Radio 4 show a real lack of gusto. [28 Oct 2004, p.98]

Monkey Business is just as bright if not quite as fun as Elephunk.

Streets of Gold is about as pleasant as a case of genital herpes.

Did Ke$ha bite her steez? Who cares? There's always room for another party girl.

Enjoy the band's extraterrestrial makeover; it's far more amusing than the music.

Rossdale's heart is in the grim, grandiose stuff, bellowing his pain in Vedderian rumble, and forever striving to be deep and meaningful, a goal that exceeds his gifts as a songwriter.

For the Star Wars generation, it can be hard to get beyond timid fanboy reverence.

This is unabashedly slick adult contemporary fare -- file between Eric Clapton's work with Babyface and the last Tina Turner album -- but Richie can still write and sing the hell out of a get-you-right-there-where-it-hurts ballad...

Incubus retain some of their early, macabre nerdiness (the harmony-bedecked "Tomorrow's Food" reminds us of our dirt-bound mortality), but, for all the energy, the melodies fail to ignite.

It's when Staind crank down the sludge and slacken the tempos that things get heavy in a bad way. [11 Aug 2005, p.72]

Her attempt at breaking out as a solo artist has been rocky--lead single "Cannonball" sank like one--and this album of insta-dated EDM-pop anthems and half-cocked bass drops probably won't help her cause.

What the album could use is a few more drink-clinking splashes of summertime fun, but despite the usual army of A-list writers and producers, there isn’t really anything here to rival the sticky, inescapable punch of “Sugar” or “Moves Like Jagger.” A little more escape might’ve been welcome. But whether it’s trying to be light, serious, or somewhere in the middle, Jordi can only get it done in half-measures.

Def Leppard show signs of life on the headbanging 'Bad Actress,' which takes on the Lindsay Lohans of the world, but it’s clear they’re missing their old producer.

Their [producers Mattman & Robin's] spacious productions are an odd fit for Dan Reynolds' tortured dude-isms.

On the occasions when his slinky guitar takes center stage — like on melancholy instrumental renditions of the Pet Sounds tracks “Don’t Talk (Put Your Head on My Shoulder)” and “Caroline, No,” or the first half of Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” — the results are predictably serviceable. But Depp’s pro forma, double-tracked vocals provide scant additional justification for the project’s existence; and in a few unfortunate cases (like when he attempts a soul croon on Smokey Robinson’s “Ooo Baby Baby”) you won’t be able to find the skip button fast enough.

Despite the tabloid-worthy subject matter, a couple of bangers are invigorating, with Foxy spitting fiercely over a dark, stomping beat on 'How We Get Down.' But she also gets stuck in rote braggadocio.

This much serotonin in four humans can only mean they'll get carried away all over the place, and Beginning bubbles with the kind of slobbering excess that drives Peas haters bonkers.

This Los Angeles party-hop duo can't decide if they want to rhyme like the Beastie Boys or booty-croon like Taio Cruz. So on their second album (which includes the hit "Party Rock Anthem"), they do both, making for a disc of brain-cell-depleting jams.

Ondrasik's self-pitying ballads overflow with dewy-eyed dreaminess, as his vocals swoon and swoop - think of a more annoying Chris Martin.

Whibley cleans out his soul closet over operatic hard rock, rain-swept balladry and bad Green Day opera punk--often crammed into the same song. If he's trying to show breakups are arduous, it worked.

The funniest thing since Ravyn-Symone's Here's to New Dreams.

Mostly, though, it's like a crowded party where you don't really get to talk to anyone as long as you'd like.

Yes, Perry has a heart, but it sounds like her bustier's too tight for her to use it.

She still can't project any personality of her own. [27 Jan 2005, p.58]

They still sound generic – a bar band in search of songs.

Everywhere, Tom Scholz fine-tunes the angelic-choir harmonies and aerosol-guitar crescendos until they're spotlessly, unmistakably Bostonlike. Some things never change--but remembering a sound isn't always enough.

This megadose of Wallen doesn’t only ensure that One Thing at a Time will be lodged at the top of the charts for a while — alongside Dangerous, which is currently at Number Five on the Billboard 200 — it also reveals his preferred musical and lyrical tropes, as well as his fondness for simple, slippery vocal melodies that easily stick in listeners’ brains.

On their fourth album, these Florida rockers muster up anthems that would embarrass a Hallmark Card hack.

Erasure do the Ronettes' "Walking in the Rain" almost as well as Cheryl Ladd, they do Buddy Holly's "Everyday" better than James Taylor, they prove that one man and one man only was meant to sing "Can't Help Falling in Love," and they tart up Peter Gabriel something fierce.

The slower stuff vagues out, and the bonus disc of ambient instrumentals ought to come with a controlled substance, but elegant relationship songs such as the torchy "Forever" suggest this talented softy has found a sensible way to come down from a multiplatinum high.

The problem is that Papa Roach don't rise far enough above the radio-rocking competition--it's hard to remember the band's identity at this point.

Pharrell Williams and Dre of Cool and Dre provide the same synth beats they probably offered Raven-Symoné, and guest MC Missy Elliott outshines the Queen, who's so bored she's rapping about exhaustion.

Swooning song-poetry and Coldplay karaoke over electronics-tinged arrangements that sound very pro forma.

Fan of a Fan has its share of low-end R&B bangers.

The reality of Jennifer Lopez is...blah.

Syncopated sludge that will connect only with aging burnouts and the angriest of young 'uns.

Not "authentic"--amiable.

Too often, Earth sounds like the Dandys have too many toys — or maybe too many ideas.

Playful spirit is in short supply on a record where club beats, acoustic strumming, and parched guitar lines usually get siphoned into unobtrusively earnest background pop. [Jun 2020, p.71]

Things can get ponderous once Metallica start impatiently stomping, but often they turn Reed's pretensions into something muscular.

It's been almost five years since England's Spice Girls had people smiling or sneering. Their third album, Forever, will probably provoke a reaction somewhere in the middle -- with one exception, it's just OK.

[Shape Shifter] has moments of s**t-hot playing (see the smeared runs on "Metatron"). But the arrangements, oversweetened with too many synthesizers, lean toward lite jazz.

Beyond summer-anthem contender "I Luh Ya Papi," Lopez supplements flat production from names like RoccStar with forgettable verses from rappers like T.I.

As refreshing as it is to hear Ja do something besides the singing approximation he's been practicing the past few years, the boasts here feel utterly tired.

T.O.S. would simply be a middling posse record if it didn't further undermine its own cred by constantly referencing better rap songs.

At 48, Pixies singer Black Francis has either lost or abandoned his flair for sounding like the most unhinged man in indie rock.

Another album that gets further away from the band's core appeal.

Flaccid beats mean that his solo debut -- despite guest spots from Eminem and Big Boi -- too often falls flat.

The four songs on his latest EP, Mission Accomplished, continue to wander down that same fascinating but frustrating road to nowhere.

Paul said in 2007 that his next disc would focus on youth violence in Jamaica, but there's little sign of that on the party-hearty Imperial Blaze, which is full of snazzy electro beats and tunes that sound like pale versions of past hits.

He moans echo-caked utopian incantations, hustles some groovy conspiracy theories, spins a stolen Dylan melody into a elegiac space jam and ponders the nature of "circular time." But there's as much Sonic Youth doom in his band's guitar explorations as there is folky grooviness.

You know how reunion albums work: You listen for the playing, not for the songs, which are mediocre at best.

A largely vocals-free mishmash of brittle beats, buzzy sound effects and hipster ambience that sounds great when Dizzee Rascal is rhyming over it but cold and tinny on its own.

Tempos plod, and hooks are few.

Listening to Khaled’s albums is like searching for blessings amidst the chaff, and the signal-to-noise ratio is generally low. But God Did isn’t as torturously bad as, say, 2019’s Father of Asahd.

Karmin can make you hate pop music.

Riddled with resentment and lyrics that land with a self-serious thud, Memories is a stunningly drab record. For the most part songs plod along at a strenuously mid-tempo pace, and are mostly lacking in any sonic detail that would reward closer listening.

In venturing to offer something for everyone, Simpson offers nothing for anyone.

Somewhere along the line in his career, he fully absorbed his pantheon of Sixties and Seventies influences and began to sound like no one but himself. The confidence that results from that growth -- along with the knowledge that comes from having made records for fifteen years -- is apparent throughout this album.

Scream veers between drab–sleek and rock–dude soulful; Cornell's yowl never sounds at home.

For the most part, the songs come off as slightly vague sketches for U2 songs. The theater-trained singers sound stiff when they try Bono-worthy emoting.

Here, he sings against syrupy, obvious orchestral arrangements, driven by a beat that sometimes seems on the verge of a nap -- all of which encourages Stewart's worst habits: He sounds lazy, glib and uninvolved, just the opposite of when he still mattered.

The beats on iSouljaBoyTellem--built by Soulja and Mr. Collipark--are beefier. And Soulja Boy's willingness to drill songs into your skull is less charming.

Queen 2.0 are competent enough to rock arenas, but don't expect a repeat of the glory days.

The Oakland MC's debut explores her skill at giving hormonally bonkers post-Odd Future shock rap a bratty, ashtray-Madonna spin.

Chingy is the least interesting part of his own songs.

All the Right Reasons is so depressing, you're almost glad Kurt's not around to hear it.

Part of the problem is the thoroughly unimaginative production, a procession of soft-loud modern-rock cliches that breaks up the ho-hum guitar bashing with acoustic interludes and strings.

If Enya were a Pokemon, she'd be Jigglypuff, the little pink monster who renders her opponents powerless by singing them to sleep.... The Irish multi-instrumentalist-singer-composer's skill at ephemeral sonic watercolors has grown wearisome, like a relative who tells the same stories every holiday.

The Backstreet men rarely accelerate beyond a mid-tempo thud. [16 Jun 2005, p.100]

Phair is a fine lyricist, and although she's lost some musical identity, she's gained potential Top Forty access.

Morissette turns in a powerful and nuanced vocal performance over these lighter but layered arrangements. [16 Jun 2005, p.98]

Chris Brown has made a bland, occasionally obnoxious, pro forma R&B album.

Adler's no beat master, and the tracks on Shwayze all sound like variations on thumb-strummed Jack Johnson tunes, topped with Sugar Ray-style rhymes about weed and women.

As you'll see, every English rock star is required to celebrate this milestone with an overblown album about God, humanity and the cosmos.

On this South African band's third album, the guitar tones are a teeth-grinding, digitized-sounding nightmare, and a series of I'm-singing-through-a-cell-phone vocal filters can't disguise how played out Morgan's style is.

Sounds a lot like a collection of rejected Foo Fighters tunes. [7 Sep 2006, p.107]

His blend of garish Day-Glo net art and brawling homage to the glory years of DMX and Onyx may be a commercially effective millennial update of Rotten Apple thug rap. But aesthetically, his distinct lack of lyrical talent and annoyingly hyperactive presence often undermines the whole thing.

Brown brags about his extra-large condoms, and, on "Don't Judge Me," turns a tender love song into a Twitter rant against "haters."

The results are spunky, if unnecessary: Why bother with Sly and Jeff Beck's remake of "(I Want to Take You) Higher" when you can listen to the torrid original?

Third-rate grunge retreads stuffed with overdriven guitars and generic rock-dude melancholia.

There's still too much of Brian Karscig's ultracampy 'Big Balls'--style vocals, and it sometimes feels like these guys have confused expanding their range with finding new sources to rip off.

The problem is that Wayne has very questionable taste in rock. He splutters and wails over tracks stuffed with aggro stomp and bland riffage; it sounds like he's been holing up with a bunch of Spymob and Incubus records.

The limp rhythm section and layered guitars expose the rote melodies, ridiculously dull lyrics and cruise-control tempo. [27 Jan 2005, p.60]

Testify is full of laid-back, better-than-average adult-contempo fare, and the subtle, atmospheric production sure beats the slickness of his Eighties records.

With the Bizkit's usual guitar-heavy thrash still in place, songs such as "Creamer (Radio Is Dead)" and "Lonely World" get by on Linkin Park-style electronic textures, stutter-step rhythms and catchy, cathartic choruses.

Hefty Fine proves only marginally more welcome than a Jerky Boys reunion.

Federline's rhyme flow is the opposite of tight.

Ho-hum singer-songwriterly tunes packed with sentimental poetry. [1 May 2003, p.56]

This covers compilation reveals them as an honorable South Carolina bar band that has survived its run-in with pop success by keeping its easygoing humor intact.