Greenspan turns the pathos of 2004's Last Exit into nearly intolerable bathos, with the beats now noticeably dragging. [Oct 2006, p.98]

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

Sounds like the Band in a coma. [Jul 2006, p.82]

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.

Spastically twee, painfully saccharine. [Jun 2005, p.108]

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.

He tries hepcat jazz-piano bop and balladry with pitiful results. [May 2006, p.91]

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

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.

You've heard these overheated tales of wild girls and outlaw boys many times before. [Mar 2007, p.97]

They make each shimmer of postnatal whimsy seem like an eternal gulag of the spotless mind. [Sep 2005, p.109]

By the time one gets to the final track, a head-scratching take on Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here," the overall effect is a decidedly uncomfortable numbness.

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.

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]

Apparently, this American movie is the story of the predatory woman who comes to your house, whaps the crap out of you, and makes you play the same song over and over again. [2/2001, p.107]

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.

Maybe the entire album is a meme itself, a grand existential joke critiquing the all-conquering rise of Internet culture by parodying its overwhelming randomness. Whatever it is, though, it's a bad rap record.

Unlistenable. [Mar 2004, p.96]

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

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.

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

X's overlong albums have always been exhausting, and this time he sounds bored and fatigued. [Sep 2006, p.100]

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

Doesn't build much on the Buffett ease and placeless island rhythms of Johnson's previous albums, but hey, ambition is for the ambitious. [Apr 2005, p.102]

People from New York trying to sound like people from England trying to imagine what Neil Young would sound like if he were in Coldplay. [Oct 2005, p.137]

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.

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.

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.