The band’s weakness may well be that it has become comfortable in its awkward and uncomfortable sound.

The Explorers Club spend so much time showing us how good they are at sounding like the Beach Boys or the Byrds, that they totally forget to show us what they sound like themselves.

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

Where Badlands established Halsey as one of the more talented and dynamic artists of her generation, Hopeless Fountain Kingdom is both overambitious in theory and mundane in practice.

Unfortunately, State is an album that is cautionary only in how it shows that Todd Rundgren’s ego still sometimes gets the best of him, and is rather lacklustre and surprisingly dated, for all of the intent behind it to make it an up-to-the-moment sounding record.

Riot City Blues would make a wonderful addition to any pub’s jukebox, but it’s galling how ordinary Primal Scream sound when they’re not crackling with the sparks of invention that coloured a record like Screamadelica.

Too Weird to Live, Too Rare to Die! is cold and computerized, celebrating an aesthetic that proudly values overbearing, repetitious style over creative substance and varied timbres.

There's nothing on Jump Leads that makes me want to dance, or even roll a joint and lie on the floor, which was the main attraction of much of Fila Brazilia's prior output. Instead it all just makes me want to rest my chin on my hand and mutter, "Hmm. Interesting."

Nothing on 10,000 is bad, specifically, it's just not that interesting. Which makes it 42 minutes worth of background rock music that won't offend or, alternatively, engage the vast majority of listeners.

Probably the weakest Robbie Williams album to date.

It is the sound of a band trying too hard to be clever by half, and, if I can be candid, that's pretty much, unless you're a glutton for punishment, all the story you need to hear.

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

The most confusing, drab, inexplicable pop-punk album I've heard in years.

Boasting imaginative craft, his dedication to his technique’s style is apparent, but in every other facet the album takes a downward spiral.

The tunes are occasionally catchy, if too often merely adequate, and the instrumentation feels like a familiar, if torn, blanket when it’s not trying too hard.

In previous projects, Francis has demonstrated an ability to describe his world in vivid color. But when all you see is red, it’s hard to speak on anything else.

Though the record cleans up some with the drifting “How Might I Live” and a quick hit of sadness from closer “Navigator”, these are but mild highpoints in a waste of still-milder mediocrity

It fails in the execution of its most basic concept, it manages to be simultaneously po-faced and frivolous, and its tracks never quite make it into the above-average rank.

It seems sloppy, it has some disappointingly one-dimensional album production, and even worse, it lacks the pop sense that The Revolt Against Tired Noises had in spades.

While it's not obnoxious or invasive, it's also not the least bit pleasant, memorable, or new.

The album's largely a series of almost good songs and will likely get a fair amount of play both on college radio and in clubs.

Once you've digested the uneasy listening of the technique itself, there's little in the way of emotional engagement to carry the album.

Neither a direct, honest pop album nor a truly bizarre, experimental art record, Minus is a meandering mess that tries to say everything and ends up saying very little.

They simply don't know when to say when. The result turns interesting compositions into over-produced tracks that are weighed down by too many competing ideas.

The softer ballads, such as “Speechless”, don’t work quite as well as the more upbeat fare.

There are some pretty nice tracks on there, but nothing as strong as the previous peaks.

For most of the album I'm stuck thinking of wincing comparisons to better music that sounds like this.

Escape‘s songwriting is woefully thin.

Wasner certainly has the vocal chops to pull off this kind of music, but the general lack of hooks and the weird choice to focus so much on treble sounds holds it back.

There’s no edge. No innovation. No energy. And precious few genuine hooks.

At the end of the day, however, E=MC2 is nothing more than a shallow imitation of its predecessor, the unexciting kid cousin of an arena-sized R&B watermark.

Her singing voice all across Jigsaw, like Eminem singing, makes you shudder slightly. She indicates tenderness by multitracking the vocals and aching earnestness, and when she breaks into sing-song rap in the middle of a slow ballad, the juxtaposition with her aggressive rap style shocks.

Roberts is then left essentially targeting an audience obsessed with novelty, but his ammunition is weak.

Just as the TRON: Legacy soundtrack was sometimes stirring, then, these remixes are sometimes danceable, but despite what their rote efficacy might trick your ears into believing, that doesn't make any of them worth a damn.

There is no doubt that Spirits is experimental and a little too relaxing.

As an indie-pop album, My Brother's Ears / My Sister's Eyes is nothing even slightly special.

The songs are riddled with so much cliché, musically and lyrically, you’ll be screaming for something, anything unexpected to happen.

There Are Rules sounds like the product of a band that knows well where it's been, but can't quite figure out yet where it wants to go.

Resilience is the most mom-friendly album that's ever been released under the Kid 606 moniker.

Predictably, adhering to the tacit rules of pop (succinctness, all star production, glossy sound and packaging with twist of street styling) has not produced any surprises but has instead cemented her position in the realm.

It’s alarming as a fan to hear something so different, and the Rat Film Original Soundtrack has little to offer fans of Dan Deacon or fans or soundtracks. Separated from the film it is unable to generate interest.

These few songs ['Heron Song' and 'Shadow Falls'] are genuine highlights amidst a sea of generic acoustic balladry, a project that would make a great EP but--as a full-length--runs out of steam at a truly remarkable pace.

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

Not all of 9 is obnoxious, though. Much of it is merely boring; the unmemorable tunes failing to elevate beyond everyday, coffee house, bland competency.

Ultimately, Human Ceremony is unremarkable despite its flaws. Its moments of vigor and excitement are repeatedly undercut by the overwhelming familiarity of it all.

When Luda gets all serious, you want old Luda back; when old Luda’s back, you find yourself trying to calculate in your head how much longer you have to listen to it.

This record is boring.

There seems to be some sort of attempt at fusion here, a line being drawn between modern times and the Civil War era. Maybe it's supposed to be some sort of political message, a statement on the divided times we live in. But if it is, that's never clear.

The problem is that it should feel more intimate than it really is; a minimalist approach to an ambient recording should breathe emotion into empty spaces, but on With Our Heads too many instrumental passages fall flat on their own.

Perhaps they have already hit their peak with their Relapse debut, Taste The Sin, a record that does not hold up after a few listens, needless to say, Tend No Wounds itself growing tired fairly quickly as well.

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.

The sound’s lack of distinctions allows for an occasionally powerful wall-of-noise to amalgamate into a delectable din that sounds massive and organic, but elsewhere the music sounds more like the catalogued memory of an impressive performance than the distinctive sound of a band at its best.

Listening to Sports, you kind of get the feeling that the band was signed because it's such a generic noise-pop vehicle.

Grohl and Company sound like Bob Seger fronting for your garden variety modern hard rock group.

The pervading campiness of the music trumps any sort of real emotion that might be hidden underneath that ghostly-white group exterior.

Despite the change in scenery, the results are the same intense, fraught, pretty/ugly postpunk mishmash as ever.

It just seems that Dizzy Heights is just Finn noodling about, unsure of what direction to take, and the whole deal feels painfully laborious.

A more limited use of Lindberg's voice and cutting out less essential tracks would make Out of Frequency a more tolerable listen.

The Olms by contrast is the equivalent of Yorn and King throwing a California rock theme party sponsored by Urban Outfitters: young, vintage-minded people in functional, aged-looking new clothes that fit the part and get their basic job done well enough. But come the next day, it’s the ephemerality of it all that lingers.

This record is an approximation of something real and true and traditionally resonant, but it ain’t anywhere near the real thing.

Surfer Blood tease at a break away from the formula, but because 1000 Palms is a mostly unsatisfying grab for a standardized sound, even the most interesting moments fade away into the gray motionlessness.

It’s nice to have a relaxing album to fall asleep to, but What Is This Heart? is an album that will straight up put you to sleep.

Like most b-side or rarities collections, this double-disc excursion seems more like the band's excuse to make some extra cash than to offer a glimpse into their evolution.

An album that feels dated right as it hits the shelves, and professes no argument for its significance other than some big name features and producers.

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

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

Although Kaliedoscope Heart was probably intended to prove Bareilles' staying power, it only confirms suspicions that in some years, she'll be as remembered as Michelle Branch, or Tracy Bonham, still making music, but without any of the mass appeal they once enjoyed.

The Unfairground maintains no connection whatsoever to jazz, once a mainstay of Ayers, The Whole World, and The Soft Machine, and even the album’s affiliations with other black art forms are strained at best.

As it stands, Brava is mostly just a reminder that Brodinski helped plant the seed but is perhaps not the right gardener to helpp it grow.

As a whole, it eschews the current R&B trend of existing within multiple genres or creating a genre unto itself, and the collection is unengaging because of it.