And though the desire to not repeat themselves is admirable, one longs for precisely what made the first record such a rare breed. [#13, p.85]

Much of the record just feels too low-key and even-keeled in comparison. [Mar-Apr 2013, p.98]

That's Why God Made the Radio isn't a bad album. It's just not the album everyone wanted.

It is admirable to maintain the same bright-eyed outlook and sound as you did in college. That's what Maritime's Human Hearts imparts. [May 2011, p.88]

The ska bounce of 'Student Union' is the closest Jigsaw comes to the familiar Sov sound of nasal bleats over agressive beats. [Spring 2009, p.77]

The new face of lo-fi bedroom pop. [#39, p. 67]

Questionable lyrics and grating vocals aside, this is the most cohesive and accessible album the band has ever assembled. [Summer 2008]

A relatively inconsequential bit of buzzing, chipper rock songs that mainly proves how adorable they are together. [#7]

The album's bare bones setup fails to surpass other (better) examples of fizzy indie-pop. [May 2011, p.88]

By the time the fifth track plays, I feel like I just listened to the same song five times in a row. [#7]

At best, the songs give you a brief QOTSA kick, and at worst, the album sounds like warmed up Eagles. [Summer 2007, p.84]

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.

For the second record in a row, Death Cab for Cutie are treading water, splashing about in the faded sound of glories past.

More than on their first album, it feels as if there's something missing. [Jun-Jul 2013, p.97]

It's a poor album that irks and annoys at every turn, excellent musicianship and performance rendered irrelevant by the turgid material. Exhausting stuff.

The conviction that has defined her career so far is nowhere to be seen here and, whilst the reason for this change is still unclear, the result is a record of missed opportunities and inexcusable shortcomings. [Mar - May 208, p.54]

No One Dances Quite Like My Brothers switches so jarringly between moods from track to track that it doesn't really know what it's supposed to be. [Jun-Jul 2013, p.91]

At best they rattle along, with toe-tapping intensity ("I'll Never Tell"), pretty Beatles-esque melodies ("Swimming"), or interesting spectral acoustics ("New Words of Wisdom"). At worst they feel like tired, half-sketched ideas that never really take off; the showcase for a huge talent stuck in a low gear.

Way too easygoing and disappointingly light on rockers. [Oct/Nov 2012, p.128]

The music has some commercial cross-over potential that most people can't help but like, with various electric guitars and electronic keyboards arranged into pleasing and polished pop-rock. But these pleasant tunes don't have enough sharp dynamics to give them an edge and so end up as mostly fluff without so much substance.

The MC never feels particularly inspired on this disc, his momentum crashing after the first few tracks. [Jan-Feb 2013, p.93]

Sob Story is a good time, but the party clears out as soon as the record stops spinning. [Jun-Jul 2013, p.91]

Impressive atmospherics, but could've been improved elsewhere. [Oct/Nov 2012, p.127]

On Muzik Die Schwer Zu Twerk, they're underdeveloped, and the result isn't nearly electric enough and just too perplexing.

For a record titled Action Adventure, it’s surprisingly short on excitement.

American Classic still can't avoid feelling like dinner party music. [Fall 2009, p.74]

Kings And Queens never manages to exceed its D.I.Y. entropy. [Fall 2009, p.72]

If Infinite Arms was this band treading water, then Mirage Rock is the band sinking into mediocrity.

It's one of those albums that would have fared better as an EP. [Winter 2010, p.72]

Though peppered with worthwhile rarities, Tapes is too lopsidedly paced to work as a party mix. [Winter 2008]

Jim Elkington, of The Zincs, and Janet Bean, of Freakwater, have here borrowed some of the languor, but little of the heartache of their other projects. [Summer 2009, p.74]

They almost come lose to approaching their forbears' moments of distorted bliss, but a middy--perhaps intentionally messy--mix doesn't do the record many favors. [Jun 2012, p.152]

This synth-heavy dance assault shows tons of promise but just misses the emotional mark. [Summer 2009, p.70]

What is meant to sound intimate and sparse only sounds unfinished, and-dare I say it-downright boring.

If evaluated on the music alone, the rating would be higher, but overall Hyacinth doesn't have enough quaint peculiarities or dynamic rhythms to be anything but a minimal draw.

Cold War Kids seem to be aiming for something more akin to Kings of Leon, and the songs bear this out. [Year End 2010, p.69]

It's certainly an ambitious album, and a sonically satisfying one, but it lacks memorable hooks and melodies. [May 2011, p.86]

On the majority of This is PiL, they are overshadowed by Lydon's barking vocals.

With a bevy of rhymes and metaphors straight out of Poetry 101, Slim leaves no romantic cliche unsung. [Fall 2009, p.72]

There's not a moment on Nothing's Lost that justifies the attention of any of his contributors. [#8, p.117]

Try as they might the songs just aren't there. [Feb. 2011, p. 71]

Some of the dissonant shouts would still be rough on the ears with cleaner production, but at least it'd be possible to hear what was going on. [Fall 2009, p.67]

Clever lyrical barbs aside, far too much of the album is the kind of sexed up party fare that grows tiresome on repeated listens. [Fall 2008, p.88]

We're reaching critical mass for new wave nostalgia, but we might have made room for your debut if there was something we could dance to. [#10, p.109]

Always better live than on record, there are few highlights here, and the bulk of the songs presented are lukewarm at best and often borrow topics and musical ideas. [Year End 2008]

Shake the Shudder is less of an improvement and more of a decline. But while there is nothing really special about it, there is nothing really that bad either, it's just disappointing.

One of the most easily forgettable albums in recent memory. [#7]

Olsen's infatuations with analog R&B, psychedelic doo-wop, and '60s British pop maven Scott walker are fine for an indolent afternoon, but lacks the melodic robustness to warrant repeat listens. [Jul 2011, p.89]

Cuts like "Must Be Leaving" and the purring "Wanna Know" are symptomatic of an earnest record that means and says absolutely nothing.

A reconstituted lineup has stripped the band of much of its ass kickin' swagger. [Summer 2007, p.91]

These surreal, often diaristic tracks miserably ruminate on the end of Wolf's 11-year relationship with his wife, but are somewhat bolstered by his percussion-centric use of marimbas, vibes, and bells. [Winter 2010, p.72]

There is entirely nothing new about the proceedings on The Battle at Garden’s Gate. And, at over an hour’s running time, what’s contained here is much too long, particularly given the slog of the final third of the album.

Mystery Jets have lost any trace of the unpredictability and combustibility that made Making Dens so exciting. [Summer 2010, p.85]

There seems to be a frequent clash of interests, whether that is between Le Bon's distinct guitar simplicity and Presley's distortion of the same instrument, or between the Welsh singer's kindergarten aesthetic and the American's stoner haze.

Rather than take the leap of faith required to create art truly terrible or transcendent, Harcourt has aimed, and landed squarely in the middle of the road, where the world is busy passing him by. [Summer 2010, p.84]

The Voidist eschews some of the drone-y stoner rock of "starnge Hexes," but his Two Part Beast band is still muzzled by a plodding middle section. [Fall 2009, p.72]

Vek's delivery is anticlimactic and sometimes exasperating. Angular songcraft dies hard.

While Sun Araw's last proper album, 2010's On Patrol, felt carefully planned amidst all of the controlled chaos, Ancient Romans seems to wander for too long without aim or purpose.

There's a raw energy, big, booming production, and a clear love of blues licks and gospel vocals here and, true, it's not quite like anything in the guy's oeuvre to date. The thing is, The Stereophonics--a band who might as well be Weller's kids--made this exact same album in 2003.

It'd make great music for a trendy lounge bar hoping to give off an edgy vibe.

A major disappointment. [Summer 2009, p.64]

Ultimately, He Was King is electro-pop on autopilot.

A handful of fun tracks here, but no overly impressive. [Winter 2010, p.72]

As a scientific experiment, it may have value, but it does not make for pleasant listening. [Jan-Feb 2013, p.94]

At least this time Otherness is a touch easier to define: disappointing.

Dead Petz isn't inherently ugly; in fact, there are many gorgeous moments. These moments tend to not go anywhere, though, and they are surrounded by mostly superfluous and even boring songs.

As it stands, it's pleasant music to fall asleep to, but offers little to keep you awake. [Oct 2011, p.108]

Apart from when Future Islands' Sam Herring comes out from behind a tree with an old wizard's rumble on "Ghost In a Kiss," most of the remaining lyrical contributions to 32 Levels, even from Vince Staples and A$AP Rocky, range from decent to deleterious.

The problem is that there is too little to dig into, to revel in. In many senses, Too Much Information is ultimately not enough. [Feb/Mar 2014, p.73]

It seems about 10 years out of date, and releasing it whilst Springsteen is mid-tour only serves to heighten their aura of lightweight superfluousness.

Out of Touch is a harmless, conventional record that is awash in an understated charm that's a little too subtle to warrant repeated plays.