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The 11 Worst Albums of 2014

Though 2014 produced some great albums, the last 12 months often seemed, at best, a transitional year for music.

The 11 Worst Albums of 2014

Though it produced no less than 25 great albums, the last 12 months often seemed, at best, a transitional year for music, lacking in zeitgeist-capturing, forward-thinking stunners and rife with soulless fiascos eager to fire-bomb innovation all the way to the bank. This year saw several different albums in 2014’s most barrel-scraping genre pursuing last year’s Avicii stratagem: selling off any experimentalism and integrity left in pursuit of the lowest, cash-grabbing common denominator. But pop/club EDM wasn’t the only genre eager to alienate its once-strongest defenders. Hip-hop was all too eager to follow suit, making a huge “star” of an Australian industrial-grade irritant who can most charitably be described as a surprisingly effective defense of Kesha’s musical oeuvre, and presenting continued evidence that “I like to get high” is a credible musical statement only when accompanied by the bat-shit-crazy genius of a Kanye West production. Oh, and remember that creepy asshole heretofore best known for making Pharrell Williams toss harmonies over the thinly veiled paean to fratboy misogyny “Blurred Lines”? He put his stalker letters to song this year, simultaneously ruining any chance of marital reconciliation and a pop career. See? This year wasn’t all bad. Blue Sullivan

11. Tony Bennett & Lady Gaga, Cheek to Cheek

Lady Gaga fancies herself a renaissance woman, capable of shifting genres as ably as she changes Halloween costumes. And though she claims to have been singing “jazz” all her life, she overzealously belts through the standards on Cheek to Cheek like a precocious teenager performing show tunes at a high school talent show. The difference is that this amateur is backed by a team of admittedly competent, professional musicians and, of course, Tony Bennett, who, though not exactly in peak form here, manages to escape the whole charade almost unscathed. Almost. It’s tempting to praise Gaga for wiping off the war paint, but that’s like giving a lollipop to a toddler for not shitting in the living room. Sal Cinquemani

10. Calvin Harris, Motion

This is arguably the album on this countdown of ignominy that contained the best individual track, an irresistibly brassy anthem called “Blame.” But trying to pinpoint the merits of that one ace becomes considerably more difficult when analyzed alongside the dumb, disinterested, and deeply condescending lump that is Motion. Every track sounds like the result of a chart-analyzing supercomputer that’s become suicidally bored with its own algorithms. Calvin Harris once had a confident understanding of how to craft a massive Spotify hit, but now he just sounds like a jaded pantomime of his former self who can still occasionally pick a collaborator with enough talent and energy (like John Newman) to mask the joyless indifference of the music. Sullivan

9. 50 Cent, Animal Ambition: An Untamed Desire to Win

50 Cent is now 38, four years off his last album, and seven off his last significant hit. For athletes, this would likely mean retirement, but rap’s upper age limits are still hazy, with chameleons like Snoop Dogg cheating creative death again and again. 50’s personality is far more basic and immutable than Snoop’s, so it’s not too surprising that Animal Ambition finds him in Charles Foster Kane mode, looking back fondly on the days of his youth. The main issue is that, despite any noble intentions of getting back to his roots, 50 doesn’t have much craft to fall back on. He’s still a clumsy rapper, slow and not very creative, maintaining a willingness to jump on trends and borrowed styles. Jesse Cataldo

8. Jessie J, Sweet Talker

Although U.K. singer Jessie J is a also songwriter, having penned earworms such as Miley Cyrus’s “Party in the U.S.A.,” 42 different writers and producers worked with her on Sweet Talker, which is nothing more than a calculated bid to crack the American market. And boy did they check a lot of boxes: Nicki Minaj, R&B slow burn, melisma, sex appeal. It’s all mordantly topical. Unfortunately, they forgot to include a personality in the package. “Imma do it like it ain’t been done.” Famous last words. Caleb Caldwell

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7. Wiz Khalifa, Blacc Hollywood

Left on his own, Wiz Khalifa feels small, crying out for attention, but unsure of how to most easily earn it. On Blacc Hollywood, it’s hard to tell whether he’s genuinely torn between guilt and pride or just being pulled between diverging trends—playing up his largesse on some tracks, his emotional capacity on others. But what’s clear is that in neither mode is he especially articulate. This sense of puzzled division remains the only really interesting thing about Blacc Hollywood, an album that’s remarkable only as a ghostly portrait of a half-formed figure prowling the fringes of success. It’s a roundly mediocre effort, filled with half-cocked, unimpressive radio bait. Cataldo

6. Iggy Azalea, The New Classic

If we’re talking origin stories, Iggy Azalea’s got a good one. She’s been hustlin’ since she was 16. She moved halfway across the globe to make it in hip-hop. She’s an Australian white girl with flow (allegedly). But Miss Iggy ditched her potentially interesting idiosyncrasies for a very dog-eared, grossly American script: “I pledge allegiance to the struggle,” she raps on “Work.” Throughout The New Classic, she chases fat Top-40 hits like she chases a racially ambiguous Atlanta accent; the radio industry might oblige her, but the quip attributed to that classic wit, Samuel Johnson, applies: “Your hot new hip-hop album is both good and original. But the part that is good is not original, and the part that is original is not good.” Caldwell

5. deadmau5, While (1 < 2)

You have to give him credit: When every other EDM superstar was churning out the audio equivalent of a coked-up drunk shouting in your ear at 128bpm, the dude in the rat mask chose the path less traveled. Unfortunately, that path led to 140 sleep-inducing minutes of the most grim-visaged dance music since, well, the last deadmau5 album. At 25 songs, at least 20 of which could’ve been cut in half or omitted altogether, the punishing length and listlessly moody vibe of While (1 < 2) suggests that the mau5 is in desperate need of a strong-willed producer to put the reins on what is starting to resemble a deadly sincere, career-length expedition into the farthest recesses of his own anal cavity. Sullivan

4. Trey Songz, Trigga

Hooky and expensive-sounding isn’t enough for R&B in 2014. This is the year of the new D’Angelo album, after all; and to a lesser extent, strong efforts from Omarion, Tinashe, FKA twigs, SZA, and a truly buoyant one from the anti-Trey Songz, Jason Derulo, whose Talk Dirty allows for ample flexing of sexual prowess and club-ready beats without ever really leaching agency from the women they’re there for. In short, grown-ass music from an artist with more to his sex-talk than ogling “Foreign” women and being “Disrespectful” and cursing a “SmartPhone” he was stupid enough to leave on while fucking his side girl. That last song in particular represents what’s most insulting about Songz’s attempt at a devil-may-care party-rock album; a grandiose plea for forgiveness, the track proves this misogynist doesn’t even have the balls to be unapologetically immoral. If you fall for that on the standard version of Trigga, fine—but the deluxe edition tips its hand with a track called “What’s Best for You.” Asshole. Sam C. Mac

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3. Robin Thicke, Paula

No matter where you fall on “Blurred Lines,” if you’re a thoughtful person you should recognize the necessity of the discourse around it. Now remember that Robin Thicke also co-wrote Jordan Knight’s “Give It 2 You,” another pretty big hit of its day, and basically a rape fantasy: There’s never any indication that “holdin’ you down in my bed” is a sentiment returned by the girl Knight’s dream-fucking. Now consider Paula, which is pretty much an extension of “Give It to You,” a whole song about fantasizing that you’re still with the girl you’re not (in this case, Thicke’s estranged wife Paula Patton, which is all kinds of creepy), but minus the bumpin’ beat. Paula is pretty much entirely midtempo, chintzy cocktail R&B, but lyrically, this isn’t too far removed from Blurred Lines. This, too, deserves thought from the thoughtful. Mac

2. The Flaming Lips, With a Little Help from My Fwends

Wayne Coyne and his many fwends share in his band’s mission to desecrate the Beatles’ opus with ugly, druggy, mismatched exercises in shoving as many unnecessary synths, obnoxious vocal effects, and overbearing (and overcompressed) modern production techniques into the mix as possible. The Flaming Lips have always peppered their songs with weird noises, especially when Ronald Jones was in the band, but until recently, these affectations were never substitutes for melody. Indeed, while The Terror used alienating reverb and a forest of synths to disguise the fact that it barely had any good songs on it, With a Little Help from My Fwends applies comparable tricks to destroy some of the greatest pop songs of all time. Jeremy Winograd

1. David Guetta, Listen

There were plenty of deserving nominees for our list of the worst albums of the 2014. There were so many worthy aspirants, in fact, that we couldn’t in good conscience limit ourselves to just 10. But to deserve the #1 spot on a hallowed roll call like this takes more than just offending the sensibilities of one ornery critic. It requires the broad-based, consensus-building tactics of a master politician, uniting and energizing diverse opinions in a common cause. It takes a man like David Guetta, whose Listen had all the hallmarks of a timeless anti-classic for the ages. Production that manages to be cheesily au courant and instantly dated at the same time? Check. Songs so lazily similar that you aren’t sure when one ends and the next begins? Check. A roster of collaborators seemingly assembled at random, bonded only by their shared desire to pay their respective mortgages? Check. And an artist whose lapse into self-parody has become so complete that it starts to seem like a lacerating Kaufman-esque commentary on the very idea of “art”? Abso-fucking-lutely. Sullivan

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