Unfortunately, the band gets drowned out by weak vocals and synth goop – Steve Howe takes only a few disappointingly brief guitar solos, beyond his acoustic "Solitaire."

A largely vocals-free mishmash of brittle beats, buzzy sound effects and hipster ambience that sounds great when Dizzee Rascal is rhyming over it but cold and tinny on its own.

Wrath opens and closes with spans of placid subtlety--a welcome touch that doesn't make up for all the raging roteness in between.

The Borneo-born Avi gives much of the album a warm, old-jazz feel, but flat lyrics like "I shed tears I couldn't dry" make several of the songs sound like woodshedding material.

Music is the Weapon is a stale, mixed bag that aspires to the global ubiquity and incredible commercial success of Major Lazer’s 2015 spastic moombahton anthem “Lean On.”

Gomez may be the most boring teen-pop star of her generation. She makes Ashley Tisdale seem like Lady Gaga.

Despite a handful of strong cuts, Destiny Fulfilled sounds like the kind of album you make when you're saving your best material for your next solo album.

Long one of rock's most innovative artists, Gabriel has never sounded more out of touch.

Prince does his Hendrix thing over turgid live-band grind, and songs like ''Whitecaps'' and ''Aintturninround,'' where 3rdEyeGirl step out front, have a New Age-y alt-rock feel, like No Doubt in a Funkadelic phase.

It's a crew album--of course it sucks. The depressing thing is how much. [28 Dec 2006, p.114]

Ho-hum singer-songwriterly tunes packed with sentimental poetry. [1 May 2003, p.56]

It's when Staind crank down the sludge and slacken the tempos that things get heavy in a bad way. [11 Aug 2005, p.72]

The production... is as sleek and soulless as the rhymes.

On album number (gulp) 10, 311 are still really freaking psyched to be 311.

The result is the most boring music ever recorded by a teenager.

Smacks of trying too hard.

His handlers clearly hope he's the next Bieber; sadly, there's not an ounce of fun in him. Unfriend.

It's proof that, just when you least expect it, he can still rage compellingly.

Too much of the LP sounds like someone cranked up the brightness setting on her early work, destroying what made her unique in the process.

In an era where disco has found a second life all over the pop charts, Green's throwback barely makes a thud.

The arrangements treat Mitchell's tunes as precious artifacts, making little attempt to seduce the listener.

Dilated Peoples are still painfully tame on the mike, especially Evidence, who hits a dubious milestone in "The Platform" by becoming the first rapper ever to utter the words "between you and I." The vocals sink the music: This is the kind of hip-hop album where the MC compares himself to Steve Howe, and while you hope he means the baseball player, you know in your heart he really means the guitarist from Yes.

The band's performances are utterly competent yet numbingly risk-free.

Mostly, though, it's like a crowded party where you don't really get to talk to anyone as long as you'd like.

Sparxxx appears only able to follow for now. [6 Apr 2006, p.69]

A clunky mix of late-Nineties easy listening and 2000s emo pop. [Mar 2021, p.73]

Punky but sloppy, as if the band were denied rehearsal time before the tape started rolling.

Erykah Badu still hasn't found her way through the haze.

What's left of his sound is an oddly squirrelly strain of drum-and-bass. [12 Dec 2002, p.98]

The Mums were much more likable back when they were pretending to be coal miners who churned their own butter. Compared to this stuff, that was a decent look.

Farrell's new explorations into electronica rock are satisfying as neither electronica nor rock.

Even when he picks up the pace, he sounds a little weary.

It's all piss and vinegar and posturing.

The Ladies' inoffensive singalongs seem just plain tired.

Many of these sketches are too diffuse.

Even guest turns from Run the Jewels and Skrillex can't add enough energy to make Big Grams feel like anything more than an attempt at landing a better festival slot.

As quality control at Khaled HQ dips slightly yet noticeably, it might be time for him to receive more undeserved blame than undeserved credit. ... With no commercially undeniable moments like the Rihanna showcase “Wild Thoughts” (from Khaled’s Grateful), Father of Asahd grooves along like an adequate 54-minute stretch of hip-hop/R&B radio (with no commercials, at least).

Most of Simulation Theory could be about our surveillance state and/or a relationship. The blurring results in clunkiness.

There are a couple of decent Brit-pop numbers... but the rest is utterly forgettable, shoddily produced retro rock that at its worst sounds like a Brighton-accented version of the Spin Doctors, minus the hit songs and amusing facial hair.

She still can't project any personality of her own. [27 Jan 2005, p.58]

Let's hope Nashville will take her back, and quick.

Folklore is a Whoa, Nelly! redux, without a single as good as "I'm Like a Bird."

Would've been far more compelling had he been limited to forty minutes max. [5 Aug 2004, p.109]

The band's piano rock suggests a more earnest, less arty Coldplay. The Fray are going for introspection and dramatic sweep but don't rise above bland pleasantries.

The album is undone by Leto's baffling, pretentious poetry and the sanitized quality of the heavy guitars.

Lewis raps about tiny dogs and nasty, food-based sexual acts with a cadence that doesn't have the slightest prayer of rhyming ("Wannabe") and the entire thing implodes spectacularly.

The 16 songs on Changes focus almost exclusively on the logistics of having sex when you are both hot, young, and working in fields that require a lot of time apart. The concept itself is kind of funny, but the execution is often unimaginative and cliché, especially given how earnestly Bieber delivers every line, no matter how ridiculous.

The problem isn't overheated rhetoric, it's half-baked songs.

Their ballads now get choked up over bygone glory days, while their Gary Glitter and Bryan Adams riffs sound re-purposed for sports and strip bars.

For all their songcraft, Robbers haven't yet filched enough ideas to fill an album. [10 Mar 2005, p.115]

As you'll see, every English rock star is required to celebrate this milestone with an overblown album about God, humanity and the cosmos.

A CD of biblical rap would have been vastly more interesting than just tepid updates of the Run-DMC sound. [3 Nov 2005, p.96]

This album is all surface-level, free of sharp punch lines ("I been Hungary like Budapest") or metaphors that connect.

The rudimentary guitar, starchy beats and formless synths just sound rough, never fun or spontaneous.

There's a somber, nearly a cappella take on the Motown oldie "It's So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday," and "Quiet" laments suburban sprawl--but those are rare chin-down moments for a guy who makes Jack Johnson look like Ian Curtis.

Drake meanders through yet another collection of superlong streaming bait. For All the Dogs may have its sparks. But too often, he settles for subliminal bars aimed at rivals like Kanye West and Pusha T, keeping it “gangsta” by putting down women and, of course, filling up the piggy bank.

Coyne's kaleidoscope eyes were too big for his own good this time.

He has no knack at all for the subtle sound he's trying now.

From modest goals come modest returns.

On her fourth LP, So Sad So Sexy, she embraces slickly produced pop with open arms, and she's lost some of her character.

Listening to an Owl City song is like speed-eating a box of Girl Scout cookies: You go from tasty to pukey in minutes.

The most notable aspect of Testify, in fact, is how little P.O.D., or their guitars, have to say.

The tight arrangements are impressive in their guitar-bass-drums spareness, but the overall feel still falls somewhere between sterile and silly. [7 Sep 2006, p.107]

Too many forgettable concoctions make this just another so-so DJ mix. [10 Jun 2004, p.91]

On most of Blaster, Weiland's first all-new solo album since 2008, he suffers from a bad case of Generic Rock Voice.

"17 Crimes" and "Greater Than 84" survive with the band's flair for camp still intact. Others drown in pools of eyeliner.

The lyrics strain to demonstrate cleverness (the opening line of “Little Did I Know” rhymes “Shakespearean” with “experience” and “delirious”) or simulate personal experience (“History” quizzes a new lover “At what age did you have sex?/Did you have a teenage phase with cigarettes?” she asks her lover). But the overall effect is neither personal nor universal.

On their sixth album they're still turning out pop rock so good-natured it practically gives you a big smile and a fist-bump.

Nine albums in, these Cali punks are coasting by on dourly told jokes and reheated mad-at-the-world bluster.

The main attractions are Sia's smoky voice and quirky personality. Yet not enough of that personality makes it into the music.

With the exception of 'Hey You' and 'World Behind My Wall,' the album is melodically anemic and strangely low-key. Subtle is not a mode that suits Kaulitz.

Lady Antebellum have potential, but they're mostly dull--by design.

The Bible talk and the vintage-guitar distortion sound so rote it's hard to imagine Pierce is baring his soul rather than just plumbing the depths of his record collection.

Too much of Welcome to the North sounds like emo on Ecstasy -- all hot and bothered without much to say.

Feels predictable and unexceptional. [3 Nov 2005, p.96]

Fatboy hasn't stopped pandering to his core crowd of fun-loving jalapeno-poppers. [14 Oct 2004, p.99]

What it lacks are top-quality tunes.

The album de-emphasizes the (very) guilty pop pleasures of her 2004 debut in favor of leaden I-hate-you-Daddy laments.

Rossdale's heart is in the grim, grandiose stuff, bellowing his pain in Vedderian rumble, and forever striving to be deep and meaningful, a goal that exceeds his gifts as a songwriter.

Final Straw's grand, intricately layered production covers up for how underdeveloped most of its songs are.

Da Realist is catchy and seductive in small doses, and Plies' no-frills chest-thumping has a certain logic to it. But when he says, "You ain't got enough guns, you gonna need some help," he could be talking about himself.

He is a genuinely engaging artist who raps with impressive intensity and clarity, if not nuance. He confronts his incurable sadness head-on, and it’s easy to identify with his mental health struggles. But for an album about depression, The Search contains a noticeable lack of tension and interior texture.

Too bad Lucky One is dragged down by his heavy hand.

The middling tempos of plodding tracks like "Halo the Harpoons" and "It Takes Time" underscore the new lineup's shortcomings.

Mims has good taste in beats. But this album seems just . . . superfluous.

Too much of The Curse would be blandly anonymous if not for Harry's inimitable coo.

[Bemberger's] annoyingly wordy yelp carries only a few memorable lines and fewer melodies. [14 Oct 2004, p.98]

There's admirable sonic purity to these live recordings, but that only underscores the astonishing lack of verve in the performances.

Much of Flat-Pack Philosophy is mired in a muddle. [9 Mar 2006, p.94]

Love songs like "On the Wing"--a ballad with a plush, twinkling electro beat where the singer lies awake dreaming of his beloved-- are serious mush, like an amorous e-mail you'll regret in the morning.

Rote emo-core, all predictable quiet-loud shifts and overwrought vocal melodies. [5 Aug 2004, p.108]

"Never Never" is a power ballad, and "Love & Meth" is not as funny as one might hope, though the brilliantly titled "Paranoid and Aroused" is.

Jay Sean works his fluttery falsetto alongside Rick Ross on "Mars" and finds a serviceably sexy jam with "All on Your Body," which features Ace Hood, but even at its best, Neon barely flickers.

For his seventh album, Deadmau5 has turned from an electro-house polymath into the world's most unnecessary Nine Inch Nails tribute act.... However, erase the Reznor fan fiction from this 141-minute behemoth, and there's a solid 64-minute house record hidden in there.

The beats on iSouljaBoyTellem--built by Soulja and Mr. Collipark--are beefier. And Soulja Boy's willingness to drill songs into your skull is less charming.

The reality of Jennifer Lopez is...blah.

A compilation that never quite jells.

The coldness of the instrumentals is compounded by the duo’s vocal delivery.