As great as the tune ["Wake Me Up"] may be, it’s Blacc’s voice that hooks you. It’s substantive, searching, and full of the depth modern soul men too often lack.

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.

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.

It helps that her smooth voice sits so comfortably on the songs, content to illuminate their fine tunes rather than over-embellish them with flash.

Jon Fratelli proves a cleverly withering lyricist. Nearly all the songs treat lovers as thieves, imposters or liars.

Only in a few songs does he draw on soul’s common language of strain and overstatement and it’s exciting when he does. At his most forceful he can sound like Simply Red’s Mick Hucknall. Far more often he’s in the erudite territory of Smokey Robinson, letting his falsetto waft ever higher.

Only a few tracks, like “Guts Over Fear” (with guest vocals from Sia) bore inside the rapper to show his vulnerable side. But the snarl of the rest finds him at a peak of writerly dexterity and rhyming velocity.

The 3rdEyeGirl album has a much cleaner sound, and a sharper focus, than Prince’s solo album.

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

Ruess’ voice has great volume, but no body. There’s no roundness, or richness, to his tone. It’s all hard angles, offering no cushion for the screech. Worse, he often pushes his voice beyond its bounds, in the process making him sound as pinched as Alvin or one of the Chipmunks.

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.

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

The album could use a hefty dose of editing, annoying to any listener--unless, of course, they’re too stoned to care.

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 orchestrations also let us focus on Young as a pure singer, rather than as a holistic musician. And he’s a remarkably effective one. In his aged, spindly whine lies a world of emotion.

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.

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

Trainor may be talented, with a large voice and a witty writing style, but over the course of the album she crosses the line from confident to smug.

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.

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

The studio sound erased many of those aural pimples, acting like dermabrasion for the ears. The appeal of the songs also helps smooth things over. Adults may notice that this “singer-songwriter” rarely writes without armies of collaborators. But the material he’s been handed has hooks.

The band’s songs are as dense to listen to as they are to contemplate.

Unfortunately, the songs end up seeming more lightweight than they otherwise might.

Throughout, Streisand’s voice sound more robust than it has for some time, especially compared to her live performance last year in Brooklyn. But she has a tendency to oversing in an attempt to engage with her guests.

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.

Like all the tracks here, the sound clearly channels the past, but only to buff it with a current sheen.

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.

True to its goal, there's lots of fun to be had here, even if the music does lack depth and innovation.

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 slicker R&B tracks--alighted by singers like Trey Songz and Guardan Banks--have a more generic appeal. And, as always, 50’s bling-driven verse isn’t as rare as his rhythmic delivery. But when his rich instrument undulates over the minimalist riffs, there’s magic worth waiting for.

Thicke’s considerable vocal skills can’t wipe away the sneaking feeling that he’s always doing an impersonation of someone else. Listening, you never feel you can entirely trust the guy, which may be the album’s most revealing aspect of all.

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.