As music for airports, the album hums along like a tension-age sedative, but if it was meant to be a grand artistic statement by an acclaimed band with a distinctive vision, it's pretty much static.

Beyond the musical unevenness of an album whose finer qualities interleave those mounting miscalculations, a rising suspicion that misery is of more comfort to her than happiness makes the tenor of Williams' songs increasingly hard to bear.

More time spent in the songwriting lab might have yielded material more suitable to the evident studio effort invested and brought Wilco closer to making a truly great album.

Their worst album so far.... Too much of the album ("Expecting," "Aluminum," "I Can't Wait," "I Can Learn") wallows in an odd, crusty hard-rock haze.

By so clearly rejecting the terms and expectations of rock and pop, The Drift asks fairly explicitly to be taken as a serious work of art. However, for all its highbrow aspirations, it seems to fall between two realms, lacking the innovative reach that would make it a credible presence among contemporary avant-garde compositions.

The impact is inconsistent but stronger.

Often irresistible yet occasionally irritating.

A Ghost Is Born is a textbook example of an album created to fulfill expectations the band doesn't necessarily share.

This fine album contains several striking songs (notably “The Dark Is Rising” and “Nite and Fog”), but it suffers in comparison to the artistic breakthrough of its immediate predecessor.

AwCmon is the stronger of the two, with a trio of outstanding instrumentals acting as the backbone for a suite of typically moody songs.

It's pure BTS, but without enough sparkle or rough-hewn beauty to be memorable.

This is not perfect music: the observations seem to easily gained; the faster songs mere replicas of previous monuments; and no matter how graceful the notes' elisions, an unskillful denouement on many of the songs' endings.

Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes is diverting, short (47 minutes), atmospheric and contains exactly one truly memorable song.

Sexsmith is incapable of dishonesty, insincerity or cliché in his writing or performance, but none of these melodies soar and the lyrics reveal nothing new for him.

Ultimately, The Campfire Headphase shows continuity with the duo's previous recordings but fails to replicate the sheer beauty and awe-inspiring quality of past material, sounding at times like the work of very good Boards of Canada copyists.

NoYouCmon is more eclectic and less focused, with fine moments to be found.

The songs aren't bad, but there’s a loss of personality in the grooves.

The harder U2 tries to rock out with wild abandon here, the less spontaneous they end up sounding, making How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb more like an incredible simulation of a punk-influenced album rather than an actual punk-influenced album.

While hardly bad... the album too often sounds as if the ceaseless invention that made Nixon so vibrant has been replaced by self-consciousness of the wrong sort.

This disappointing album is infectious and literate, but erratic compositional fortitude and lack of daring is a drag, as each clever step is followed by another clever step.

Even through patches of mediocrity, QOTSA still offer something healthy and respectable to the hard rock world, but too much of anything can be bad for you.

There's nothing about the quintet's second album that audibly acknowledges the impact of its debut.

Individually, the tracks are every bit as good as anything else he’s ever written; as a whole, however, the album is too much of the same thing, as one glum tale follows another.

This may be a more mature effort, but in places that sound is ordinary and unadventurous.

A record which adheres closely to the formula but fails to generate any sort of spark from it.

While the depression accompanying a relationship breakup comes through, several tracks lose their quirkiness in the studio setting.

The songs are not as strong overall as on her previous albums, and the tempo neither flags nor picks up over the course of the album.

The song selection is choice, and his band handles the solo material well enough (especially on “I Have Forgiven Jesus” and a showstopping “You Know I Couldn’t Last”), but a smattering of Smiths oldies doesn't help.

To their vast credit, even if the songs resemble a greatest hits package of indie rock, each guitar break, each bridge comes alive with experimental toughness.

The French Kicks have changed dramatically and not always for the better.

Unfortunately, his lyrics don't measure up; he writes songs that repeat a phrase or two in lieu of any sort of finished thought.

Even for a debut album, it’s too tentative and timid for its own good.

When it pays off -- which is more often than not -- BRMC's fuzzed- out angry shoegazer stance reaches levels of sonic brilliance unmatched by any of their peers.

X&Y is well crafted and enjoyable, but it’s bloodless and distant. It feels manufactured, a piece of product in the march to become the Biggest Band in the World.

The band's attempts to diversify the tone are not always successful.

Like its predecessor, 21st Century Breakdown delivers less than it promises; it’s more successful as a rock album than as a rock opera.

The further they veer from the course (like the misshapen slide guitar and honking harmonica in the stupendous single "Ain’t No Easy Way"), the more memorable the sound.

Unfortunately, attempts to abandon [their] formula offer little evidence that they can excel at anything else.

The dolorous and enervated West reins in some (not all) of Williams' willful stylistic misadventures while holding fast to her golden triumvirate of death, love and longing.

Solid and diverse if slightly lacking the gorgeous full- bodied melodies of its predecessor.

Begins the band's slide into sonic monotony and lyrical malaise.

Hints at future sonic depths: swirling patterns, impressive musicianship and ambitious ideologies.

A greater focus on club anthems and straightforward songwriting broadens the band’s appeal but sacrifices originality in the process.

There are problems. For one thing, some of these songs have been done to death. More important, their voices don't blend all that harmoniously, and not all the arrangements do the tunes justice.

Despite the frigid bore of the album's latter half, the initial grandiosity of the songwriting and vocals make it possible that the Killers can avoid the bleak fate shared by other new wave gimmick acts.

A solid enough set from the Around the Sun tour but not particularly revelatory, it’s exactly what one would expect from a late-period R.E.M. live album, with no surprises in performance or setlist.

Perhaps those who regard the Northwesterners' compositional skills with awe will find this a fascinating prism of strong creative angles, but as a follow-up to an extraordinarily gorgeous web of noise and delicacy, it leaves a lot to be desired.

These songs are buoyant and polished, but the lyrics range from bewildering to lame and an afternoon of Schlitz’s voice gets tiresome.

Made in China is a raw, angry album that is difficult to endure at points due to the emotionally naked lyrics, but the lo-fi, almost punky, music is a perfect fit.

Pleasant but alternately catchy and bland.

Devil's Playground makes like it's 1983 all over again.