These are easy, derivative songs that might be listenable if they weren’t so overladen with noise.

The desperation of the drinking and the narcissistic banality of the lyrics are matched by songs that have long guitar solos, or places where the bands play loudly against Aldean’s voice--which is often flat, and rarely works enough energy to move past a laconic speech song.

At its core, In the Wild lacks any sort of substance.

It is neither new nor interesting nor intelligent nor even at a bare minimum fun.

It bears all the hallmarks of a truly terrible mess.

Overall, Flying Scroll Flight Control feels like the cast of Glee run amok with some very psychedelic, almost Neutral Milk Hotel elements. If that sounds messy, it is.

In all honesty, the album’s listenability has not improved with age. There are 34 songs on this new version of Document and Eyewitness and, even if a number of the live tracks clock in at less than two minutes, the sheer relentlessness of the freeform, out-of-tune, semi-suicide mission wears you down by the time you are only halfway through.

A poor album due to poor production and song writing, poor sales and poor vocal delivery.

For a band once so captivating and mysterious, Smoke Fairies is a colossal step back.

For a record whose lyrics are meant to reflect a deeply personal music journey, the music finds Coldplay at the safest and most rote it has ever been.

I just spent 93 minutes of listening to something that could have been recorded by my high school music students during a random afternoon of farting around. I am neither uplifted nor healed.

Sad to say, there’s not a song on EP2 that sounds like it couldn’t have been banged out by a reasonably proficient group of session musicians.

Brimming with half formed ideas and floundering melodies, Too Much Information is easily one of the most uninspired albums released so far in 2014.

Far from being as incisive as Albini or as sonically daring as Kevin Shields, Eagulls have created something akin to comfort food, an album to soothe the fears of guitar nuts afraid that feedback-driven six-string assaults were somehow in danger of going extinct.

The problem with this rather chugga-chugga, one-speed record is that he doesn’t persuade you that he feels sufficiently strongly to let it all hang out on record.

This set amounts to nothing more than an unnecessary, embarrassing, pointless five-track.

After an hour and change of mind-numbing, ponderous songs, the thought of ever committing to one of their records again is equivalent to volunteering for Chinese water torture.

After the first three songs, Steinhardt complains about everything without actually saying anything.

Regrettably the record and the band follow a formula at the expense of song composition.

The album is just full of songs that don’t hit and seemingly don’t even try.

His relentless delivery ensures that words spill out in defiance of the breath required to sustain them. But rate does not guarantee quality, and on Nothing Was the Same, his lyrics are worse than ever.

He leans more towards his softer, folksy side here than he did on Shotter’s Nation, and works hard to preserve the instrumental slop and shamble, while ignoring compelling melodies, energy, or a sense of purpose.

A quiet clamor, with all the charm of a downmarket frisée, For Years favors sound design over songcraft, its sullen atmospheres betrayed by gaseous mass.

The tactile experience associated with The Aeroplane Flies High disintegrates when translated to a digital format. A once-prized item becomes empty.

For an album that’s this short, Love Is the Law ends up being a chore to get through.

Here on Long Way Down, neither of Odell’s gifts [powerful tenor]--or their intimacy--are given space or time, lost instead in a sea of messy arrangements and a sense that, however fatuous, more must certainly mean better.

It is Countdown to Extinction taken to its most nightmarish conclusions.

These are the cheaply licensed other songs that you fast-forwarded through on that copy of Dance Mix [Insert Year] to get to the two or three hits that really shook up the club. You skipped them then and you should skip them now too.