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.