The sourness of their newfound perspective might be one thing if the music sounded any good, but doesn’t. Arcade Fire have re-committed to running away from their once sky-scraping stadium sound, further experimenting with the island sounds and disco grooves that bloated 2013’s Reflektor.

No. [Jan 2003, p.99]

Whether the album’s title is a plea or a warning does not matter, as the effect is the same: The Chainsmokers have one song, and if you don’t want to hear 12 versions of it, please do not un-click the latch holding this box closed.

Playing to splintered attention spans, This Is War insistently splices bits of other artists' work into a facile crescendo of mega-angst and ephemeral drama.

Britney Jean may chart respectably because it leads the most musically uneventful December in years, but it will soon fade like "Perfume," because there's zilch in the way of humanity here.

Amid spoken-word interludes and I'd-like- to-buy-the-world-a-Coke-style choirs, only Lee's innate melodic gift saves him from total embarrassment.

The emo-punk angst is cut with little of the band's trademark wit or ingenuity: Most of the songs plod bloodlessly to an inevitable, pointless climax of noise, sour humor, and teen nihilism.

The rest of the album plods with formulaic, hormone-heavy Kelly Clarkson outtakes, or perhaps Liz Phair during her bleak, sparkly descent.

If singer Justin Warfield had a sense of humor about himself, that wouldn't be such a bummer; as is, Forever seems to go on for about that long. [Nov 2007, p.124]

The result has to feel like a studio adventure! Whereas Daft Punk’s Random Access Memories was lavishly rich, Smith’s treatment of his session players manages to flatten all human serendipity and rhythmic nuance.

Witness is an album full of bizarre choices--both the DJ Mustard and Hot Chip-produced tracks are, for some reason, ballads--that has the inherent appeal of a spectacular failure, but that’s about it.

For such a propulsive controversy-magnet, her new album is awfully toothless and indistinct.

Here's the Crystal Method with a not-so-fresh batch of rave-rock jock jams seemingly designed to advertise a car you can no longer afford.

Its smug, unexplored sense of intellectual superiority is pretty much all it has to offer. Musically, it’s an hourlong misallocation of the considerable resources that made a nu-metal minor classic out of 2000’s Mer de Noms.

The Moon and Antarctica does show Modest Mouse willing to change. Too bad it wasn't for the better.... Mistaking subject for style, Modest Mouse has chosen to accentuate on a tendency to drift rather than an ability to write emotionally effective songs.

We get big-budget bloat, lifeless lines, and none of the warmth or reality that would cause any label to take interest in the first place.

The most standout feature of Nine Track Mind might be its rhythmic consistency, an exercise in deceleration.... inoffensive dross.

Sir Paul McCartney has made an utterly forgettable, featherweight record designed primarily to appeal to Sir Paul McCartney.

Some songs feel unfinished, especially on disc one. Much of the production on both halves is terribly derivative and some great samples get mangled.

Bring on the Comets is ultimately a bland regression. [Sep 2007, p.138]99

Kreay indulges the full breadth of her influences, turning Somethin into a series of wan genre studies.

Buying the latests CD from a novelty act is like sitting on the same whoopee cushion twice. [Oct 2000, p.180]

One jaded plod after another. [June 2001, p.155]

There is nothing new to be learned from this album burdened by crudely formed raps about his already exhaustively covered life and deeply muddled politics. ... Still, the music at times almost makes it worth it.

Clinging to the guest stars is crucial to getting through this thing--pros like Courtney Noelle provide basic hooks where the headliner's own horrible mantras ("I got so much," "Fall asleep") fail completely.

Maybe the Ting Tings have pulled some sort of Lou Reed maneuver here. Maybe this is their Lulu.

Hotel California is inexcusable. It may be the least creative major-label rap album in recent memory.

A tepid effort that bogs down their previously rugged and introspective rock with power-ballad vibrato, lurid over-orchestration, and petulantly vague lyrics. [Feb 2007, p.83]