The duo and an assortment of guests-including Will.i.am, Busta Rhymes, GoonRock and Calvin Harris-extol the virtues of late nights, trendy tequilas, hard bodies and vibey DJs.

While the inclusion of faint funk ("Sole Brother") and hints of country twang ("Retard Canard") expands Born Ruffians' repertoire, the track "Blood, the Sun & Water" brings the most energy to the set.

55 Cadillac offers a fun, technically exciting journey that paints Andrew W.K. as an artist unafraid of risks.

Overall, the God MC can still carry the throne as one of the greatest rappers of all time, but he'll need stronger production the next time around.

The album, which comes in 10- and 18-track editions, sounds better on paper than in reality. But there is the odd moment-such as "Railroad to Heaven," with Solomon Burke at his God-fearing best-that rises above its creditable but decidedly rote surroundings.

Along with some quiet surprises, there are also potential hits, including the first single/title track, where Lovato almost sounds like Kelly Clarkson's kid sister.

Shaka Rock may not expand Jet's range, but its high-energy guitar assaults should impress modern rock audiences.

Breakthrough never quite lives up to its title. But the songs that do diverge from the formula even slightly-like the Greg Wells-produced "Fearless"-offer delightful relief, and perhaps a taste of what could be if the singer were to dig deeper.

Ursa Major isn't Third Eye Blind's crowning jewel, but it's a welcome return to form after such a lengthy hiatus

Years removed from their teen-pop prominence, Backstreet Boys continue to produce pleasurable hooks and hummable vocal harmonies on This Is Us.

Although MAYA is an undeniable testament to M.I.A.'s inventiveness, the album is so jam-packed with beats that any statement that she is making gets lost in translation.

Too many songs fail to equal the quality of the guest list, meaning the substance of Olympia never quite matches its undoubted style.

Los Angeles rock revivalists Buckcherry waste no time getting down to business on their latest album.

Living Things" is simply a minor effort in an impressive discography, and one that should translate well to Linkin Park's live show.

Mixing nasty guitar leads with cavernous beats, the Black Keys have crafted a dark, sprawling opus that's convincing in its commitment to a unique sound.

There’s a semblance of a flow to the record’s sprawling track list, but too many songs sound hastily written, and too often Cyrus acts as if her drug trip is more poignant than the average freakout.

It sounds good on paper, but the album unfolds as an undifferentiated wash of music, without the big toothsome melodies that have lifted John's music for decades.

Aside from an understandable naivete, Trainor's weaknesses are her stylistic cherry-picking and her compulsion to appear adorably relatable and socially correct all at once.

Neither a departure nor a return to Segall’s usual fuzzy form, Emotional Mugger asks a lot from the listener, and it doesn’t always ask nicely.

Produced for the most part by U2 collaborator Flood, the new album rarely operates at anything less than a frenzied fever pitch, with thundering percussion grooves, Leto's top-of-the-lungs yowl and wave after wave of Edge-style guitar theatrics.

It doesn’t all click, like when Imbruglia smooths over all the emotional grit of Damien Rice’s “Cannonball.” But her charms on Male win you over in the end.

The subtler, less stylized Wiped Out! keeps the palm-trees-at-twilight feel, but the sound is more hazy R&B than rock.

As on True, the nondance tracks are more or less power ballads, albeit with fairly pallid vocals.... The dance tracks are actually where most of this album’s pleasant surprises lie.

You either love or hate Pitbull's music, and sometimes a little of both when listening to the same album.

The album's most arresting moments are stuck in the shadows, mere teasers for an artist the listener knows exists, but is intentionally sidelined.

The chemistry works as expected, even if it never exceeds, or even reaches, the sum of its artists. There's no transcendent moment here, because the project is essentially a meeting of opposites who mostly stay in their lanes.

A handful of tracks strewn with cheesy metaphors shows the impersonality that mars Cuomo's post-Pinkerton songwriting, despite some redeeming musical qualities that reaffirm Weezer as a purveyor of feedback and fuzz (particularly "Cleopatra," a great rock single if you ignore the lyrics).

Caracal is the kind of effort that diehard fans might convince themselves to appreciate, and then never play again.