Adele "21" [2011]

Fat-voiced Brit wailer Adele occupies the space between earthy roots music and the lip-gloss of modern pop -- and it's a big space she's occupying -- but there's a reason no one had ever tried to combine the two styles before: the end result is gag-inducingly awful. That she exists as a representative of musical tastes for a plurality of smartphone downloaders clearly illustrates the dire condition of the entertainment industry in the 20-teens -- not just for crap like "The Voice" in the States, but apparently major labels in the UK as well. Insistently over-the-top vocal grandstanding with sickly-sweet sentimentality is not enjoyable to endure on prime-time TV, and it's downright torturous on "21," which I'll guess is a reference to how many hours long this album feels like it goes on for. Ironic that Adele writes all her songs as regretful laments about lost love without once acknowledging what she really should be regretting: repeatedly coming on like a slow-motion Alanis Morrissette with gayer production qualities than Elton John ever dreamed up. Clearly Adele needs to move on; so do we all.