This set makes one yearn for (some of) the prog excesses of old; Heaven & Earth is the most creatively challenged and energetically listless record in Yes' catalog.

The energy she put into these versions helps make up for the vocal shortcomings and audible use of Auto-Tune.

The EP should be approached like a sequel -- with low expectations. Had this arid content preceded Syro, a fair portion of James' fan base would have likely written him off.

It feels as if this is as calm as a placid lake. Sometimes, the record is as pretty as that, too, a nice, polite collection of adult alternative pop designed for young girls and their moms.

Though Moonlust is pleasant, it so actively tries to re-create the feel of its inspirations that it is more a distracted reverie than anything else.

That material ["Like A Drum"], as well as much of what surrounds it, is significantly less substantive than the singer's past work.

Vulnerability is often an asset to singers, particularly in matters concerning love, but Puth's problem is that he feels stage-managed; you can sense him hitting his marks.

All this adds up to one of Neil Young's genuinely strange albums, a record that's compelling in its series of increasingly bad decisions.

Certainly the musicianship and arrangements are impeccable, but even with differing vocalists, all of the tracks are so similar that it ends up being as tedious as the producer's later work.

This certainly is not one of the worst albums ever recorded; indeed, it has its moments of merit that hit the proper spots and deliver the intended dose of dopamine. However, as a cohesive statement worthy of an album's length of the listener's attention, Memories is lacking.

Witness is a conceptual muddle but that incoherence could've been excused if there were hooks in either its grooves or melodies. Instead, Witness is populated with busy, tuneless tracks that seemed designed to pulsate in the background of a regrettable night.

Stranger has its cloud-rap niche and should please listeners eager to enter this world, but casual rap fans should arm themselves with enough patience and caffeine before taking the plunge.

He's certainly less distinctive as a rapper than he is as a singer--both lyrically and vocally--original only for the level of his combativeness and the number of times he references his luxury coupe and wrist wear.

AmeriKKKant is just a depressing slog through and through, perfectly summed up by its Statue of Liberty faceplant cover art.

There's an abundance of low-wattage boasts about financial and libidinal surpluses, most of which could have been composed by a generator. Softer and more melodic cuts are indicated with all-lowercase track titles. ... If Yachty can find a way to be his goofy self and elevate his writing, he can rebound.

Scorpion doesn't even come close to being one of his best; instead, it's a one-trick record stretched out into 25 endless tracks by an artist who's so deep into the self-obsessed, self-pitying rut he created for himself that he can't see daylight anymore.

As sheer performance, Eminem's vocals remain a thing of wonder, which is why it's so dispiriting to hear him circling the drain, relying on old tricks instead of expanding his worldview. He has the musical skills to mature; he's just refusing to let himself act his age.

Only with "Who Want the Smoke?" does the first half rise above the preceding album, yet Yachty's the third wheel, eclipsed by verses from Cardi B and Offset. He's more at ease on the lightheaded "melodic" tracks of the latter half, back to goofy-vulgar observations, musical crib-mobile melodies, and occasional openhearted moments that sound natural rather than forced.

Dummy Boy is unlikely to disappoint 6ix9ine fans, but for everyone else, there's little to back up the hype and controversy associated with the self-professed "King of New York."

Not only were there not many musicians hanging in the studio this time, but all of Rise seems stitched together on the computer, with each of the three core members doing their part when they cleared time in their schedule. The result is a drag, the sound of a revelers who have no idea that it's well past time for them to head on home.

Though the first two volumes of Meet the Woo lacked the bombast of Smoke's iconic singles, they demonstrated candor in their representation of the drill heavyweight; SFTSAFTM, by contrast, tarnishes the rapper's visionary style with predatory glitz as everyone jumps for a piece of the pie.

In addition to often sleepy and forgettable production, Leray's flow leaves much to be desired and even guests like Nicki Minaj ("Blick Blick"), Fivio Foreign ("Mountains"), and H.E.R. ("Overthinking") can't save the day.

Tonally, Beck and Depp don't quite mesh -- Beck's guitar wants to soar, Depp stays earthbound -- and instead of generating something rife with tension or an outright failure, the results are just leaden and dull.

"Juice WRLD Did" doesn't have the same ring to it, but the wobbling/chiming track is among the album's few other memorable moments despite being dusted off and slapped into the sequence after Khaled added his vocal stamp.

Coming from an artist whose personality was at times their entire appeal, Eternal Atake 2's lack of compelling identity makes it even more of a letdown.

Even all these big-name friends can't save WHAM from mediocrity, though. Lil Baby's flows, presentation, and beat selection are all laughably generic, to the point that any lyrical cleverness or hint of interesting perspectives he might have get washed away in the flood of less-than-memorable sounds.

The magic is sadly absent from this overly-upholstered, clumsily ornate, and intensely disappointing return trip into the realm of boogie rock.

With JACKBOYS 2 delivering nothing to really bite into, all there is to do is chew on it awhile and spit it back out.

His lyrics and performances are lacking in original thought (sometimes clear thought) and charisma. The power and range of his singing voice are limited to the point where the musicians often sound constricted, and the mix is just as sympathetic, rendering Stéphane Clément's trumpet -- presumably the answer to "We need a Roy Hargrove type" -- close to inaudible.

It's a shame and embarrassment, and hopefully it will be a temporary slump like Circus.

Orbital is either uninspired or saving up for something better next time.

Since the music has no melody, hooks, or energy, all attention is focused on the clown jumping up and down and screaming in front, and long before the record is over, you're left wondering, how the hell did he ever get to put this mess out?

Throughout The Last DJ, Petty sounds utterly lost -- and instead of liberating him like it did in the past, it paralyzes him, boxing him into a corner where he can't draw on his strengths. It's the first true flop in a career that, until now, had none.

There may be no recognition of L.A. Style, but in their blissfully ignorant, lazily monotonous sunshine grooves, Shwayze does manage to be all about the style of L.A. in 2008, creating the quintessential record for L.A. sleazeballs.

The problem facing New Kids on the Block on their 2008 reunion The Block is the same one they had on their last album, 1994's "Face the Music": the quintet are no longer kids and don't quite know how to be adults.

Far from being the soundtrack to a raging party, Black Butterfly is the flipside of indulgence: Buckcherry is now the sound of a slow slide into the monotony of addiction.

The repetition hammers home Hinder's stultifying lack of imagination and even that would be excusable if the group had a scintilla of sleaze but like anybody too beholden to their idols, they tread the familiar ground too carefully, winding up as bland by-the-book bad boys.

Dark Horse was constructed entirely from the group's standard templates of bleating power ballads and dulled hard rock.

It never seems like a collaboration, it seems like it was assembled by committee, discussed in boardrooms, farmed out to contract players and stitched together on computer.

It's a holiday album for people who have never wanted to hear a holiday album, let alone own one.

There are no reinterpretations--not even the Nas-fronted "Back in Black" changes the song much--just restatements of riffs and replicated effects, each familiar element offering a reminder that Santana, Davis, and company chose to take the easy road by settling for gauche pop instead of guitar rock, winding up with a truly terrible album.

There's always a sense that she and Noonan believe they're lowering themselves to sing pop music, that they are better, smarter, funnier than the music they're making...and that alienating smug entitlement is impossible to shake even when the productions are appealing, as they are through half of Hello.

A lamentable debut all round.

After a half-decade of life lessons, Azalea could have gone in a certain cathartic and mature direction. However, on In My Defense, she opted for a less gracious and, ultimately, exhausted route.

With friends and collaborators surgically removed, Faith is littered with jarring voices, avaricious creative decisions, and a fundamental sidelining of its visionary figurehead.

For the most part, however, The Death of Slim Shady is a bewildering slog to get through. The general concept gets old almost immediately, and from there we're left with a painful lack of new ideas

Flat and unbelievable, Vultures 2 makes so little impact it's forgotten almost the moment it's over.

143 rings the death knell for Perry for no other reason than it commits pop music’s ultimate sin: it’s boring.

An album of big alternative pop tracks which are confused, confusing, and impressively hard to enjoy.

The worst thing about Playing with Fire is that it's too stale and inept to inspire laughter: it can only elicit weary groans.

Brown clumsily emphasizes womanizing and hedonism and balances it out with a couple clean and empty ballads. Out of this portion of the album, only a couple songs leave a lasting impression, and when they do, the silly things that come out of Brown’s mouth tend to be the reason.

Even within the framework of a musical these songs are a murky, turgid mess, too concerned with atmosphere and narrative to reel in a listener and ironically not offering ambience or story enough to suggest that the musical would entertain.

This isn't ugly visceral music; it's castrated rock with a rotten heart.

As songs, these are not outright disasters -- they're not bad evocations of post-Riot funk -- but they're saddled with the same awful production that hobbles the re-creations, the same sticky, tacky, desperate replication of the past that only underscores just how long ago Sly's golden years were.