If the record's volume number wasn't enough to suggest that Lil Wayne's long-running Dedication mixtape series was getting a little stale, a few short verses into this repetitive and lyrically lazy affair should definitely set those thoughts in motion.

That's not to say Young Blood is bad, but mediocrity shouldn't attract attention so fast.

There are good moments here and there, and the only sin Harlow truly commits is that much of the LP is boring and forgettable, not even bad enough to be entertaining besides a few head-shaking lines.

Sadly, precious little restraint is found on the stuffy, haughty Closer Than Together.

As it stands, it's another tiresome release studded with a few gems.

The Diplo-directed record is a somewhat sloppy mish-mash of reggae cuts that rarely attain an authentic air.

Aoki initially carved a niche with this sound, but we have to wonder when a progression from the safety of this oversaturated market will eventually occur.

Ferg regresses lyrically, and pairs his bland rhymes with uninspired production that's hard to sit through. It's not all bad: Ferg still has a knack for writing catchy hooks, and it shows.

Tthe net effect is ultimately an uninspired collection of tracks that do little to offer a close listener anything new.

Like the colourless photo of a near-anonymous Swift that adorns the album cover, it casts an artful pose but doesn't have the guts to look the listener in the eye.

The diversity he curates quickly turns messy, though, as a surplus of talent doesn't guarantee musical versatility.

Inoffensive music Iike this is an affront to the very idea of what makes music so worthy of obsession and analysis. It's the antithesis of self-expression; this ain't no victimless crime. For the first time, I understand the term: this is pure co-worker music.

Ultimately, there isn't much to recommend with Black Panties.

It's clear Atreyu crave rebirth in the crucible of lifeless arena rock, but with a selection of tracks this dull and inoffensive, they'll probably get their wish.

Sadly, Relapse sounds like an uninspired band ripping off, and attempting to sound like, classic Ministry.

There are plenty of moments worthy of headbanging throughout Hammer of the Witches, especially on "Blackest Magick in Practice." Unfortunately, they're too often interrupted by the album's half-baked sonic experiments.

Leery fans will find the uninspired drumming to be the least of their problems, as it fits perfectly with a far more glaring issue: uninspired songwriting.

Granted, many of these songs were written while members of the band were between the ages of 16 and 18, but it might have been a better idea to hold off on the release of Be Slowly to hone their songwriting skills and define their sound a little more.

When a guy comes all the way from Jakarta, that's unique, and you want something unique from him. Amen falls way short of that.

While there's nothing abhorrent about this album, it's so unobtrusive that it's practically not there, just one more forgettable release from a guy we're all secretly rooting for.

Chesney's folk-pop Songs for the Saints is a charity album that although compassionate and kind, carries few memorable and catchy country tunes.

Anxiety, anguish and unrest can often produce great art, but so can spiritual harmony. It's just a shame that in the case of Turnover, contentment sounds so bland.

No Pier Pressure throws out that decade and a half worth of good will by doing the exact opposite, stacking the record with guest stars like Nate Ruess and Kacey Musgraves and "updating" Wilson's compositions with heaps of undercooked stylistic diversions.

It's a puny representation of a big sound made all the more unlistenable by the nuisance of the vocal lines.

At its best, Mechanical Bull is standard, paint-by-numbers fare that attempts to sprint to the finish line. However, it runs out of gas and you have to wonder if Kings of Leon have as well.

Cruel Summer has too few of these transcendent moments and is decidedly less than the sum of its parts.

There's nothing here we haven't heard done better somewhere else. Sum 41 can and have done better.

There's undeniably something missing here.

Ceremony is one of Phantogram's weakest records, one that struggles to set itself apart in the sea of electro-pop still stuck in the aesthetics of the late 2010s.

Much of it is too unremarkable for it to be anything but a decent starting point for Quarrell to build upon.

Full Circle as a whole feels anti-climactic. It's a rough start for Haelos, aren't exactly short on potential--here's hoping they branch out and find themselves on future releases.

Despite a greater variance in beat drops and textural flourishes (that way the drum machine fades into the post-chorus saxophone is the only redeemable thing about "Honey"), the middling mid-tempo The Life of a Showgirl strays even further from the magic Swift's pen once wielded.

Unfortunately, a lack of cohesion drains this album's momentum entirely.

The album is so riven by corporate overtures that it bears no resemblance to its prequel.

Sadly, today there's nothing to distinguish Lowery and co. from scores of other unfocused bands trying to combine too many disparate elements.

The problem is that Earle's melancholy has taken primacy over his songwriting, which is uncharacteristically generic here, making this subdued and plodding release a career low.

While not an absolute mess, I Am Not A Human Being 2 isn't very good.

The band's decision to eschew their trademark orchestration in favour of a more synth-driven sound was, sadly, a mistake.

With Bodies, they sound lost without an identity. There's barely anything that's exciting or memorable, and when it surprises, it's only in the wrong ways. The band sounds about 30 years less experienced than they are.

Weezer have had their share of ups and downs over the years, but Pacific Daydream finds them at their most clunky yet.

Weezer's latest is an utterly skippable collection that'd be entirely unremarkable if not for the fact it was released by Weezer.

In so far as 'vibes' and 'moods' become more important in hip-hop, Nav captures the feeling of boredom exceptionally well. Surrounding himself with hip-hop's most superficial, NAV somehow manages to represent even less.

Nine reeks of adolescence — and not in the goofy, humorous way of Blink-182's past, but in a cringe-y attempt at youthful angst. There are no slyly couched bits of wisdom, no life lessons learned between goof-ups and heartbreak, and it's altogether too earnest and self-serious to even be enjoyed as carefree fun. Blink-182 have always been intentionally juvenile, but in growing up and out of punk rock, they've never been more immature.

By the end of Me Time, the down-to-Earth, around-the-block-and-back 2 Chainz bores.

What a mess. ... The album sounds more like a rehearsal than a completed record, with Keltner's pacing off, Young flubbing lyrics and Bushnell at times just guessing.

The album's only memorable line comes from "Yacht Club."

Fourth album Mirage Rock is a bungled mess of poor production and half-assed songwriting.

All the songs on Rich Gang bleed into one another; they all have the same slow-to-mid tempo, overproduced, synth-heavy beats; and almost all the rappers sleepwalk through their verses.

Old Sock [is] a pleasant, but ultimately uninspired collection that ranges from country and folk standards such as "Born to Lose" and "Goodnight Irene" to the classic jazz of "All Of Me" and "Our Love is Here to Stay."

Blandly vapid songs.

It's executed incredibly well for what it is, but what we're left with is ugly, soulless and emotionally bankrupt.

Conley's lyrics and vocals are the boldest missteps on 9. Contained in what sounds like a grown adult emulating the vocal tonality of an angsty teen, are even stranger lyrical approaches.

FWA's opening trio of "Glory," "He's Dead" and "I Feel Good" is severely tempered by the inclusion of clunky ballads with less-than-inspired production. Lyrically, there is little reference to Wayne's Carter V struggles amidst a wealth of new punch lines, but for every bit of wordplay that has potential to become another Weezy quotable, there is a handful of other cringe-worthy instances to counter.

Unfortunately, the lack of quality choruses leaves something to be desired.

Across the record, Malone has not only seemed to forget what makes his music tick, but also who his fanbase is.

Where some might find their centre in such a locale, the self-imposed echo chamber seems to have exacerbated their worst individual qualities.

They've got the speed, the outfits and the record collection, but Cerebral Ballzy's interpretation of hardcore punk never comes off as more than cartoony.

There isn't much here for serious followers of modern electronic music. It will bore you mostly, which--not to be dismissive here--appears to be the point entirely.

The album's low point comes over top of the solo acoustic guitar performance of "Change," in which Laraaji croons, "Change, by any other name is still change." ... These profundities continue for more than seven minutes--a rarely accomplished exercise in irony, given the song's title.

Single Mothers sound consistent throughout this set of ten beer-soaked songs, but after just 20 minutes, that consistency is far too homogenous and one-note to be interesting.

If it was offensively bad, at least it'd be camp. Instead, each track is an ADHD simulation — so understimulating you forget what it sounds like seconds after it ends.

18 Months has all the makings of a smash hit, but if you're looking for substance, you're better off looking elsewhere.

The Day is My Enemy is an embarrassing display that inevitably ends badly.

Montana's selection of trap beats falls flat. It's the kind of sweatshop beat-making mainstream producers have learned to accept as they cash their cheques.