Cobbled together in the style of a compilation rather than a cohesive album, it's a wonky, slightly disappointing collection that provides diamonds and duds in equal measure.

Theory of a Deadman (or just Theory, or TOAD) have never tried to disguise their commercial aspirations, which is probably why they continue to peddle platinum-selling wares, but the polish-to-passion ratio here feels way, way off.

Maybe broken into a series of singles or a couple of EPs it would have been more palatable, but in this form it's just too samey and underwhelming to make much of an impression

There is some good material here and they've certainly taken their reunion record somewhere unexpected, but as a whole, Citizens is a bit of an inconsistent mess.

The Garden are definitely not for everyone and the Shearses' talent for disguising their actual talent behind pranky hipster exercises can be irritating, but repeated listens reveal more craft than they'd probably like to let on.

Blame It on Baby is pretty evenly divided between strong songs and duds.

Too close to the original to be a worthy reinvention, and too flawed in execution to feel like a successful homage, although this will almost certainly remain the only Elvis tribute album to include a sample from Aleister Crowley, at least until Jimmy Page gets around to making one.

Neither country nor Americana, Peck is a hip outsider who is now rubbing shoulders with the anodyne likes of Thomas Rhett, Morgan Wallen, Blanco Brown, and the Jonas Brothers, a group that makes for a passable enough half hour of entertainment but collectively don't add up to a cohesive or surprising country-pop aesthetic from Diplo.

Bigger Love sounds cobbled together compared to Love in the Future and Darkness and Light, two of his most recent and inspired albums, with opportunistic and unconvincing stylistic curveballs, no two tracks sharing the same production credits, and few clear standouts.

For all of Orca's nods to heavyhearted ennui, its expressions of despair, regret, and disappointment fail to rise above vague, superficial levels.

A curious misfire that trades strength and confidence for second guessing and stylistic uncertainty.

While the individual songs may not be as fun on average as those of its predecessor, Lines Redacted does drive home the feeling of dissatisfaction while, like a Ramones under the influence, locking into an admirably irreverent, distinctive persona.

Detroit Stories is stuck in a confusing limbo somewhere between tribute to Detroit and another album of the kind of campy, theatrical, radio-geared hard rock Cooper has been turning in since Hey Stoopid. Never quite committing to either concept, Detroit Stories ends up feeling like a handful of solid covers of classic Detroit tunes with some Alice Cooper extras thrown in at random.

The customary meeting with dancehall stars, "Where You Come From," closes out the set in fine style, but doesn't prevent the album from contending for Khaled's most disposable project.

As always, his saving grace is his expert control of his voice and good musical taste, qualities that prevent Latest Record Project, Vol. 1 from being as sour as its creator.

Aisles is a bit of a one-trick pony, but a cool one that seems prime for themed dinner parties and TV sync placement.

Conviction is always evident in her soothing voice, even when it's modulated to a jarring extent or sounds somewhat garbled.

While Imposter doesn't get the blood pumping as much as 2015's Angels & Ghosts, fans in need of a soundtrack for brooding will find this to be an ideal outlet.

DS4 is caught between the woozy, floating sounds of WUNNA and an older, heavier-hitting sound, yet nails neither.

2 Chainz simply doesn't sound as inspired as he normally does, as this short set lacks the madcap wit and energy that flow throughout previous albums of much longer duration. A recharge and change of direction clearly seem necessary.

It's hard to see why most of this album exists beyond letting Ashworth explore and recreate two kinds of music she obviously loves to distraction. Whether anyone should follow along on her quest is up to their tolerance for sift rock platitudes and hard rock cliches.

Mainstream Sellout feels mostly like a middling attempt to further cross over into pop-punk, this time lighter on ideas and cohesion.

This is a disappointing backpedal from America's drill ambassador.

It's the first truly disappointing album that the band have released and the first where they sound like they are running out of gas instead of hitting on all cylinders.

While few of the tracks offer much in the way tunefulness, Tividad's lilting, delicate leads on "Junkie" and the borderline power ballad "Butterfly Bulletholes" are among a handful of exceptions.

The sound of Come Home the Kids Miss You is polished and ready for the massive level of worldwide commercial success Harlow has been building up to, but it's difficult to find much substance beneath the expensive sheen.

World Wide Pop is flat and uninspired, overdone and undercooked, and filled with dubious choices.

Game tends to overreach with his mix of the referential and the personal. When there's less obvious effort, the results are favorable, as on the Kanye West collaboration "Eazy," containing some of Game's best lyrics, illustrating the contrast between his upbringing and his ascendancy.

While SPARK's curio-like qualities may win the duo new listeners, and songwriting tendencies could offer a lifeline to certain established fans, it's a change -- signified by its all-caps stylization -- sure to alienate many as well.

YG's bouncing between styles gives I Got Issues a scattered flow that pushes the best tracks to the forefront and makes the weaker material feel all the more tedious.

As it boils down, Like..? presents a new artist finding their voice, showing promise in some moments, and losing traction in others.

The album was reportedly rush-released due to hackers threatening to leak the album unless he paid them a million dollars; the album wasn't fully mixed yet, making it seem raw and unfinished. (Trippie stated plans to later release a cleaned-up mix of the album.) On top of its sheer roughness, the album is as bloated as 2020's Pegasus, lasting 76 minutes and 25 songs.

The end results feel curiously constrained, as if Twain was dancing in front of a mirror instead of underneath a mirrorball.

All this radio-ready variety suggested that Wallen wanted to appeal to every audience everywhere, but in the wake of his scandal, this multi-purpose crowd-pleasing suggests an artist who wants to provide the perpetual jukebox within a walled garden.

So much about Jackman. feels incomplete or partially thought out, however, that the album relegates itself to mere background music with occasional flashes that suggest serious emotion or profound contemplation without ever fully delivering.

After three or four of these hard-to-follow stylistic roadmaps, however, the excitement quickly becomes exhaustion, and Sleep Token's overly-polished sound starts to feel more overwrought than enjoyable.

He continues to process trauma, grief, and guilt, with tracks like "Pelle Coat" and the J. Cole-featuring "All My Life" being some of his more emotional material to date.

Old Ian Tyson and Hoyt Axton tunes do a better job of articulating his aesthetic than Wall himself, which suggests that all his period flair and plainspoken delivery are just affectations.

He may be able to capture the sound of a band playing in a room but in this case, it feels like the room is a rehearsal studio, with the band stuck playing rough drafts at maximum volume. A bit of tightening and a bit of polish would've gone a long way here.

It might not be the worst Drake album, but it's in the conversation for sure.

The Silver Cord was released in two different editions; one with the songs edited to around four minutes each, one where the songs stretch out over the ten minute mark. The extended versions don't add much to the overall effect of the album, merely giving the listener more time to wonder why the band chose to go down this route.

Blockbusta is not without its instances of fun and excitement, but for the most part, Busta Rhymes sounds like he's reaching for something different on almost every track and not quite grabbing ahold of any of it.

Kanye has shown the world his unfiltered megalomania, heartbreak, self-obsession, self-contempt, and confusion, and even at its most ghastly, it's always been at least a little bit exciting or provocative. On Vultures 1, he struggles to show much of anything, crafting songs that are loud and shiny, but still largely blank.

Jim White is undoubtedly a masterful musician, but All Hits: Memories never quite gets off the ground, and it feels like the type of record that might be of interest to fellow drummers but will have limited appeal for anyone else.

The bulk of Gunna's boastful wordplay is less inspired than normal, though that shortcoming is mitigated by a handful of bravely reflective and revealing deep cuts.

Sounds pleasant enough, but Greene's songs and production are so placid and unbothered by anything remotely emotional that it's hard to imagine the album causing any kind of reaction.

Sadly, Flight b741 is the first record they've made where it might make more sense to avoid the journey and stick to revisiting some of their glorious excursions of the past instead.

The finished product is so muddled in many of its would-be fleeting spaces as to elicit the phrase: Just because you can doesn't necessarily mean you should.

They’ve never been the most consistent band, making mistakes and careening down the wrong road in pursuit of transcendence – something they have managed to achieve a few magical times -- but they’ve never sounded this irrelevant or out of touch before.

For the most part, however, Bouquet is a hollow shell of the artistry that Stefani once displayed at every turn. As basic, personality-free country-rock records go, Bouquet is perfectly serviceable.

Animal Collective completists will be able to zero in on what makes Geologist’s language of samples and deconstructed loops unique, but to the untrained ear, it might register mostly as broken music begging to be pieced back together.

$ome $exy $ongs 4 U is business as usual for Drake (mostly in R&B mode this time) and PartyNextDoor. In Drake's case, he tries to sound romantic but comes off as bitter and jealous, PartyNextDoor merely seems like a supportive friend who doesn't want to cause any more trouble.

Too much of this record sounds like it could have been made by almost anyone and that's not good, and neither in the end is SABLE, fABLE.

Whether, taken together, the take-me-or-leave-me Bloodless is ultimately appropriately chaotic and admirably confrontational or, rather, overcooked is up to the beholder, but Samia's knack for strong melodic hooks and open vulnerability here are unquestionable and consistent.

All told, Precipice is enjoyably hooky, but taking the edge off of her sound and, ultimately, songs doesn't do their emotional weight any favors, even if -- or rather because -- it makes them go down easier.

While there are some faint echoes of that personality and complexity on UY SCUTI, the essence of what made him so special is largely lost in a clutter of disconnected or only partially realized ideas.

The release is a set of moody trap numbers with sharp beats and stark lyrics about hustling and street life. He also spends time roasting online haters and addressing Internet drama.

Morrissey’s singular personality is on full display, and just as uncompromising as ever, but sitting through an entire album of his musings and moanings circa 2026 is less than fun.

It's overstuffed and bland at once, with some legitimately great production spoiled by vacant lyricism and lack of personality.

It's hard to decide what to make of Musick, a genuinely baffling release that offers some interesting social commentary, but also isn't quite as fun to listen to as it wants to be.

If you look beyond everything that's downright embarrassing about this album -- the reliance on interpolations rather than original songwriting, the amateur-at-best rapping, the generic beats -- you'll notice a few minor improvements.

Betke wisely abandons a sound that had been developed to its full extent, yet the outcome is a set of hip-hop/dub hybrids that stumble out of the speakers with a fatigued skank.

Lupine Howl does give the band more freedom than they previously had, as they embrace electronic effects, synthesizers, neo-psychedelic guitar riffs, and Cook's trademark harmonica. It doesn't always result in quality songwriting, however, and that will make it more laborious to avoid the "ex-members" tag.

Live versions of "Hush," "Part of Me," "Push It," and "Third Eye" reaffirm the band's standing as one of alternative metal's most compelling live acts; unreleased studio tracks such as "Message to Harry Manback II" and "L.A. Municipal Court" definitely sound like abandoned material, but offer a look at Tool's quirkier side.

A less than engrossing record from Piano Magic was bound to happen at some point, but few could have predicted something as dull, drab, and ultimately powerless as Songs From the Chronic Fatigue Ward -- er, Writers Without Homes.

Transmission, while marginally stronger than the band's debut, forgets to bring along the same natural pop drive and offers more of the same well-honed faux iconic babble, and regularly stoops to the equivalent of a Love record with improper squelch control.

Instead of sounding like a refreshing change of pace, it's a muddled, aimless affair from an artist that's had too many middling efforts over the last decade.

Perhaps the strangest twist about this record is how much of it sounds more crude and antiquated than the duo's first two albums, which were released over 20 years prior to this one.

Discardable as it may be, Mission Accomplished shows that Tricky's still got plenty up his sleeve.

It's painful to hear such floundering work by a performer who listeners know can do better.

Unfortunately, their third album Fragments of Freedom scraps most of their signature sound for half-baked experiments in R&B, acid jazz, and hip-hop.

They seem like a garden-variety hard rock band, one that would have been generic and forgettable in 1974, and one that is generic and forgettable in 2004.

Largely absent of originality.

R.E.M. have never seemed as directionless.

For the most part My Ride's Here is a misfire from an artist capable of much better work.

Seems slickly over-produced and a little forced.

The first recording that the hardcore Stereolab fans need not own.... What was once endearing has mutated into the irritating, as the chanted vocals, simple organ runs and endless, pulsating rhythmic drones alienate listeners instead of mesmerizing them.

A poor release.

It's ironic that 30 years later, a record like this could make psychedelia seem as curmudgeonly as rock & roll seemed then.

The songs lack the energy, the feeling, and even the melody of Underworld's classic records.

Sure, they make all the right moves, hiring superstar producer Rodney Jerkins to helm most of the tracks and attempting to seem mature, but this all results in a record that is curiously self-conscious and flat. Neither the production, the songs, or the performances have much life to them, with the exception of the closer "Goodbye," which significantly was released as a Christmas single in 1999, long before the rest of the record was finished.

You can't tell if Wishville is the sound of a band losing steam or just being too self-conscious.

There may be some satirical, post-ironic thing going on here, but you'll be too bored to notice or care.

Messy, noisy, directionless, and painfully shy on both tunes and purpose... and winds up sounding a bit like a parody.

Jumping on the Radiohead bandwagon a couple years too late, For Stars' It Falls Apart cops so much of their sound and style it is almost ridiculous.

There are only two quality songs, a lot of redundant trash-talking, and an overall sense of ridiculousness that pervades.

If the band supported his sheets of noise, terrifying guitars, monstrous rhythms, or even a hook every now and then, Durst's narcissism may have been palatable, but the group pretty much churns out the same colorless heavy plod for each song.

Give or take a couple hot tracks, this release is not likely to play a significant role in his legacy.

Backed by stale songs, formulaic arrangements, and mediocre songwriting, Williams is forced to rely on his volcanic personality to bring this album across -- and despite a few strong performances, he sinks into lame self-parody time and time again.

Without strong rhythmic or melodic hooks, the album's slow grooves blend together and Jackson disappears into the productions.

Nickelback can now afford a little more time in the studio and a little more time to indulge themselves, and they turn out the same record, only slicker, which only highlights just how oppressively and needlessly sullen this group is.

They skated by the first time through, due to a couple of fluke catchy songs, but they have no hooks or full-fledged songs this time around, and suffer dramatically because of it.

Strictly for the devout fan base.

It's the sound of an artist who's given too much freedom too early and has no idea what to do with it.

Stealing of a Nation is a slick, calculated record that misses its target on all accounts.

It's clear that despite laudable ambitions, comeback albums should be focused and lean, not as flabby as this one.

Anyone with an Adult. or Add N to (X) album, or even Berlin's Pleasure Victim, know it's been done better.

Some of the smooth, spacey ballads that were characteristic of their 1993 self-titled release show up here, but more often than not LeBon is lost in a swamp of over-production.