Yeezus is ultimately most repugnant in how it heedlessly collapses all the value dichotomies that Kanye has mined so fruitfully over the years into one bottomless cesspool of narcissism.

There are hardly any virtues to this record at all.

This is nothing even remotely new, but very rarely does it come off so obnoxiously, indelibly built to not be taken seriously when that’s the very action that could save these assholes from their own doom.

The type of pretension that rears its fluffy manicured head on Finding Forever is one flatly insidious, lying in plush vibing harpsichord wait ("Intro"), in pattered bongo spoken word nobility ("Black Maybe"), and finally erupting in a 7½ minute crossharp-cooing, Crash-namedropping, butterfuck of pretension, exploding the boundaries of how fucking wack we ever, ever, ever thought Common could get.

Folks, to my ultimate chagrin, this Divine Providence album wallows in such unencumbered, unmoving crap-it breaks my fucking heart.

Sets a new bar for self-consciously unlikeable indie rock.

The entirety of Within and Without is a mishmash of half-recalled thoughts sterilized in a cloud of sh*t production.

Coming from an unknown artist, West would be disappointing if it was anything at all; coming from Williams, it’s entirely abysmal.

The garish cover of Ghostdini is apt: this is an elaborate and unfunny joke, not to mention--if it even bears mentioning at this point—profoundly hateful to women

MAYA, M.I.A.'s third and so obviously worst album, is the sound of a devoted audience getting f***ed over by a musical sociopath.

Substance-free, without a whit of melody or lyricism or artistry but flouncing about in a post-production fantasia, the album made sounds that sounded like music for people who wanted to like music and have music playing near them but make no investment in the enjoyment of such stuff.

The songs themselves are broad, indifferent things, no relation to the Thing that is this album.

Theater of the Mind is a disappointment and more--snickering through both high-minded social consciousness and insipid cash cows, the album, so flat and fucking boring, serves absolutely no one but Ludacris himself.

It shows little of Oberst’s usual dramatic flair.

If Chopped & Screwed implies that Micachu and the Shapes want to obscure their relation to the still wonderful Jewellery, then this album isn't just difficult and unsatisfying--it's unfortunate.

CocoRosie are clearly talented when they keep things focused; fact is, though, that Noah’s Ark is so steeped in its own random, garbled universe that it makes for a frustrating, unrewarding listen.

After the Balls Drop is less than fans-only material; it’s a mostly unlistenable document appealing only to the people who were fortunate enough to be there.

They are a handful of shit, of wan, barely extant songs and feeble musings, of worn gimmickry and careful over-production, aping Sufjan and a dozen others, flung against a cultural brick wall.

It’s music so frothy and unsubstantial that you could practically meditate to it: listen to it often enough, and it just kind of floats away, even if you’re blasting it at full volume.

This album is as fake as Kim’s physique, as vapid as the fashion she flaunts, as undeservedly praised as her entire career.

Urn is a chore.

Razorlight is nearly everything wrong with rock and roll today.

Aesthetically the album is an equally awful collection of pabulum, completely derelict in its offerings of arrangements and tones, sanded smooth of its personality and as derivative in its every moment as the bands it’s most derivative of.

Even the fun disco of 'I’m That Chick' is too little, too late for E=MC²--an album that proves just how easy it is for a well-funded virtuoso and the world’s best hitmakers to create a steaming pile of shit.

Circus is a saddening step back to her glossy yet unengaging "In the Zone" era, which is a shame.

Don’t Believe the Truth... probably isn’t Oasis’ nadir (that distinction arguably being due to 2002’s atrocious Heathen Chemistry), but one could be fooled for thinking so.

As such, it is both a strong refutation of every album Weezer has made since "Green" (as it, in its time, seemed to balk at "Pinkerton") and a numbing confirmation of the only available place this band has left: comic shearing, loose plagiarism, three separate solo projects (all of which are balls).