Most of the vocals elsewhere are unintelligible, blurred between endless layers of patchworked echolalia or overlaid with metal grid sheen and a mesh of hissing and crunching, skittering beats far removed from any sense of body based, physically entrained rhythm. But ultimately it’s just a shonkier version of the cut-ups and vocal splices Herndon’s been working with since her 2014 12" Chorus. [May 2019, p.52]

His cartoonish vocals remain charmless, his lyrics as tediously self-referential as ever. [Oct 2017, p.57]

A deliriously infantile playhouse of sound. [May 2016, p.51]

A series of one-dimensional tracks, produced by Dean Hurley, that at their best sound like a karaoke outsider artist running though some vocal exercises. [Aug 2013, p.54]

He's frozen in time, still rapping in an emaciated wheeze and overemphasizing his emotionless and cringe-inducing wordplay. [Aug 2011, p.69]

Only after wading through the swamp to the final three tracks do we get anything approaching sincerity, albeit of a cloying kind. [Oct 2007, p.55]

[By "We Dream Free"] it all starts to loosen up and swing a bit more. But even here it ends up treading water. [#269, p.42]

A dull, clunky, unjustifiably smug AOR rock album: no more, no less. [#243, p.71]

This is drivel inflated to whole new levels of bombast. [#235, p.72]

"Miss Lucifer"... [is] the first of many tracks on Evil Heat that cross rock 'n' roll and electro, only to get Sigue Sigue Sputnik. [#223, p.61]

MBM's wholehearted embracing of the familiar is stronger than ever, erasing any freshness or innovation, and cancelling out all distinguishing features. [#226, p.72]

Uncomfortable deliery and thin lyrical content suggest that utilising vocals isn't their strong suit. [#223, p.69]

Yankee Hotel Foxtrot's faceless, airbrushed production takes you back to the dead days of 1970s AOR radio. [#220, p.66]

Finding Iggy as confused as ever, Beat 'Em up ranks alongside New Values and Blah, Blah, Blah as yet another missed opportunity. (#209, p.60)

Without the strength of material to prompt the question of whether Byrne should be taken at face value or not, the songs on Look Into The Eyeball simply glide by unobtrusively, and Byrne's romantic sentiments start to sound like Paul McCartney at his blandest. [#208, p.53]

A collection of slow, moody pieces whose unexceptional nature is made more frustrating by the occasional flashes of inspiration. [#206, p.77]

What might have been an interesting exploration of Industrial Lite Pop gets spoiled time and again by badly rewired breakbeats and fussy electronic background chatter. [#201, p.66]

Intermittently pretty, massively inconsequential. [#215, p.69]