Having blown out and polished away all of the music's industrial grit, Eisold reveals himself to be little more than a meticulously researched, clinical New Order cover act.

An Introduction to Elliott Smith [is] a compilation that maybe would have made some sense in 1998 but has no place in 2010.

There is bad music here, to be sure, and although the intentions are good, they are expressed in the now-common nihilism of our generation, where nothing is sacred and everything is a joke.

It’s disappointing that a duo this good on paper could be responsible for an album as uninspired as A.M. Even the album’s better songs (the piano-led 'And I Wonder' and the sauntering 'The Wrong Turning') are limp and tedious at best.

Quite possibly the worst record by a great emcee in recent memory.

The twelve songs here drip with coatings of sentiment and sparkly instrumentation that are saccharine and plastic.

His lyrics certainly won’t help, but if he wasn’t a Stroke, this album could only be sold out of Fraiture’s trunk at open-mic nights in upstate New York.

Call And Response is an interesting (and by “interesting” I mean “awful”) remix album due to the fact that no one seems to want to mess with the originals for fear of alienating anyone or veering off from the song’s original composition (likely for the sake of the commercial prospects of the album).

Mired in the generic neo-new-wave and self-consciously emotive yawn of contemporary fashion indie rock, Athlete's unimaginative music matches up nicely with the shallow lyrics.

Dylanesque is a mess. Nearly every album has a few bright spots, but this is a lazy collection of covers that offers no insight into the catalog of one of the twentieth century's foremost songwriters.

Rather than mature effectively, Electric Six has pretty much reached the end; at this point, the band is just cashing out.

Timbaland rose to the challenge of making Chris Cornell a solo star by producing arguably the worst album he’s ever had a hand in.

Despite all the stupid records he's put out before, The Return of Dr. Octagon is the first one that plunges wholly into self-parody. He's now a fully realized clown, a prop, a joke and, most disappointingly, a sub-par rapper whose forced ideas and personality obstacles have devolved into flimsy, uninspired character sketches.

Earth to the Dandy Warhols is as much of a joke album as "Metal Machine Music," except I don’t see any rock ‘n’ roll scholars finding anything particularly smart in this slop 20 years from now.

The album is a stunningly lackluster, impersonal anti-work.