For the most part though, and we’re talking in the 90% range, the double-album is a full-on dumpster fire fueled by toxic thoughts, meaningless rants, and a surly attitude.

In simple summary, The Black Album makes The Teal Album sound like The Green Album, The Green Album sound like The Blue Album, and The Blue Album sound like the actual The White Album. The Beatles one. And all of it sounds like Weezer flowering into the absolute worst version of themselves.

There may be some good ideas here, and political awareness and a lack of fear to share those ideas should always be applauded, but as a record in 2019, Pursuit of Momentary Happiness doesn't even offer the moment for which it searches.

Listening to Varshons 2 is like catching up with a childhood friend--on surface level its pleasant, but as the conversation persists, the friendly emptiness becomes too painful to bear.

The whole endeavor feels like a joke set-up with no punchline. The Teal Album's greatest sin is it is neither the best nor worst version of itself and by being so overwhelming mediocre, it renders itself completely pointless. It is essentially musical copypasta.

Those acid-fried roots (The 13th Floor Elevators, The Black Angels) are 95-percent gone, replaced by too much space and too much polish as Blackwell tries to be a soul singer. Sorry to ruin it, but he fails. It's very difficult to appreciate Myth of a Man; it's so leftfield of what Night Beats had going.

This bland, wishy-washy concoction of pop-rock FIDLAR half-assedly barfs up reflects the quartet of 30-something's own addictive tendencies; each watered-down attempt at a "genre-revival"-punk, in this case--falls victim to insipid rip-offs of their "punk" influences.

Some of the arrangements wouldn't be that bad if they hadn't been sampled and sequenced to death. But if over-producing the life out of something is one thing, any use of the dreaded Auto-Tune facility is another. It runs through A Brief Inquiry Into Online Relationships like the plague to the point where numerous listens later I still have no idea what Matty Healy's actual singing voice sounds like.

Grapetooth are all style, no substance--the album's hopelessly nostalgic fishcam lens cover shot, the twee synth leads, the empty, half-assed vocal melodies. The worst part? Grapetooth lasts 40 minutes.

As art, it is immature and vacant. As fun, it barely registers. It's less of a step-up from Drones than a step sideways, if only because the self-parody here feels deliberate.

Great Thunder is nothing but dull, adult contemporary rock-lite that swings with the tempo of a slow cooker. [Aug - Oct 2018, p.85]

Render Another Ugly Method is merely the calcified misery of a young woman who can't reach outside herself. [Aug - Oct 2018, p.80]

While the subdued vocal harmonies are a minimal draw, they are often out of tune. In fact there's no need to bother with this album unless you like harmless, predictable, and formulaic adult contemporary fluff-rock.

Over the course of the whole record, the lethargic tempos, lack of style, and the uninspired songwriting become a bit tiring. So the album as a whole is a disappointment for someone with so much talent and potential.

The album as a whole is frustratingly disappointing for a band with so much talent and past successes.

David takes the album title's sentiment to heart to such a degree, every song sounds like a cover version of whatever transient entries are currently topping the charts.

While his voice isn't bad, it's not particularly enchanting either. And even though the lyrics are spiritually inspired by channeling the higher consciousness of human emotionality and compassion, they often come across as cheesy over the course of the album's approximately 60 minutes of simple and conventional tracks.

Even though their trademark sounds stick out like fingerprints in an ongoing crime scene, there is little to salvage from their efforts other than a jam session that should have remained private.

It's Morrissey's weakened, diminished lyricism that kicks it down from being a solid-if-not-stunning Moz record to something almost unpalatable.

Some bright instrumental flourishes are occasionally added in an attempt to give the songs some pulp but it's nothing to get too excited about since they're neither grabbing nor contagious and act more like threadbare window dressings to the mundane song structures and their gentle acoustics. For better or worse, a collection of guest vocalists, both male and female, are used throughout, including an appearance by former Midlake vocalist Tim Smith. But this only serves to highlight the album's inconsistencies.

Despite a committed effort, Wonderful Wonderful isn't a title that accurately reflects its content.

More recycled Roky Erickson-isms and smoky garage-rock riffs pollute the ears along with the most odious proggy lyrics this side of Genesis' The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway. [Jul - Sep 2017, p.35]

There is zero expectation for Blondie to create Parallel Lines 2.0. That would require an actual miracle. Pollinator, however, is too removed from oh so many things that made Blondie great to be acceptable.

The intriguing collage cover of Hamburg Demonstrations is the best thing about this album, which feels unfinished, more like a gathering of demos than a realized, cohesive collection.

Remastering the songs doesn't take away the superfluous guitar tracks. "All Around the World" is still nine minutes and 20 seconds long. "My Big Mouth" still sounds like it belongs on a Beady Eye album.

At best, Pixies are just the masters at a game that is no longer interesting. Songs stray so far from the raw energy of Surfer Rosa that Head Carrier could easily be mistaken for any number of hair product soaked '80s metal. [Aug-Sep 2016, p.75]

This just comes off as clumsy and premature. [May - Jun 2016, p.95]

Painting With is by a distance the most annoying album you'll hear this year, and not just because it sounds exactly how those people imagine the band always has.

The banality throughout iii detracts from any basic pleasure possible from the beats. [Jan/Feb 2016, p.57]

Coldplay's seventh album A Head Full of Dreams is insufferably bland at best and downright offensive at worst.

There isn't anything specifically awful about any of the songs and you can imagine any one being played at a Californian stoners' beach party and no one minding. But if you put the entire album on, no one is coming to your next one.

Muse have always been ridiculous and overblown, but at least they used to be a ton of fun.

After a fierce opener that sounds like they've never been away ("nothing has changed", screams Dennis Lyxzén over raging instrumentation), things then, regrettably, go downhill.

The Endless River belongs not in the pantheon of the great Pink Floyd, but in a hotel elevator.

It's not that the songs on here are necessarily terrible; certainly there's nothing to plumb the depths of "Elevation" or "Get on your Boots," but rather that Songs of Innocence is a soulless and unwanted lump of shiny plastic.

Antonoff may be popular but his songwriting leaves a lot to be desired.

Winstead is a competent singer, but most of I Love You's tracks draw attention to distractingly bad lyrics or are woefully devoid of personality.

The directionless album may have a number of songs that will make radio programmers drool, but the staying power resembles anything but a classic.

This half-baked record teeters on a constant sonic sugar crash, unable to sustain energy or interest for prolonged periods.

For the most parts, it drags. [Aug-Sep 2013, p.92]

Loud Like Love is sadly a chugging bore. [Aug-Sep 2013, p.93]

Not quite dull enough to be entirely forgettable, Where You Stand plays it safe with middle-of-the-road everything.

While this could have been a record defined by atmosphere, the near-absence of energy and long, formless instrumental sections will have listeners tuning out long before it hits any sort of stride.

The formula that made "She" a success is replicated until it's been wrung dry of any emotion. [Jun-Jul 2013, p.94]

Think Ash covering Nirvana and you'll have an idea of just how bad an idea this album is. [Mar-Apr 2013, p.94]

Golden Grrrls exists in a limbo more grey than beige that apparently doesn't appeal to anyone. [Mar-Apr 2013, p.103]

The record is a cheerless Venn diagram presenting the intersection between mediocrity and blind ambition. [Mar-Apr 2013, p.102]

An album that manages to sound like a blend of every Britpop and Madchester also-ran's 50 shades of beige. [Jan-Feb 2013, p.88]

Collett uses instruments sparingly. That coupled with his clear tones is too simplistic a combination. [Oct/Nov 2012, p.128]

It's a pop album of awful pop music.

The overriding feeling is that this is a remarkable piece of self-indulgence rather than anything you would want to, I don't know, ever listen to. [Oct/Nov 2012, p.133]

If this somehow still manages to be the kind of thing that'll get you out on the dance floor, you still have to survive instrumentals that plod rather than thrill, songs that meander rather than aim, and a slew of lazy sing-speech.

YOKOKIMTHURSTON is an improvisational cluster that has no beginning and no end, and no plot to keep listeners on the track to redemption. [Aug/Sep 2012, p.113]

It rarely displays much spirit, or even a pulse. [Aug/Sep 2012, p.122]

It is this very same forgettable, plodding, lo-fi characteristic that strikes the right chord with those that think The Cribs are the answer to rock 'n' roll.

There's a whole lot of sulk without much substance to back it up.

It's a tough listen, shrill and disjointed.

Joke or not a joke, this isn't great music.

Nothing on this album is new, nor is it a fresh take on over-tread electronic music ground.

The bolstered instrumentation doesn't hide some of her weakest songwriting.

On the whole, the album feels like a parody of music's tropes, limping along with no real soul.

They reportedly had some difficulties securing a label for this release. And Unfortunately, it's easy to see why; Girls hits the panic button pretty early on. [Jul 2011, p.78]

The new sounds end up grating against the vocals, which will always sound whiskey-soaked, and playing against the band's strengths. [May 2011, p.88]

Something sounds like they need some time off. [May 2011, p.86]

For the most part, Hauschka's attempt at turning the piano into a percussion instrument falls short. [May 2011, p.84]

The listener is left with a couple handfuls of mid-tempo ballads that fail to even qualify as guilty pleasures. [May 2011, p.88]

Art for art's sake may impress at parties, but recorded it brings teh good times to a screeching halt. [Feb. 2011, p. 70]

While Ashcroft should be applauded for trying something entirely new, TUNOS is overly eager to please, overly stylized, and falls way short of honoring the genres for which Ashcroft clearly cares deeply. [Feb 2011, p.70]

A mighty attempt at thinking outside the box, ultimately Anika is simply an attempt at sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Unfortunately, they're not quite tall enough yet to ride the same coaster as Editors, much less Interpol, much, much less Joy Division.

...Featuring might make a great stocking stuffer for mom, but even she might have trouble swallowing over an hour of Jones; innocuous and predictable soft rock. [Year End 2010, p.77]

It's not easy to describe what's going on here, if one can even figure it out anyway.

Thieves are excellent hijackers, but you could just pick up a New Order or Joy Division album for a more authentic experience.

Sia's latest full-length We Are Born, is, in a word, confusing. [Summer 2010, p.85]

Over the wandering course of these 11 tracks, Francis is the aural equivalent of a boxer who's had five too many concussions coming out for one last payday. [Spring 2010, p.68]

There's little to make them noticeable today. [Winter 2010, p.69]

More often than not, Michael Grubbs' painfully bland vocals cause the whole thing to come crashing back to earth. [Winter 2010, p.72]

Origins is frankly very boring. [Winter 2010, p.71]

Real Life Is No Cool plays more like a tug-of-war as singer and producer struggle to find harmony between two disparate sounds. [Holiday 2009, p.81]

They rarely let loose with their old 4AD/post-punk strafing runs. [Holiday 2009, p.80]

Raditude is just the latest and fullest articulation of Cuomo's wincingly sad desire to become a mainstream success, [Holiday, 2009, p.79]

Aside from the obvious point that it is strange hearing Dylan, née Robert Zimmerman, singing Christmas songs, it is often just awkward to listen to the elder's scraggly croak making its way through commonly known carols.

Between the shrill, semi-anonymous voice of Elly Jackson, and Ben Langmaid's clunky paint-by-numbers beats, La Roux's eponymous debut already feels dated. [Fall 2009, p.74]

Yeah Ghost is simply too experimental. [Fall 2009, p.74]

The fragments don't fit together, and one ends up dreading the next mistep. [Fall 2009, p.74]

The brashness of the band's seminal debut is gone, and what's left is a band that seems to have rushed an album out only in order to get back on stage to try to make it interesting. [Spring 2009, p.79]

A Woman A Man Walked By is a side project in the worst sense of the term; a slight diversion that's really for Harvey completists only. [Spring 2009, p.66]

Bloated with too much self-absorption, Japan's Mono have lost sight of their original intent. [Spring 2009, p.77]

This sixth studio set is so generic that it doesn't just sound dated, it makes them sound old. [May 2009, p.91]

Their debut heaps vague twenty-something lyrics onto a colorless emo palette and even producer Rob Schnapf can't save Adult Nights from being as cold as a Granite State ice storm. [Winter 2009, p.79]

Any way you slice it, Trail Of The Dead is a sad case in selling out. [Winter 2009, p.68]

The Time Of The Assassins feels like the work a of a decent high school band who had tons of money for studio time. [Winter 2009, p.73]

Getting mauled by that white tiger sounds a bit more exiting. [Year End 2008]

Chinese Democracy is a multi-million dollar dud, an example of faded brilliance and wasted time. [Winter 2009]

Megapuss seems like one bad decision after another. [Year End 2008]

The whole thing almost makes you wonder if Kevin Barnes isn't fucking around just to see what he can get away with, as he spends the better part of the record playing against his own strengths and nearly everything the listener has come to expect. [Fall 2008, p.77]

Welcome to Goon Island never seems to find dry land. [Winter 2008]

For much of Fasciination, it’s the music that keeps the record afloat, because, even at his very best, singer Tim Fink doesn’t have much to say. [Summer 2008]