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."

Some of the productions, courtesy of the Runners, Adonis, and Kevin McCall, save it from being a disaster.

It's highly doubtful that anyone other than a true-blue fan would be able to get past the asinine boasts, the overwhelming misogyny, and the pure outlandishness of it all.

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

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.

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.

The moments of rocked-out swagger are fleeting and ultimately drowned out by a musical and lyrical heaviness that turns the album into a real downer.

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.

It’s more interesting to ponder Wayne's reasons for making Rebirth than to actually listen to it, because the end result is a loud and ignorable bore.

A lamentable debut all round.

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

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

One fulfills all of the "faceless" criticisms thrown at them in the past, while alienating whatever fan base they had before.

Famous First Words was always going to struggle to live up to the band's bold promises, but it's still a shock at how a Brit-pop scene renowned for its color can be responsible for something so utterly drab.

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?

Hefty Fine finds the Bloodhound Gang in a Catch-22 -- they've never wanted to be anything other than a dumb, silly hard rock band, but their shtick is getting tired, yet they're trapped by the confines of what they want to be.

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

Though it's hard not to miss the gloriously messy sprawl of Pavement at their peak, this carefully crafted, languid recasting of their signature sound is effective and winds up as a fitting, bittersweet farewell for the best band of the '90s.

Squiggling past looping divas, afternoon glares, and funkadelic body bops, De Crecy manages to manufacture a trail of songs that reach for that Anglo-French brass ring with nothing but admirable gravitas.

This Is the Moment is both the best Donny Osmond album ever made and conclusive evidence that the former teen idol, who was 43 when it was released, is never going to be more than a pleasant, modestly talented singer.

Constantly yields new musical surprises.

Because Knight seamlessly incorporates a 2001 music sensibility to this recording, At Last can comfortably sit alongside works by Destiny's Child, Toni Braxton, Faith Evans, and other younger musical counterparts.

She freely mixes hip-hop, Latin, R&B, rock, and trip-hop into a uniquely enticing mix that quickly identifies her as an adventurous artist along the line of Angie Stone, Jill Scott and Lauryn Hill.

As both a high-class artifact and a gift to a loyal fan base, Machina II is a welcome winner.

For the most part the results are solid, limited only by some unimaginative arrangements and an unfortunate tendency toward repetitive refrains.

An all around flavor of melancholy as the loose guitars and laid back current result in the labeling of "Rainy Day indie."

As this 15-song collection bounces between covers and tuneful originals slightly less memorable than their big hits, it occurs to you that this must be how Hootie & the Blowfish sounded in the Southern college bars before they recorded Cracked Rear View. They're amiable, good-humored, earnest, and as likeable as the local band that also played "Driver 8" every Saturday night.