Disappointingly, Pink hasn’t taken Minaj further into the surreality that first promised to turn her into Missy Elliott to the 10th power. But there’s no denying the album’s catchiness.

Instead of using that realization to push ahead, Four represents a step back in both sound and sensibility.

Actually, there’s nothing Sheeran does here that Mraz hasn’t done before, often more cleverly. Even so, Sheeran can write a hummable tune and, clearly, has something young girls love even more than looks: heart.

The album ends up seeming more like a stop-gap than a surge ahead. For the first two-thirds, Drake relies on his usual sing-song style, stoking interest only with his inventive stretches in phrasing.... Otherwise, cooler hooks, melodic flashes of R&B, or great variation can be hard to find.

Much of the material sounds like it was fished out of the slush pile of hotter stars like Beyoncé or Nicki Minaj. Part of one cut, “Walk It Out,” even sounds like a second run at Bey’s “Flawless.” The album finally shakes awake toward the end.

Due to the depth of LaMontagne’s talent, any recording by him has automatic conviction and appeal. But Auerbach’s sound proves too defining, making the star seem like he’s trying to squeeze into another man’s clothes.

They're featherweight takes on retro-'70's pop soul, together creating just the summer album we need in a winter that won't quit. But if the album's puppydog need to please goes down with ease, it's effect evaporates nearly as quickly.

It’s a flinty, raw and ravaged recording, like some audio equivalent of a message in a bottle long ago tossed into the sea. It may be hard to listen to but it lends the disc an arcane charm.

The sound is more dense and self-conscious than ever, the twin Achilles’ heels of this star. At times, the mix blurs Tesfay’s vocals, preventing them from taking a deserved center stage.

The long list of guest stars lends the songs a variety that Morrison’s most monochromatic solo albums could well use.

The songs’ dreamy quality won’t surprise Wilco fans. But, reflecting the relationship of the players, the album has its own low-fi, homey intimacy.

The obvious skill and spring in May’s delivery can excite, but her music has become too uniform, too fixed in its backward view to keep us rapt.

Throughout the album, Michele doesn’t so much sing as trumpet like an elephant eager for the charge. Her voice has more need than vulnerability, more anger than understanding.

Unfortunately, River has some of the listlessness and compromise of “The Division Bell,” which itself left a bad taste in the mouth.

Piece By Piece piles on the gloss and glop. It’s a fat sounding recording that fights with, rather than enhances, Clarkson’s to-the-rafters vocals.

Switching this band’s sound to international rock just amounts to trading one bland canvas for another.

Every sign of the street has been gentrified, though the weed references never cease.

It's good for Brown that so many stars have rallied around him, despite his troubles. If only the new songs supported him as strongly.

As song choices go, most pf these rate as overly obvious. But that’s not what turns this album into such a compromise. Krall shows no interest in pushing out the bounds of the songs.

The lyrics also circle the wagons, settling on eye-glazing tales of football heroes gone to war, men who realize it’s more fulfilling to fish than to climb the corporate ladder, and piercing realizations like “the answer lies in people loving people.”

Ultimately, the strategy backfires. The Dragons’ approach may help them conjure effective public environments, but they’re devoid of personal expression.

The hooks on the album are memorable mainly for the wrong reason; They’re so annoying, you won’t be able to scrub them from your mind.

There’s no getting around the fact that his versions of “Feeling Good” or “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” pale compared to those of Nina Simone and Roberta Flack.

He serves up several ballads, which salute hunting, fishing, and scarecrows. None are particularly convincing, given the anchor-man blandness of Bryan’s vocals.

A.K.A. finds J.Lo throwing anything she can at the wall to see what sticks.

The artist widened his palette this time, bringing in the country singer Jake Owen on one track, and soul star Aloe Blacc on a song that aims to repeat the magic Blacc struck on Aviici’s “Wake Me Up.” Unfortunately, Young’s nerdy sensibility kills that.

The songs offer few individualized lyrical details, and no consistent themes, to pin on a particular person. The arrangements, likewise, have a slick adaptability that makes these songs serviceable cover material for any pop star of the hour.

Kid obviously lusts for the Man in Black’s bad boy image, but he ignores the demons that fueled it. Even the album’s production misses its role model’s core.

Nearly all the tracks on High Hopes are wildly overproduced and arranged, leaving no room to rock.

If the new music has the consistency of loose porridge, the lyrics prove just as watered down.

Like most star collaborations, this one shoehorns in some ill-suited, name-brand guests--like Gloria Estefan and R&B’s Miguel. Santana’s glistening leads compete with, rather than complement, these artists. Some tracks feel as awkward as Match.com first dates.

The sound is so dense it threatens to asphyxiate the singer, which may just be the point. Everything about her work plays into fantasies of a potentially fatal manipulation.

The new [album] sinks decent riffs and an earnest message in unlistenably didactic lyrics.