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.

His relentless delivery ensures that words spill out in defiance of the breath required to sustain them. But rate does not guarantee quality, and on Nothing Was the Same, his lyrics are worse than ever.

I’m New Here is a thin affair—musically weak and lyrically narrow.

His most ridiculous and worst album to date.

Young Modern displays a band with the talent to do something new, but without the guts to try.

There are only two or three songs here that seem like they deserve company with Jones’s better work.

His newest album is at best a parody of old Morrissey. He has become boring. He has become stagnant. He has become irrelevant.

The Yeahs’ curiosity ultimately got the better of them, and what we’re left with is an album that bears a lot of attributes with the creature it’s named after: it doesn’t follow a set path, makes a lot of noise in your ears, but its ultimately something you’ll want to swat away and get rid of because of just how badly it annoys you.

Far from being as incisive as Albini or as sonically daring as Kevin Shields, Eagulls have created something akin to comfort food, an album to soothe the fears of guitar nuts afraid that feedback-driven six-string assaults were somehow in danger of going extinct.

Way too much of Bazooka Tooth is purely ego nonsense.

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.

Kesha's willingness to be a little messy with her vocal arrangements make for the strongest moments on the album -- the back and forth on "Cowboy Blues" and "BFF" especially. Sadly, these fleeting moments are not indicative of what High Road is all about. Instead, it's an often infuriating listen, so stubborn in its commitment to cheesy, hunky-dory sentiment that many of its otherwise promising tracks are completely tanked by lyrics that have no appropriate venue.

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

As it stands, this is something that should have stayed in the vaults, largely, and is pretty much only for anyone out there who is a Slim Twig completist.

The idea that these guys from Amherst who made chaotic, inscrutable music are somehow ready for the rock canon seems, in itself, to be the height of pretension.

The rest of the album varies the sonic assault in various ways, while striving to ensure that there are only occasional moments of listenability.

The problem is that too much which follows repeats the same formula with sadly little variation.

For a band once so captivating and mysterious, Smoke Fairies is a colossal step back.

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

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.

Oddly, nothing about This Is for Real feels sincere.

The Kills make the least of their limitations -- rather than magnifying the importance of each choice, the simplicity of the Kills reveals how little thought went into any choice.

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.

In a live setting, this type of give-and-take could pay off, like an electro take on free jazz, but as it's presented here not only is it unspoken, it's unintelligible.

There seems to be little craft in the results; Solex hasn't found much art in her noises.

The tactile experience associated with The Aeroplane Flies High disintegrates when translated to a digital format. A once-prized item becomes empty.

There are classical references, quirky rhythms, and oddball singing as if something serious is happening. But the mix comes off as self-indulgence and childish.

Pink Friday is a real shame, albeit a very well-marketed one, and since it's found its niche, it's no surprise the album was a fair success for Minaj.