The songs just are just way inferior this time around. My December’s fourteen tracks (including the hidden "Chivas") sound like rough sketches fleshed out with Breakaway’s light rock arrangements.

The New Game signifies Mudvayne's transition from elite metal juggernaut to their inevitable fade into obscurity.

Each of the album's thirteen tracks passes by without any fuss or fight; every song blending into one long blob of grey matter that leaves such little impression in spite of repeated listens.

Skyscraper is filled with those types of Banks lyrics, the kind of trademark brain-vomit that produces words that sound cute together but lack any semblance of cohesion.

It is more of the same: overproduced, generic disney channel beats by names no one knows, derivative choruses and melodies that obviously sound manufactured by a tie-wielding Atlantic executive, and lyricism that fails at even being anthemic for parties.

Avenged Sevenfold suffers two-fold from a dearth of genuinely good musical ideas- the infectious vocal melodies which underpin ‘Bat Country’ and ‘Sidewinder’ or the dynamic interlocking guitar lines of the latter and ‘Beast of the Harlot’- and a total absence of the critical faculties which should have allowed a small orchestral ensemble go hungry rather than become party to the madness of ‘A Little Piece of Heaven.’

Completely unaided by flat production and little or no deviation from one or two initial ideas, it's verging on an insult to the memory of one of punk's pioneers.

The two biggest problems with BE are thus; the energy that made their first LP a surprisingly decent effort has been removed completely, and Liam’s lyrics have plumbed to new, previously unassailable depths of self-parody.

Yours Truly, Angry Mob is such a sloppily put-together album that it almost seems intentionally bad.

There are almost no redeeming qualities to be found here, and the whole thing is shamelessly derivative, thoroughly lacking in any sort of creativity, and (worst of all) a logical point in Skrillex’s career arc, one which has been pointing downhill ever since 2010. Listen at your own risk.

Listen to the guest performances if you dare; just tune out the pedestrian rapping.

The biggest problem with Oh My My is that OneRepublic forsakes the few characteristics that once made them relatively unique in favor of bland, done-to-death radio pop.

It can't even stack up to Gabriella Cilmi. Estelle? Leona Lewis? Yikes. Avoid.

Augustana sound bored and weather-beaten to death on their self-titled, and if this is how the true Augustana sounds, then it's fair to say that they're far and away past their prime and could consider calling it quits.

Bleachers ends up being all the worst fears of Jack’s career path made manifest, as any semblance of uniqueness is sanded down in favor of Christmas Special-quality cameos to remind you just how strong his LinkedIn profile has grown.

This misguided eagerness to please is endemic throughout the album’s 12 tracks, from the appropriation of other artists’ styles (the chunky riffing and brutish vocals of ‘Hammerhead’ are reminiscent of Dave Grohl, while closer ‘Rage And Grace’ is a transparent attempt to recreate the vitality of Green Day’s ‘American Idiot’) to Holland’s equally unrelatable lyrics.

Nothing is just what it brazenly titles itself as – an empty record, one lacking the sometimes questionable but more often than not intriguing experimentation and oddball weirdness that might not have made their earlier records great, but at least made them interesting.

The album’s music is a similar story, theoretically well-equipped with its slick production and generous emphasis on slide guitar, yet so heartlessly procedural in its composition and homogenous in its tempo that its encapsulation of the country Experience misses the elation and dynamism of wind-in-your-hair and ends up for more cholesterol-in-your-burger.

Skeletal Lamping lacks a satisfactory, uh, idea. None are progressed, thoroughly provoked, just simply thrown out the speakers in hopes that we are transfixed by its oh-so literal translation of Barnes’ Georgie Fruit act.

If Norman Fucking Rockwell! was the record her non-partisan sympathisers dreamed she might make, this is the one they feared. It’s hushed but impersonal, pared-back without having anything to reveal, and verbose without saying anything of substance.

Using neanderthalic rhymes that MC Hammer would be proud of, the lyrics are in your face and exclusively concern rock ‘n’ roll, girls, drinking and partying.

So sigh with me; for all the promise their reunion had, they sound as if they're remembering how to work together, painting their album by numbers rather than taking risks or adding artistic flourishes of their own.

Requiem for Hell is anything but acceptable. It's lazy, trite, mundane, dull, and every other superficial adjective that's been thrown at the genre.

Black Kids are trying too hard, plain and simple.

Revolting, messy, lazy, and undeniably Sum 41, Screaming Bloody Murder is a dead band moaning in its grave. Any highlights here more or less just belong to other, better bands, or even Sum 41 themselves from the past.

Comparing to what the band has done in recent years though, Siren Charms is still an unforgivable misstep containing oversights in both songwriting and execution that such a veteran band should be able to spot and correct.

Everything about Father of All Motherfuckers is lazy. It begins with the self-referential American Idiot album cover, which features a unicorn exhaling/vomiting rainbows whilst forcefully blowing flames out of its ass. The music is befitting of said artwork, as even the staunchest fan would have an aneurysm trying to figure out what the hell these guys were thinking on this one.

It's too empty, too boring, too lifeless, too lazy.