Queens Of The Stone Age lumbers its way through a series of increasingly skronky, sludge-by-numbers jams and sound. [No. 100, p.57]

Take the fake phone call and run, don't elephant walk, away. [No. 98, p.56]

Strength In Numbers makes you wonder if you ever really liked this band at all. [#75, p.94]

Aside from a handful of tunes, little here is all that memorable, namely because the hooks can’t see their way clear of the repetitive, robotic arrangements.

Shallow and superficial. [#56, p.101]

Oh, big breathy bombast, they name is Sense Field. [#60, p.113]

The truth is, even Angels & Airwaves do this sort of epic-emo thing with more verve, if not more Verve. [#73, p.96]

Despite valiant efforts at punking up "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" and "White Christmas," this is starting to sound like a bad joke. [No. 105, p.52]

Easy listening has never been this painful. [#57, p.106]

He sandbags every song with gigantic, syrupy string arrangements that make John Williams sound like John Cage. [#58, p.82]

Tepid, predictable.... It's sleek and stylized, the spastic, jittery punk replaced by impassioned, searching guitar lines. [#60, p.110]

It's difficult to imagine even a hardcore completist wanting to hear Chilton's interminable orgasmic noises on the title track, long stretches of drunken studio banter or yet another two versions of Third's "Jesus Christ." [No. 144, p.53]

The seventh LP by these Hot Topic/Warped tour faves sees the onetime mainstream screamo success story trying really hard to acclimate itself with whatever constitutes the present mainsteam-music climate. [No. 149, p.61]

It's unlistenable dreck. [No. 126, p.55]

Only a couple of tracks on Nightbird flicker with any sparks of life. [#67, p.96]

Turgid at best. [#57, p.102]

The vocals are on point in Ashcroft's non-plussed yet quintessentially pop-edged delivery, but these arrangements lean more toward boredom and self-servitude. [No. 133, p.53]

After all these years, the band still possesses no originality or musical inventiveness that could distinguish it from the pack. [No. 93, p.58]

Forget Evil Urges entirely; call this one Zzz.

Phillip Ekstrom's vocals echo the tortured moan of Robert Smith with a trace of Ian McCulloch's attitude, but he never manages to find his own voice. Except for the implied reggae pulse on "Blues," neither does the band. [No. 96, p.56]

Paper Gods is an exercise in shamelessly rehashing every tired, vaguely transgressive cliche that's defined Duran Duran's 30-plus-year career. [No. 124, p.55]

Give Up is a record that says, well, nothing. [#58, p.100]

While in his mind, Momus might indeed be a giant, to those of us growing weary of his increasingly tedious shtick, he just might be a weenie. [#50, p.99]

Not even Linkous can prop up this house of cards for long. [#58, p.94]

Dog is Black's safest record in years.... As such, however, the album is a bore. Rollicking American rock and pedal-stell ballads don't suit Black, and the resulting arrangements are both unsurprising and uninspired. [#48, p.78]

Suggests some arcane Canuck payment scheme in which lyricists are compensated by the syllable. [#70, p.106]

Brightblack Morning Light has always been a druggie band; this time, however, the drug of choice is Dramamine.

Occasional exotic loop or surprising flair aside, the rest [aside from three songs] is listenable, charmless and pointless. [No.90, p.58]