At times the running-on-fumes punk benefits The Monitor's overall sound. But the problem is that the songs that surround the defined centerpieces sound undeveloped or just plain fall flat, particularly early on when we hear about a supposed hero covered in excrement and piss as a dramatic plot-point.

The one unique thing about Stewart's lyrical style (a sort of homage of shallow, U.S. suburban vernacular that paints a very specific picture to those of us from the suburbs) seems to be missing on Dear God, I Hate Myself. Sure, maybe it's even tongue-in-cheek, but I sure hope he's not joking.

Even at its best this whole record sounds like a band who wants to make an impact by trying to be everything to everyone. And because they're not too good at everything they do yet, this lack of a definitive identity that makes it difficult to take them seriously (or if this is their definitive identity, they're just boring).

Earlier pieces that amused or excited the listener have given way to more approachable sounds constantly on the verge of blending in completely. While seldom bad and almost wholly listenable, Vapours proves to be a bland disappointment from a group of usually creative musicians.

Ultimately at this point, the songs that I'm most attracted to are still the slower, more intuitive weepers showcasing Vedder's voice, and alas, such simplicity is scarce on Backspacer.

To simply not want to skip tracks isn't exactly saying anything, and certainly not that Wilco has made any kind of return to relevance. But Jeff the person is doing just fine, and instead of chastising this release, let's be happy that the guy who gave us more serious, occasionally harrowing masterpieces such as Summerteeth and Yankee Hotel Foxtrot finally seems to be having some fun. Next time it'd be nice if he let us in on it.

Casting off songs entirely for 17 parts that to their cult make a sum, I was sure this would be the one where I could finally take my other foot off the doorstop....[But] the fresh voices and staged character interplay keep Meloy's pretensions from boiling over, and loathe as I am to admit, two of the four title tracks culminate in something like hooks.

Despite its faults, Morning Tide will no doubt satisfy fans of crafty pop and have them dancing and singing.

That Fasciinatiion isn't a revelatory departure is not to say that it is completely without merit. It is, however, undeniably lacking an air of excitement.

Wanderlust is instantly forgettable.

Nine of Arm's Way's twelve songs start with legs, but ultimately suffer from an inability to respect their limits.

From the first song to the last, Speakers And Tweeters is an audio trip back in time, but not in the poignant sentimental way that one might hope.

Rollie has yet to find his voice, though.

While Chrome Dreams II was clearly modeled after his more "classic" sounding work, it finds Young sounding like little more than a knockoff of his former self.

As it is now, decidedly un-personal, In Our Nature falls flat.

Once Upon A Time is simply derivative, a rehash of the band itself.

The Collective's aspirations come off as bland and blurry, as if aspiration alone was the sole goal for this jam, spread out over three quarters of an hour.

Happiness Ltd. is a big mess.

They can't be accused of not making spirited music, but Northern State are still looking for the right words to express their sensible worldview.

It falls flat, offering little hope for the listener; after a few disappointing rounds of thinking that the next track simply HAS to be solid, the album exits as if it were never really there. Without a doubt, War Stories is the weakest and most disappointing UNKLE release to date.

The icy joylessness with which Bulmer humors her band's recordings doesn't ruin everything, shockingly enough.

For every hit, there exists a miss.

Skipping over a few songs, such as "When Butterflies Leave" and "Whispers From A Spiritual Garden" — because who wants to hear spiritual babbling when Islam can sing so diatonically correct — the album flourishes into a masterpiece of sincerity to its core.

As gorgeous as Sleepy’s voice can be, lyrically the album is lacking.

In the end Continuum feels like little-more than the self-indulgent effort of a possibly-peaked pop star.

Nightcrawler is essentially a sequence of fourteen overproduced songs that bleed into one another. Mind you these are not bad songs... But there is an overwhelming feeling that he is merely going through the motions.

Fail[s] to constantly engage the listener.

Shut Up’s biggest downfall is it’s speed, or lack thereof. The songs lilt and twirl with Krug’s yelp, xylophones and processed guitars, but rarely does the pace exceed ballad-like levels.