Although much of the record re-verses and re-crafts melodies in the same vein, there are a few gems that can't be missed.

Their new pop direction finds them drifting about, directionless as opposed to eclectic.

The glassy-eyed micro-manic bass-'n'-breaks belligerence on show-offy tracks on this Squarepusher longplayer is either tellingly tired or terrifically tiring, with Jenx's wicked licks of brown-note boogie either spuriously slow in the foot or a swift kick to the collective ass of a collectively ass-kissing musical community.

While the sound is often thick -- layers of dewy guitars, keyboards, old organs, bass, drums/beats -- it's always concerned with the "space" of the piece, such thickness often casting insular environments in which Eitzel's voice can wander lonely.

All for You is, for the most part, signature Janet.

Boy, is it a sprawling mess.

Their debut album flits between uneasy ambient pieces, pop songs buried in layers and loops, and crunchy takes on the IDM sound.

They're trapped by this, their one-trick shtick; it the same old song, played again, Sam, for all those girls in white belts who won't stop 'til they get enough.

Just like every other record Malkmus has been involved with, it doesn't feel like an album, doesn't feel like one whole work, doesn't feel focused, or of some specific intent. Pig Lib sounds rambling and goofy and slump-shouldered and half-assed and happened-upon and lazily comfortable with every step that it takes.

[A] tired, uninspired collection of music and songs.

In the future the restless, insecure South-men may perhaps harness their broad tastes into a more cogent sound, but From Here On In finds them a well-produced but overly expansive mess.

Gemstones is shit. It's awful. It really, really is.

It's the sound of someone crashing and burning in a heap of misguided, grandiose intentions.

Guitars riff, drums pound, the bass plods, and the singer yowls -- but nothing gels.

Part of the fun of the Beastie Boys is knowing that they're fucking with the rhymes and you; another part is knowing that they give a fuck about what's happening in the world. Those two things don't always work well together, though, especially when they say something watered down and deliver it as though they don't buy it either.

Lyrically, I suspect that part of the problem is rust, while part of the problem is age — a song about bumping into an ex-girlfriend, then coming home to tell the wife about it ("Jane Allen") just doesn't stick to the ribs, while the more overtly political numbers feel heavy-handed and preachy.

Just like an album of guitar solos, an album of battling fancy-fingered trick-pony turntablism is an utterly artless endeavor.

Rain on Lens isn't awful, but boy, is it a long way from The Doctor Came at Dawn.

Left to his own devices here, Marr has penned vague lyrics and delivered them in a monotone, coupled with uninspired melodies that only underline the singer's limitations.

Cold and lifeless.

TA have now officially run out of original ideas.

It's not bad, it's just so goddamn mediocre.