The Mooneys are guilty of bringing songs to the album that aren't so much dumb (though they're that too) as they are lazy.

Todd Smith is glossy, safe, front-loaded, and slick.

Two (incredibly) horrible songs aren't enough to discount the entire album, no. Yet it's unfortunate that Days Go By doesn't provide any delirious highs to counter its abysmal lows.

An album that lacks its own distinctive voice.

The Sea of Memories will most likely please those few Bush fans who've been hoping for a reunion, but it will not change the minds of those who relegated Bush to nothing more than a disingenuous rip-off of so many more brilliant '90s alterna-rock acts.

I Am Not a Human Being II is a poor effort for sure, but more startling might be the fact that it’s over five years now since Wayne was anything near his peak and he shows no signs of reversing the slump.

Treat Myself is ladened with the same girl gang hoots and hollers and fluffernutter hooks that popularized preceding albums Title and Thank You, but with a little more urban beat thrown in.

Who You Are tries very hard to swagger, but it trips over its own feet and continues to self-consciously limp on through thirteen tracks, as if to suggest that's its hobbling is its normal walk.

Every song is tightly wound and well-produced, even as the overall feel is lighter than previous 311 efforts, save a couple of ill-advised ventures into social consciousness and hard rock.

Attention Deficit Domination only wishes it could posses as much power as the best doom metal evangelists. There is a noticeable lack of the vacuous bass that propels the best representatives of this genre into hell.

Although Body Faucet is a bit inconsistent (perhaps because of its length – it clocks in at over an hour of material, but feels like more), the record is a brave and fairly fantastic debut that will surely grab the attention of those who give it a chance.

This feels like music for people who honestly and unironically look up to people like Paris Hilton or the Kardashians.

The journeyman ready-mades of We Are Only What We Feel betray a basic incomprehension and simultaneous exploitation of disposable music.

Aided by producers John Paul White (the Civil Wars again) and Ben Tanner (Alabama Shakes) the pair have delivered a collection of songs that are sometimes dark, sometimes gorgeous and tailor made for an audience that seeks out the kind of records that Ray LaMontagne put out early in his career and then cast aside or that Sam Beam never quite has gotten across with Iron & Wine.

I don't consider them rock saviors, but is it asking too much of a band to show a little musical growth?

Now Dunckel and Godin have permitted other artists to put back the tackiness that they eschewed.

Like reformed alcoholics who were more fun when they drank, This Machine is alternately sullen and unconvincingly earnest, and inoffensive to a fault. "16 Tons" is obviously an exception to this, and awful as it is, it represents a bold shamelessness that is nevertheless far preferable to the dry, strained hooks populating the rest of the album.

There are some very good moments... but much of the album is given over to plodding, slightly aimless guitar anthems like "Fighting the Smoke" and "The March of Merrillville". There are good songs here individually, but taken together it's all a bit indigestible.

The Bridge is undoubtedly well-produced and nearly every guest emcee puts forth respectable effort, but the whole album is missing that one song that could take it to the next level.

On the one hand, the album does very little of what Tyga’s best at and even when it does, Hotel California makes the strange move of bowing to Tyga’s biting prowess rather than original, ratchet works. On the other, everything here is done perfectly well and enjoyably; unless you’re focused on Tyga’s bars, taking him purely as a presence on some nice beats is not excruciating.

The band simply have no idea how to write what they want.

Though uneven at times, Theology features a very genuine spirit of expression and much food for thought.

Ultimately, #willpower is an overstuffed pop album that tries too hard to be trendy while not trying hard enough to be cohesive or truly meaningful.

This album is proof that today's incarnation isn't exactly sure about where they will be tomorrow in spite of having a firm grasp on where they were yesterday.

All said and done, Tattoos is a pleasant album with some bright moments as well as some average ones.

He's gone for a sound that's somewhere between '50s and '60s rock and musical theatre, halfway between Buddy Holly and Broadway.

Yes, Forever is mostly redundant. But if that’s the only thing you have to say about it, then that’s a little unfortunate.

The biggest flaw of Moon Landing is it’s lack of forward-thinking artistry; it is not an innovative nor flashy affair.

Designed as disposable pop, it’s getting less relevant with each passing minute.

Ultimately, I Love You. is an extremely flawed debut with good intentions.

Stealing of a Nation has some nice melodies, driving rhythms, hooky choruses, and fuzzy explosive guitar, but the sameness of the beats, the laziness of the lyrics, and Max Heyes' (Doves, Primal Scream) clipped, staccato production are enough to do the album in.

On track after track, The Black Eyed Peas boast about their prowess to get people dancing better than anyone else. In so doing, The Black Eyed Peas come of as so... unoriginal.

Given what a satisfying collection In Living Cover manages to be for the most part, it’s a shame that he chose to end on a couple of bum notes.

A serviceable debut, it has some interesting ideas, though it won’t change the game.

There aren't too many instances of musical weakness on the record, though a few tracks are mediocre in comparison with the album's most winning moments.

They're no longer teetering on the edge anymore; with this record, Boyd and Co. just fell hard.

Like a showtune from Wicked, Louder serves as an above average power-pop album that you can bust a lung trying to sing along to without any of that pesky “thinking” to get in the way.

Brooklyn’s Don Diva isn’t a stellar offering, but it’s not terrible either.

If you're contemplating buying an album called Sorry for Party Rocking, then let's be honest: you know exactly what you're getting into.

Part of me likes that the Datsuns are 100% serious about doing their own thing, regardless of what the scene demands, but when their "thing" amounts to a heap of riffs leftover from the Carter administration, I can't get that excited.

The Battle for Everything is an occasionally interesting record, but the sheer pretension of Ondrasik's lyrics coupled with his penchant for self-seriousness tend to suck much of the fun out of what could have been an enjoyably middle-of-the-road adult alternative album.

Three or four listens in, though, and very much against my will it started to become enjoyable as (im)pure sound.

Perry is most enjoyable when her songs are simple and senseless. Profundity is just way too problematic.

This is Forever simply cannot get past its own self-imposed lack of evolution.

An album of so-so hook[s] and vapid lyrics.

While the first album by the “new” Mooney Suzuki might be a step up from their last record, Alive & Amplified... it’s a far far cry from the exciting sounds of their glory days.

Even when not exciting, the band was at least always interesting, but tracks like “Slugger” and “Umbrella People” conjure up the one word that Whirlwind Heat would never seem to encompass: dull.

Hotel is more focused than 18, but suffers a bit for it's dogged humility and raw emotionalism.

A strong taste of the lack of direction is evident as the final seconds of 'Drowning' trickle away and Jones’ wails turn distinctly, gratingly off-tune as they fritter off into oblivion.

It is neither a change of direction, nor chock full of revelatory bonus tracks. But as a collection of outtakes and remixes from Burst Apart, it works fine.

The album is full of songs that falter either for a lack of a guiding beat or because of misguided lyrics that carry little purpose.

the overall tone of Billy Talent III is, at best, one of stagnation and, at worst, one of regression.

Recorded in Wales with longtime producer Gil Norton, the songs on EP1 contain none of the revelatory brilliance of the group’s original albums, nor even the invigorating kick of “Bagboy.”

Yes, if you’ve spent any time with the Vines’ three previous records you know what you’re getting yourself into.

Blakeslee finds himself torn across the aforementioned line of mainstream opus and neo-psychedelia territory.

While this may not equate to cool, there is something infectious and unwaveringly hopeful about it.

There’s a lot less variety and momentum. That would be fine if the band proved able to write 11 really good pop songs, but this record has maybe three.

It's not a very good listen, but it's kind of fun to watch someone be so free.

With hardly a distraction or ballad in sight, it is their most direct and focused record yet, and quite possibly their most consistent.

(ONe) isn’t the lightning we’ve been waiting for. Still, it may well be enough to convince us to keep watching.

What Dummy Boy lacks in maturity and creativity it makes up for in energy and vitriol.

Tere are no sultry Organized Noize beats, no effortless Sleepy Brown hooks, no ferocious Raekwon verses—just an endless stream of abysmally written, Auto Tune-drenched nothings.

What Dirty Vegas has really accomplished with this release is a completely unpretentious piece of work designed to move folks who want nothing more than something fun and catchy to listen to.

The Mix is pretty much what you might expect from a big, mainstream DJ: a well-crafted blend of house and trance selections. No big surprises or groundbreaking material, but pleasant enough.

Buffett always stays the same age if you’re a believer, and Buffet Hotel is one stocking stuffer that should get Parrotheads through the winter.

The more bells and whistles, the better. Elf Power sounds fantastic, with the band reveling in small production details that really knock you out on headphones....The bad news: Andrew Rieger's voice, possibly the defining element of the band's sound, is also its most predictable.

No Chocolate Cake snatches the baton from Major Lodge Victory, which pretended a decade-long hiatus didn't happen, but this new record is better and stronger (if neither harder nor faster).

Roses at the End of Time may not be the artist's single greatest work, but it is another added pleasure in an enviable body of work––moreover, it's a refreshingly easy recording to enjoy, to turn to in times of laughter and tears, joy and fright, prayer, and bouts of irreverence: all the stuff we don't seem to encounter on a single platter often enough.

Seeking Major Tom's highs are high, but the lows are so very low.

Kiss Full of Teeth is a beautiful, flawed album.