopelessly passé today.

The Hella boys have immeasurable talent, as proven by their past (and better) releases; unfortunately, Church Gone Wild/Chirpin Hard has nothing but complete disregard and contempt for talent.

His insistence on teasing us with a good line and immediately pulling away to something else, without even a rhyme as an excuse, is simply frustrating.

A bloated misfire.

It goes awry for Black Mountain, devolving into a collection of musical segments that prove that the members have really important record collections and strong political views. The crucial thing that is missing is internal inspiration.

This is a cloying record that doesn't so much recall Zeppelin at their height, as The Alarm at their most irritating.

Dangerous Dreams is either an homage to an homage or a flimsy extension of a fading movement; regardless, its been-there, done-that mediocrity is ultimately what defines it best.

Espinoza opts for cheap sentiment beneath layers of grandiose atmospherics.

There should be a new section in record stores for that god-awful Sgt. Pepper movie, Joe Pesci's Vincent Laguardia Gambini Sings Just for You, Jewel's book of poetry, and Travistan.

The majority of the album is just not very interesting.

Oddly, nothing about This Is for Real feels sincere.

For the most part, I Com sounds like the worst musical mangles of electroclash: the ax-chipped rhythms, the dated blips and bleeps, the distinct sheen of thoughtlessness, and the wry style shot like a flare over the head of substance.

Yet, it would be too convenient and, frankly, unfair to simply blame the production. These songs, like Moorer's picture in the liner notes, are all dressed up with nowhere to go.

The idiosyncratic intellectualism, the schrapnels of noise, and the outlandish creative liberties are still there, but without the funk these elements are uncomfortably exposed, like a naked body standing shivering in the cold.

It is difficult to say which is more tedious and painful to listen to, the lyrics or the orchestration.

This collection of warmed-over power pop wouldn't have shown up on anyone's radar if it weren't for Wilson's day job as Weezer's drummer.

Life is too short to spend valuable time with a record as essentially inessential as Seven's Travels.

Way too much of Bazooka Tooth is purely ego nonsense.

Hooks so catchy, voices so belty, organ so loud and . . . organy -- the whole experience overwhelmed my ears and hurt my brain. Listen at your own risk.

The songs are so generic that the only thing left at the record's conclusion is the feeling of how hollow and insubstantial the whole thing is.