The music, such as it is, is a river of fat-free, dirt-free, melody-free jazz Olestra. [Feb 2002, p.112]

Witness is an album full of bizarre choices--both the DJ Mustard and Hot Chip-produced tracks are, for some reason, ballads--that has the inherent appeal of a spectacular failure, but that’s about it.

But it's not Eve 6's purely commercial aspirations that makes them so horrid...

Bring on the Comets is ultimately a bland regression. [Sep 2007, p.138]99

Maybe the Ting Tings have pulled some sort of Lou Reed maneuver here. Maybe this is their Lulu.

Listening to this disc sorta gives new meaning to the phrase virgin sacrifice. [Oct 2005, p.142]

Everything presents a harder-edged JT, who tries a little of everything over 77 minutes but adds remarkably little to the pop landscape.

The failures of his latest effort don’t simply center on that side step from audacity to reckoning. It’s in how that move has somehow left him struggling to write a listenable song.

Britney Jean may chart respectably because it leads the most musically uneventful December in years, but it will soon fade like "Perfume," because there's zilch in the way of humanity here.

Hotel California is inexcusable. It may be the least creative major-label rap album in recent memory.

His tunes and/or jokes plop out like forced turds. [Mar 2005, p.92]

Over brutish synths and hammy bleats, the puerile brosefs' third album shares, among other witticisms: Gonna have a house party in my house.

No. [Jan 2003, p.99]

[The Datsuns] now sound unfit to carry the Donnas' jockstraps. [Oct 2004, p.120]

The rest of the album plods with formulaic, hormone-heavy Kelly Clarkson outtakes, or perhaps Liz Phair during her bleak, sparkly descent.

If singer Justin Warfield had a sense of humor about himself, that wouldn't be such a bummer; as is, Forever seems to go on for about that long. [Nov 2007, p.124]

Soul-free, thirdhand melodies housed in songs that any halfway decent bar band would reject without a second pass. [Feb 2007, p.85]

It's "disappointing" only because it isn't dreadful in funnier, more interesting ways.

Amid spoken-word interludes and I'd-like- to-buy-the-world-a-Coke-style choirs, only Lee's innate melodic gift saves him from total embarrassment.

Whether the album’s title is a plea or a warning does not matter, as the effect is the same: The Chainsmokers have one song, and if you don’t want to hear 12 versions of it, please do not un-click the latch holding this box closed.

Kreay indulges the full breadth of her influences, turning Somethin into a series of wan genre studies.

There is Michael Jackson bad, there is Ed Wood bad, and then there is BAYTL, a union so unholy that it cries out for a show on Bravo.

These hammerheads still sound like the touring company of Grunge-a-Mania. [Jan 2004, p.100]