Fridge's fifth album is informal and relaxed but lacking in direction. [Summer 2007, p.87]

The D.I.Y. heroes cleave their influences with the subtlety of butchers. [Holiday, 2009, p.80]

It's a generally unconvincing re-direction of their sound. [#10, p.105]

Depending on your patience level, this fade-out of Small Black on Best Blues can either be engaging and hypnotic, or repetitive and forgettable.

The sound’s a bit harsher, more abrasive this time around; the songs blur by with melodies that seem half-baked; and the mood’s shifted from wistful self-deprecation to paranoia. [#17, p.86]

The result is Schrödinger's cat: simultaneously interesting and dull until you listen to it. Then it's just a bit dull.

Despite its slick, bouncy energy, it doesn't make much of a splash. [Jan/Feb 2016, p.58]

While the spunky, punky riffs of "Same Things Twice" and "Miracles" brim with the kind of energy that Idlewild possessed in droves in their early days, the visceral sensibilities of those early songs are also missing. Much of that, perhaps, is to do with Woomble's vocals on this record—all across the board, on both the faster tracks and the slower songs, his voice sounds worn down and tired.

Although it is difficult to imagine any scenario in which listening to this is entirely appropriate, the album was clearly intended as an inspirational totem. Its total strangeness only complicates that effort.

Advice for Gesaffelstein: ditch the singing guests, and experiment more with the danceable dimness.

Metric fought harder to gain the spotlight they narrowly missed, ultimately sacrificing integrity and musical wit, a choice that simultaneously dims their hooks and audience stimuli. Pagans In Vegas sees them descend one step further. [Aug-Sep 2015, p.64]

Alas, it is disappointing to opine that on Frightened Rabbit's fifth release, Painting of a Panic Attack, the incorporation of frontman Scott Hutchison's verses of cagey lament and realization into Dessner's poignant pop arrangements feels contrived rather than meant to be.

They know their indie rock template very well. The fault is how little distance they're able to create from any other given band.

Come Home to Mama deserves praise; despite having a bland title, it's the album where Wainwright finally comes out with some ideas. The problem is that when they do work, they don't really go anywhere.

For someone who has experienced genuine tragedy in his life and has made a career of autobiographical subject matter, it's pretty damn dull.

The gut-wrenching moments are too often usurped by lost wallets, Instagram photos, and tales of songs on the radio--none of which add up to anything greater than the sun of their parts. [Aug/Sep 2012, p.113]

New Material is certainly not more than the sum of its parts, which causes problems for a band that thrives on the whole, rather than moments of individual magic. It leaves much of New Material ambling by.

Despite all the bluster, there's not a lot actually happening on this album. Its songs are collages of ideas that sound great in 10-second chunks but refuse to settle, shifting from fiery riffs to spoken word passages to jazz piano detours. At first, this restlessness has a mad-scientist charm to it but it quickly becomes tiresome.

The Tennessee boys that used to hang on your back, shouting in your ear with whiskey on their breath have grown up, and now preach wound-down wisdom with an arm around your shoulder. But the charm wears thin over the course of a full record.

A band reuniting implies unfinished creative business. In the case of Seasons Of The Day, one strains excessively to imagine what that business might be. [Aug-Sep 2013, p.92]

It's a tired and sluggish affair, barely mustering a pulse under Perkins' mumbling half-assed drawl.

Sadly, these giddy heights ["Spirit" and "Dominion"] are frontloaded into the record. What follows is a tedious trundle through lifeless terrain.

Unfortunately there are too many strikeouts for the album as a whole to achieve a winning score.

Had she taken a few more risks, this could have been triumphant. Sadly, it's nothing of the sort. [Aug-Sep 2015, p.63]

At 31 tracks, it's an occasionally interesting but laborious listen.

They wrongly assume dark tones will lead to increased substance, a mistake that sees Stills burn out in a banal fog of distortion. [Aug-Sep 2013, p.102]

It's not the terrible record to be savaged that an army of hipsters hoped for, just a very plain one that sounds like it was made by 14-year-olds, for 14-year-olds.

The balance of star-crossed is full of cringe-worthy lyrics and failed efforts to move further into pop (“good wife”) and dance (“what doesn’t kill me,” “breadwinner”) realms. Produced by the same team as Golden Hour (Daniel Tashian and Ian Fitchuk), it’s hard to assess how that album’s gossamer sheen, that enchantingly revealed subtle hooks and melodies, gave way to almost nothing that stands out.