The highs of Detour de Force are quite high, but they make the fall all the more noticeable. The album doesn’t so much dip in quality as drop off a cliff.

Maximo Park haven’t failed with this third LP, not at all--it’s just that they haven’t done much of anything.

With the extraordinary you get the perfunctory.

What a lot of the divergent sonic explorations sum up to is an album that has a lot of ideas; perhaps more than what makes up a coherent pop record.

While I Had the Blues is a serviceable debut that doesn't really disappoint but rarely shines, it does suggest that Bombay Bicycle Club have a promising future.

Somehow, the Warlocks have found the middle ground between the Raveonettes' Wall of Soundesque attack and the Flaming Lips' oddball fixation on love, death and outer space.

While Art Official Age is assuredly the more melodically assured of the two discs, PLECTRUMELECTRUM is at times way more fun, with Prince unleashing his iconic guitar skills in a litany of rockers that call to mind early cult favorites like 1979’s “Bambi” before falling into a generic pop spiral that he never really recovers from.

Sports is an album that slithers around the body, but rarely ever hisses.

Its insular lack of adventure ultimately delivers disappointingly dull listening.

Walk It Off communicates only through the reach of its buzzing instrumentation.

Unfortunately, as a whole, this record gets too monotonous during one sitting. It's just computer processor after computer processor, with a real instrument thrown in periodically.

Solid, but inconsequential.

Even Kasher's werewolf vocals do little to elevate these songs above the average.

Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes may not be the most stellar example of what the title band can do, but is worth a listen to fans of the band and fans of new versions of old styles of music making.

The songs range from interesting and cool to blah and by-the-numbers, the footage hops from self-aggrandizing and boring to beautiful and big-hearted. It's all very precise and perfectly done, if you like that sort of thing.

There’s very little about The Mix-Up not to like, yet there’s also very little that will be remembered in five months.

Simply put, their attempts at a new, more mature direction have found them lacking in all departments: lyrical, compositional, and creative.

As with the lyrics, one of Meteorites’ main weaknesses is that it contains too many tunes that can be filed under humdrum.

To be fair, there are a few club-friendly beats strewn about this album, but for the most part they're so candy-coated with a thick glaze of kiddie-friendly dance pop you'd hardly notice.

The more focused pieces effectively set off the looser jams and make Mirror Eye a trip worth taking, if you are looking for what Psychic Ills are offering.

Destroyed is an album created in the middle of the night for the middle of the night. Disappointment awaits those seeking anything more.

Terrific songwriting and clean, polished production.

On Time Stays, We Go, as on their previous EP, the band seems to be trying on a range of ideas and identities, without being willing to really commit to anything.

On Discipline, Janet sounds part nympho, part aging diva trying to keep up with her would be replacements. It works on some songs, but fails miserably on most.

Grand Romantic isn’t going to be for everyone. But if you happen to thrill at the twinkling eclecticism of the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds or get misty-eyed when Freddie Mercury soars above his backing choir on “Somebody to Love,” then you’ll likely follow Ruess at least part of the way on this hopelessly earnest, grandiosely romantic excursion.

This can’t be recommended for anyone but a pretty serious fan.

As an experiment in radically rearranging existing music, this album is a massive success. As a listenable album, though, it falls a bit short.

The goofy, almost throwaway squaredance of a club song that is “4x4”, complete with some accordion work, might very well be album’s most memorable song: absurd, ridiculous, and actually playful in a way in which these other Bangerz aren’t.

That’s not to say that the Enemy are on anywhere near the scale of awfulness which the Ordinary Boys descended to, but the flaws in We Live and Die in These Towns mar an album which does have some silver linings.

With Spaceman, Jonas proves that he has the ability to be audibly subversive and memorable, delivering sounds that could easily transport the pop fan to an imaginary dancefloor. It's just the words that still need some work.

By the time the album ends with the upbeat ballad "The Meadows" (reference point: the Cure), Adventure's run through the '80s feels complete. But I'm not convinced that listeners wouldn't be better served by just seeking out the original synth-pop artists that the album spends so much energy imitating.

Unfortunately, Hunger proves to be largely a blues-based affair that has the band sounding more like a second-rate Steely Dan (“And We Were Young Again,” in particular) than the baroque psychedelia of their original recordings.

While the songs are undoubtedly catchy, there is little to really give Dignity and Hilary Duff a defined sound of their own.

Right down to its utterly garish cover, Blackout is utterly disposable and ultimately forgettable.

Ultimately Yours Truly, Angry Mob is, if nothing else, predictable.

Overall, though, this open-hearted and engaging record boasts enough memorable moments to suggest that Scattergood has a promising future ahead of her.

He's found time to let some truly enjoyable music slip through the cracks again, whether they were favors as much as personal concoctions or not, and while one still gets the feeling Khaled views these artists as products on a shelf as much as human beings, it's nice to know he still knows a good song when he hears one.

While it’s refreshing to hear Moby refuse to succumb to complacency, the shallow, steely sound of These Systems Are Failing contradicts and undoes much of its rawness, making for a set that is more alienating than rousing.

Although I prefer the rougher edges of earlier efforts, this is Talkdemonic's best mixed and most expansive record to date.

After "One More Summer"... and the inconsistent but decent title song, the album becomes so filler-centric that even the tracks' titles are interchangeable. "Undone", Push and Shove's primary ballad, at least offers a change of tempo, but the song itself is a total bore.

Blood for the Master represents Goatwhore reverting back to their less-than-great death/thrash sonic territory, which is good for a quick listen, but not much more.

Overall, I find it difficult to actively dislike Cut Off Your Hands because they steal from the best. Perhaps on their next release they won’t wear their influences so prominently on their sleeves.

Glasvegas is a talented band and they show this talent in flashes here. But when they settle into their niche, the overall feel is rather boring.

There’s nothing that’s boldly offensive or immediately dismissible, save a few slight missteps.

Unfortunately, despite the well-developed '80s image, the music emulated is not anything worth reviving.

For an album that promised to show us the real Jennifer Lopez straight from the heart, it struggles to stand on its own two feet. This Is Me…Now ultimately loses itself in its self-indulgent proclamations of heart and the supposedly greatest love story never told.

The flair of the opening and chorus shows a promise that Trullie leaves mostly unrealized on the rest of the album.

Curses is full of songs ready to fill in the spaces of WB teen soap dramas or extreme sports reality shows.

The problem is that everything they’re putting out sounds like some project a highschooler might come up with in order to impress his too-cool guitar teacher.

Red Carpet Massacre sounds like a remix of a great Duran Duran album, and for that it’s merely good.

So no Sgt. Pepper here, but then again, no one would ever expect that from happy-go-lucky Ringo.

Whilst there are flashes of the burning ambitions of yore too much here is bland, formulaic and depressingly dull.

Waiting for the Sunrise is never boring. At worst it dips into ‘pleasant’ territory, and if that guitar jam comes precisely when you’re expecting it, let’s call it “classic” rather than “formulaic” songwriting.

Rebel Songs is too much of a mixed bag, though, blaring hard rock on one track, then walking a bass line with chimes on another, then playing solo folk for which this project's always been known.

Maybe it's just its drastic contrast with the chirpy and pop-friendly Junior that makes Senior seem so dreary, but even out of context, Royksopp's latest seems like a poor, thoroughly underdeveloped and, dare I say it, unfinished effort.

What's more of a problem for this album is the lack of variety between the songs. There are only so many covers of indie-rock piano ballads or rearrangements of indie-rock songs turned into piano ballads that a listener can take.

In the final analysis, none but the most diehard fan will find this to be a more pleasurable listening experience than any of the excellent studio records he's put out over the past decade. It's not bad, necessarily. It's just inessential.

The [EP's] premise turns out to be much more interesting than the results.

My Guilty Romance is not quite as good a record as its predecessor. It just doesn’t have the density of great tunes that made "Disco Romance" such an addiction.

Far from a landmark statement, the album still has a lot of impressive moments and is an enjoyable spin.

The main reason it's so hard to embrace such likeable music is that it's blatantly transparent.

I’m increasingly unsure what its audience is looking for, but being that this album seems to rely so heavily on great hooks and attractive beats to sell Snoop’s tired, been-there-done-that raps, I can’t imagine this being a truly satisfying release for most listeners.

If you’re going to study O’Connor, stick with the short stories. For clever electronic pop, start anywhere but here.

As refreshing and legitimately good as the second half of Donker Mag is, it’s still not a great album overall. It’s peppered with weak lines, horrid skits, and moments of misogyny so objectionable that you can’t hit skip fast enough.

After four albums, it seems like Miniature Tigers are heading towards the crowd and away from the niche they carved for themselves early on.

As it stands on this record, they sound too often like they're still feeling it out, which is too bad, because by the time we get to the end of the record, they seem to have hit their stride. Maybe that's where they should have started from.

I don’t really think that White Mountain really is background music, but it is forgettable enough to be mistaken for such on a first listen.

Many of these tracks don't even have much in the way of guitar riffs or interesting drum rhythms, even though studio aces like drummer Josh Freese and guitarist Robin Finck (both veterans of Nine Inch Nails) are doing excellent work with their playing throughout the album. Combined with Elfman's lack of vocal color, this makes the album sound like a buzzing, pounding collection of white noise punctuated by occasional bursts of interesting string themes or the odd downtempo track.

With Artpop, Gaga sounds confused, disengaged, and at its worst, just downright bored.

Dynamics is curiously not all that dynamic.

Chapter II is enjoyable, it’s worth a listen through once; as given it’s so broad and diverse, it would be hard for the listener to not find one song they could listen to again. The disappointment for many will be shining through though, and while Benga may gain more exposure, many will feel he’s compromising his art in the process.

As charming as Friedberger can be, he’s at least as often a little too precocious for his own good, and it makes the overall listening experience simultaneously cloying and fascinating.

Apart from its best tracks, it’s not close to the level of his finest work of the past.

Whereas the Catheters are far more exciting, abrasive, and vivacious than whatever MTV is passing off as rock 'n' roll these days, they seem all too plagiaristic when compared to the garage-rock kings they so obviously idolize.

It’s just that Stills loses this sense of purpose and intensity when Gauntlet Hair opts for creating the shadowy, haunting atmosphere that settles over the much of the album, with many of the experiments resembling a stylistic jumble that neither showcases the band’s undercover catchiness nor brings out the darker impulses they seem hell bent on exploring.

Songs From a Pale Eclipse will surprise few fans of neo-psychedelia, but it can stand in until the next bold psych release.

The band finally sound battle weary, like they've climbed a peak and now want to rest in a quiet valley. The haze has taken over. And perhaps that's why the album presents itself as "hits"-not bong hits, though that's possible; but rather giving the sense of a posthumous collection.

Perhaps once Magnetic Morning figures out where they want to be, what the listener should expect is something more than a pleasant trip with some great moments, which is what this is now. Maybe they’ll get a record that appeals to all the waking world as well.

Granted, the lyrics are somewhat cumbersome and heavy-handed, further detracting from the possibility of ensuring these songs will ever be considered of the hummable variety.... The Monsanto Years may not be an album for the ages, but there’s never a moment of doubt that the conviction is clear.

What we’re stuck with, though, is yet another Cradle of Filth album that drags on for more than 70 minutes, and although Filth’s lyrics and flamboyantly eccentric vocal performance are as deliciously demented as ever, the actual musical arrangements don’t reach anywhere near the level they’re supposed to.

On Fasciinatiion the band’s essence remains the same and their latest offering maintains the band’s spirit of whimsy, but there is a more serious tone all around.

With Prism, those expecting a sequel to Teenage Dream are getting exactly that: the same tropes, themes, and even some of the occasional production tricks all carry over, Perry revealing nothing new about herself, but still mining the same songwriting vein she’s been at without any signs of slowing down. For her fans, it’s exciting. For anyone else, it’s a disappointment.

The rock hardly rocks, the ballads are flat, and the efforts at mature storytelling are sadly uninspired, and, often, utterly cheeseball.... [B]ut regardless of its flaws, it's a welcome addition to the Bon Jovi collection.

This album is full of ballads fuelled by feelings of alienation, but Chaplin's voice is consistently powerful and lacks the fragility that would give these songs the edge the band obviously thinks they have.

The album as a whole is something of a grab-bag. One track can be great, the next stunningly mediocre.

The record is not as dominating as Twain’s existing body of work, but it externalizes a beloved household name getting to know herself better.

Whether they're able to find their niche and create a sound that best exemplifies those talents in the future remains to be seen. In the meantime, we'll have to cope with another unfulfilling outing from Augustana.

There are a handful of moments throughout Dumb Luck where Tamborello seems to forget the burden of expectations enough to overcome his natural reticence—it is somewhat unfortunate these these moments seem to come courtesy of his guests.

After hearing Everything Is Boring, it's hard to imagine most listeners mustering up any anticipation for another go around with an artist who first squandered away all of his heavy buzz through dormancy and then came out of hibernation to release an album devoid of interesting ideas.

Despite some truly inspired songs, One Plus One doesn't have the same dizzying effect as the genre-hopscotching Bewilderbeast or the orchestrated beauty of confident follow-ups About a Boy and Have You Fed the Fish?.

On King, O.A.R. play with even more radio-friendly structures, a move guaranteed to alienate some fans while gaining plenty of others.

The Art of Love & War marks yet another solid entry into the musical canon of an under appreciated vocalist.

Dirty Glow is fine for parties and the like, but it really won't satisfy anyone looking for a more introspective, serious experience.

So much promise and so little worth revisiting, Zoot Woman’s eagerly anticipated return to the electronic music scene rarely reaches the glittering heights of its shimmering title.

Living Things is a very good entry that's simply not as special as its precursor. All in all, Linkin Park has always been a bit unique and the best at what they do, and they continue to excel on this album. Just don't expect too much from it.

In the end, there’s nothing completely surprising or revolutionary about anything on the soundtrack.

If you have a disdain for pretentious artistes but are looking to dance your ass off while imbibing delicious pop hooks and mostly simple though by no means run-of-the-mill pop lyrics, then just hold your nose and let yourself go.

It is competent and catchy. It rocks hard much of the time but also slows down for more tender and easygoing songs. And Gutt belts it out, rasps, and croons like Weiland before him, just minus some of the swagger that made Weiland such an engaging personality.