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.