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pedestrian
warmed over boogie
tepid
wimpy, with dull Foreigner-style corporate guitar riffs and air-pumped AM harmonies
psuedo-artiste self-proclaimed minimalist quintet
humorless and stodgy
aesthetically stupid and uneconomic
emotional vapidity
unintentionally hilarious
plodding sludge
graceful slothfulness and thorough lack of imagination
mindless gutbucket boogie
eternally foiled by their stupidity
murky drone
their recent stuff is a quaint bore
added horns and became even worse
an acquired taste at best
a solo LP of no discernible direction
one of rock's most obnoxious posers
but even this second generation schlock-and-roll is better than the drivel that makes up the rest of his catalogue
ten-piece funk unit with enough ideas to keep, at most, two of them busy
the songs are horrible little vignettes
you'll forget as quickly as did the high priced L.A. session pros who made it
Holland's answer to Ted Nugent
a patchy attempt at crossover
sings in a talking monotone that deserves never to have been recorded
nowhere soft rock
bland
L.A. no-talents
fortunately, no one bought this hideous product
has gone the way of most stupid ideas
pathetic rockers like these
irritating frontman
bland and platitudinous post-hippie easy listening
pompous disco balladeer
soap opera mawkishness
reeks
what a pair of duds
wretched string-laden ballads
it is only through the revisionist posturing of a trendy, relentlessly "hip" art crowd that this noise could find encouragement at all
extremely amusing to sixth graders
inane attempt to cash in on punk
fascinating for lovers of terminal depression and morbid imagery
for aficionados of gloom
overly derivative
gay troubadour
eerie lovelorn disco
Tonight Show guest and hack L.A. entertainer
the meaning of this is unfathomable
marginal career
one of those sincere and sensitive types
aggravatingly lame soft rock quintet that sports three brothers and zero talent
pathetic
self-indulgent crap
the laid-back indulgence of this solo bust
characteristic of the vapidity of Eighties rock
merely sounds limp
from the deleted RCA guilt anthology
sounds like two fourteen year olds imitating Pat Benatar
the dull sluttiness of this endeavor
and his band of merrily hard-working disco all-stars
were most notable because he was a paraplegic who had to be carried onstage...great suffering has not, in this case, produced great art
has adopted and expanded the early Bee Gees' most insipid mistakes while incarnating all of Donovan's medieval fantasies
the singers, never less than shrill, often sound like they are being emasculated
"Funky Butt" was the single
died in 1978 after a tragic fall down a flight of stairs
his thin, whiny voice, sophmoric writing and extremely limited instrumental facility
positively festered once he became popular enough to stop trying
beneath the tinsel there is only more tinsel
this kid plays, sings, and acts like his destiny is to be a star, and that's the problem
you won't find me listening to this tripe
plies his banal trade
with whom he made his biggest hits, and worst music
is almost comic
his quest for artistic credibility reached absurd heights
terminally lame
was soon trapped in the company's pop-rock production mill
from his late-sixties period of fancy bathrobes and peacock feathers
seventies corporate rock
the group's dabblings with Brechtian commentary, Artaudian reality inversions and sub-Langian psychology
one foot in MOR never-never land
angry young wimp
low-pitched vocals are an unwise idea
auteurs of laid-back sexism
cowboy-outlaw fantasy concept LPs
fairly harmless
paltry and inept attempts at rock & roll
their whining became more and more dominant
the overage, bare-chested, flabby dudes on the cover
a pleasant-voiced lightweight with zero to say
a truly miserable body of work
yet another lengthy work that staggers under a burden of technical excess and an incomprehensible sci-fi theme
slick, anonymous disco
as a whole her recorded career is terribly dull and dreary
the albums became bloated, lifeless afterthoughts
thin, unfocused attempts at formulized radio rock in which basically second-rate Midwestern bands seem to specialize
schlock weeper/crooner in the Kenny Rogers/Eddie Rabbitt mold
long-haired, impolite and sweaty
wretched is the word to describe their music
the singing is completely hopeless
among the discs available, it is hard to choose, most are simply unlistenable
virtually worthless
self-indulgent and boring
pedestrian set of chops
their horrible debut album
the group's patchouli-oil philosophy
hopelessly lame arrangements
gruesome
horrific self-parody
nothing but factory simulacrum, easily ignored and rather dadaistic in his overblown obsequiousness to the disco style and scene
the band tends to be flatulent
his solo career is strictly a mistake
musts for lovers of out-of-control mind warp
his singing is weak and the lyrics naïve
simply ludicrous
postadolescent sob sister
bitter, humorless self-pity
just this side of wretched
dismal
insipid folkie nonsense
pointless mainstream rock
bizarre indulgence
the rest are mostly interesting because of the pomposity of their themes
unadulterated Elizabethan boogie
he is neither musically or lyrically original enough to justify the banality of his "insights"
attempts to provide bogus objectivity
ultimate shallowness
begging to be taken seriously
there simply isn't any way to deal with him except as a lightweight
burdened with opaque and pompous lyrics which defy comprehension
idiotic ham
if one seeks meaning and genuine passion, one must move on
second-rate Neil Sedaka
nursing-home rock
Stepford Wives rock
an utter dullard
plodding
gives the people what they want, hopefully, the people will soon want something else
reeks of exploitive cynicism
more energetic than Pablo Cruise
increasingly incoherent apocalyptic science-fiction mishmash
the popular and vapid
subsequent releases were useless, as any future ones undoubtedly will be
pompous clowns
in a word, lame
the less said the better
pedestrian funk outing
with excellent liner notes, if you can read Japanese
destined to be a trivia question
the latter a duet with Susan Anton
becoming as flimsy as Linda Ronstadt and her ilk
feeble guitar solos
inept Jimmy Smith imitations on the organ, horn charts to cover the dead spots, and his patented thin-pipe vocals
hugely arrogant, incredibly inflated and totally misconceived
self-consciously clever art-school pop
all form and no content
just stay away
troubled by a weight problem and an outdated teen idol's voice
his rough singing style, which is minimal, to put it charitably
somewhat shapeless records
only saw the street from the backseats of limousines
cranks up his grandiose pipes and overloaded bass to sludge through another heaping pile of musical bullshit
nouveau mod hacks
a couple of session hacks hole up together
epitomizes the worst of L.A. seventies pop rock
so laid-back it's a wonder she can stand up
her debut album is a certified snore
her subsequent releases are better only because they were less successful, and therefore easier to ignore
the very model of washed-out California rock
exceeded only by fellow Eagle exile Randy Meisner's dismal affair
monumentally inane
his handful of pathetic contributions to sixties rock
so reflectively vague
forgettably airy melodies, plain orchestration, flat engineering, weak and precious
the unassumingness snowballed over the years into total snore
really vile disco concept act
pretty goddamn lame
classic European hackwork
real bad stuff
this punk-funk screech is just so much avant-garde horseshit
simultaneously garish and cloddish
his production brings out the worst in her, when she isn't drowned out by his wah-wah effects and violins
relentlessly irritating AOR swill
hellish operatic singing
dense avant-Wagnerian wall of oppressive percussion
dark jazz variations for guitar, violin, and keyboards
from the nine album oratorio
alien gibberish
leaden repetition of the extended pieces
inept, overblown production
mood music for the valium set
a trifle lengthy
thin anonymity
weak
vapid crooner
this album is absolutely nothing special
nothing here Miles Davis can't do blindfolded and with one collapsed lung
stodginess of his conceptions
mediocre
superwimp MOR ersatz country schlock
disgusting and unlistenable
unbearable and insipid
the formula became repulsive
laid-back drivel from another former Eagle
hilariously dated in its naiveté
melt this one down
clownish, heavy handed ex-Electric Flag drummer
solo career is a series of incredible gaffes
manages to make more errors in judgement than seem possible
banal world view
generally a boring string of records
this formula Hollywood trash
faceless, unimaginative and plodding
ordinary in the extreme
bloated art-pop pomposities
shrill and pointless
does not have to be seen to be dismissed
smug and obvious
another precocious reggae teenager
windy eight-minute poetry lessons
kiss-off songs in Morse code
was, and remains, a disaster
were mercifully deleted some time ago
a classic example of wimp aggression
progressively bitter in their rather smug pessimism
future gaffes may be necessary to justify the pretensions of this one
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