Word: lacks
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...Orchid,” and “Kid Klimax”—featuring sparse notes above middle C, screeching vocals, and slow tempo. “The Light That Failed” possesses progressively louder synthesizer screeches, distorted whispers, and a lack of any true melody, chorus, or lyrics; a repetitive guitar riff, rooted in minor chords, plays over a background sound that calls to mind water dripping from a faucet. Though this subtracts from the track’s overall musicality, these dark motifs balance the upbeat songs which come later, making the album more effective...
...deliberate inscrutability of “Wowee Zowee” and the bittersweet elegy that was “Terror Twilight.” Kannberg, by stark contrast, has put out a debut album whose only claim to a character of its own is a lack of unifying features. At times, the lack of focus is married to a lack of discipline that manifests itself in self-indulgence and tasteless jokes. “Blood Money,” an eight-minute opus, can be counted in the ranks of the former. Its dirge-like feel and length are reminiscent...
Thurman’s Eliza is immediately compelling because she seems to lack the trappings of most stay-at-home movie moms. She’s not utterly selfless or wise, nor does she worship her children or possess a burning desire to appear perfect to the outside world. In between dropping her children off at school and uploading her musings to her blog, “The Bjorn Identity,” she grapples with her workaholic husband (Anthony Edwards) and her pregnant, sex-deprived best friend (Minnie Driver). She may be grouchy and stretched thin...
...wandered into the studio with their guitars one balmy afternoon. While the songs are as tranquil (and drum-shy) as ever—though perhaps a wee bit sunnier, thanks to a hint of bossa nova influence—they’re effortless in a way that suggests lack of precision rather than artistic aptitude...
It’s fitting, then, that this novel so sensitive to the memory of past works finds substance in a tale of objects illuminated by the memories they evoke. “Museum of Innocence” may lack the tight construction of predecessors like “My Name Is Red,” but Kemal’s frustrated recollections resonate more intimately than anything Pamuk has written before...