The album doesn’t sound phoned in, necessarily, but it absolutely sounds vacuous, vapid and clichéd.

She’s become her own worst nightmare – boring.

Mainly, it's good for some frivolous fun.

Not surprisingly, the resulting cameo-plugged record sounds more like a G-Unit album than an Infamous one.

This is a groovy record from start to finish, with no major standout fantastic song and nothing that sucks.

Sadly, Jane's Addiction lost the fire ages ago and are now sleepwalking through the ashes.

Aoki relies heavily on guests to pad out Wonderland, with mixed results.

The aggressive push into overblown choruses drowns the warmth and personality of his production work.

These 14 purpose-punk "anthems" (songs with loud multi-tracked vocals during the choruses) sound like Anti-Flag hastily thawed them out of mid-90s cryogenic stasis in a moment of frenzied conviction that we've never needed them more.

N Jo’s fan base doesn’t care about calculation. They’re just the right age to buy into the workmanlike quasi-genuine rock of Who I Am. And there’s still enough of that original Jonas flavour to keep them interested.

While the production displays a genuine level of talent, including excellent drummer Atom Willard, just about every song teases with potential before going absolutely nowhere.

Impressive, then, that this boy-army, one-girl team was able to pull off a contemporary R&B album so feminine, breezy and thankfully low on ballads.

Most of Shock Value confirms that Timbaland is most valuable when he's in the background.

That said, there are plenty of catchy moments. Beat-wise, Boots & Boys--a song about what brings her joy--is incredibly well constructed. If only the insipid lyrics were left off completely.

All six tracks are taut, catchy and depressing, 'Fire In The Ocean' in particular--making you wonder what could have been had they stayed together.

His subjects are the standard sex/money/hustler/romance/gangster fantasies, and all the new-millennium fast life references you expect.

Wiz has never shied away from top-40-baiting tunes many rappers eschew, and he’s crafted a few more on Blacc Hollywood with varying degrees of success.

Only real problem is that the foursome tend to write the same songs over and over again, this time thinly veiled in arena- and hair-metal swagger, but still too similar structurally to sound like they've challenged themselves.

For Mötley Crüe, every new record is a Faustian deal: their former glory as 80s hair-metal badasses in exchange for sustained economic success in a diminished, lame-ified state.

Sitek lends the band some nice slow-burning electronic atmosphere, but the songs lack hooks and sometimes shift into cringey faux-reggae.

Light, breezy and somewhat snoozy, Christopher has some pleasant moments, but it's not the strongest work in McPhun's discography.

Jesus Is King provides an undeniably moving and distinct new chapter in the book of Kanye. Whether you choose to skip it or place it high on your mantel, its cultural significance is only bound to grow.

He sticks so closely to the original arrangements that his shortcomings as a vocalist are painfully evident. Had he tried to reinterpret the classics even a little bit, we wouldn't be so quick to compare his singing to the originals.

In real snap-music fashion, everything's repeated to death over tinny, cellphone-tailored little synthesizer riffs with snares.

Like Snoop’s documentary of the same name, Reincarnated has its moments but needs an editor.

After 16 songs ranging from electro-country to the parody-heavy We're The Pet Shop Boys and various quasi-conversational raps à la the Streets' Mike Skinner about losing his virginity, I felt the man should rope things in.

The songs are ridiculously catchy, albeit predictable and overly comfortable in that 70s folk rock vibe he loves so much.

An album that’s bogged down by a rapper--and production--stuck in the middle of the last decade.

So there’s no shortage of sick beats, but Common’s decision to dumb down his rhymes to a rude and rudimentary level comes off horribly crass at best and at worst downright embarrassing.

Ginuwine sounds more than comfortable throughout, and succeeds in making fundamental R&B with a good deal of replayability.

The album is also comfortably ignorant of the times. With its feathery production and common pop arrangements, it could have come out in 1996.

This is a musical just waiting to be staged.

His voice is bland and has little variety.

Doing lame imitations of other things that are popular seems to be the mission statement for Sounds From Nowhere.

Between Rahman's "Slumdog pop" on Mahiya (deluxe edition), Marley's melodic island jam, Miracle Worker, and Stone's vocal acrobatics fluttering around Jagger and Stewart and adding big choruses to Energy, the album's all over the place and never dull.

The songs are formulaic but catchy, and the production is meticulous.

Their fifth album, which is all hyperactive synth melodies and shrill sing-shouting in classic Matt and Kim style, sounds like it was smothered in thick syrup, drowned in glitter and then levelled out with soul-sucking effects for good measure.

This is a dry affair dominated by standard-issue R&B production monotony, and an egregious misuse of resources.

There's a little too much consistency across the album -- too few moments stand out, and too many of the hooks just blend together.

Ashanti’s still got a decent voice, but she’s badly in need of a better songwriting and production team.

Sounding closer to their more earnest Smash days, the songs are snappy to-the-point SoCal punk, albeit with a more polished sheen.

If you were expecting some next-level shit from Pharrell Williams on his self-produced solo debut, you're in for a huge disappointment.

If I didn't know better, I'd swear Jill Cunniff had crawled under a rock and refused to listen to any music since her old band, Luscious Jackson, split in 99.

The closest this popportunistic foursome comes to satisfying songsmithery is "The Getaway," whose title is sound advice for potential buyers of this album.

If you already didn't like Brown – he would classify you as a "hater" – this album's combination of lewd (Wet The Bed, No Bullshit) and saccharine (Next 2 You, Should've Kissed You) content, delivered in that gross, oozing cadence of his, will only aggravate you further.

Those two qualities [Perry's sex appeal and goofy, self-effacing charm] are out of balance for most of the album, resulting in awkward jams like E.T. (Futuristic Lover) and Peacock.

There’s a mopey, self-pitying quality to the lyrics, and the duo never once connect with or transmit the sultry passion that existed between those 60s icons [Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot].

That comedy gap between concept and finished product appears to be par for the course with Black's ventures.

His subpar wordplay is easily out-rapped and out-sung by guests like Future and 2 Chainz.

Surprisingly, it’s a light and catchy bunch of convincing hip-hop- and R&B-influenced Timberlake-esque club pop.

The highlight is the laid-back Across The World with B.o.B, where Pitbull gets introspective for a minute. “Mr. 305” is at his best when tying together different styles, but the mindless, misogynistic filler on tracks like Full Of Shit and Girls sours the album as a whole.

This isn’t music so much as it is economic exploitation of a demographic.

Most bizarre are the contributions of studio drummer Terry Bozzio, known for his work with Frank Zappa, who, despite his reputation as one of rock's most talented stick men, fails to sound heavy, menacing or even relatively interesting.

Actually, that's the vibe of the whole album: retro mid-90s LL.

At best, the songs on their ninth album are bland recreations of their past successes.

Temperance might dull his inspiration, but it can’t shake his confidence. Unfortunately, that smugness is also his undoing: there’s no quality control here.

Everything on My Bloody Underground suffers from Newcombe’s chronic lack of focus, leaving the entire mess sounding like half-assed sonic sketches farted out in a friend’s basement over a woozy weekend.

Here And Now reinforces all the reasons so many people hate Nickelback, but those are exactly the same things that make fans pump their fists in the air.

Over-emoting at every turn, she obliterates otherwise innocuous soul, R&B and reggae-inflected songs with gimmicky vocal histrionics, strident attempts at melisma and the kind of callow self-help lyrics that are apparently mandatory for all young pop stars nowadays.

As it turns out, Scherzinger’s not interesting enough on her own, so she’s padding out her shtick with four glorified backup singers in tow.

All 11 tracks feature painfully predictable song structures and lethargic chord progressions devoid of anything resembling a hook.

The album could've been distinctive but instead lacks depth or the transporting quality of her imaginative lyrics.

G-Unit needs to stop remaking Lloyd Banks's first hit, On Fire, from, like, two years ago.

On first listen, Matricidal sounds like an hour of Friedberger playing with all the buttons on his keyboards, taking no care to connect sounds or smooth the edits. Yet taken as a whole and with time, it evokes something melancholy, strange and nostalgic--equally beautiful and eerie.

It's not what anyone is hoping for from Harry, but the highlights are decent enough to keep hardcore Blondie fans satiated until she finds some collaborators worthy of her talent.

These directionless, half-baked jams may show a young artist trying to find himself and mature, but he sure isn't there yet.

To make listeners' hearts melt, there's a lullaby for Joel's daughter, Harlow, a bit of a cynical move when most of the album is about sleeping with other radio stars, getting wasted like it's your birthday and getting wasted, sleeping with someone, blacking out and thinking it was the best night of your life.

There is plenty of momentum on the first half of the record.... So, it’s a bummer that the last half of the album descends into bland and skippable.

Unfortunately, there are none of the ridiculous disses, insane freestyles or wacky interludes that make real mixtapes entertaining.

First single Dope has that by way of Dr. Dre’s Deep Cover, but it fails to push the balance of the album beyond mediocrity.

How poignantly they express their inarticulate messages through Blink-182 rip-offs and recycled versions of their own material.

Kroeger’s voice sounds more like a wounded goat than ever before, and their blatantly recycled songs touch on familiar themes like strippers, sex, prostitutes, drugs, sex, drinking and sex.

While some of his New Orleans ilk have strayed from the region’s classic bounce sound, the lead-off title track assures us that the same old Juve is in the mix.

Curve isn't going to change anyone's mind about Our Lady Peace.

There’s a built-in redundancy to a Linkin Park remix album. Their music already sounds like hard rock that’s been tweaked by a knowledgable 15-year-old on his first laptop.

The album wobbles between Timberlake-style sexy-time R&B, Bublé-light standards and flat attempts at sincere John Legend-type balladry.

There are a couple of moments of idiosyncrasy here, particularly on the title track and 'On & On,' but Guilt’s formulaic approach makes it easy to pass on the whole album.

The Second Round isn't much different from the first.

Beyond The Neighbourhood isn't Athlete's triumph, but with far more rock moments, spacey sounds and well-placed hooks, as on the driving anthem Hurricane and the dreamy Airport Disco, they've redeemed themselves a little.

Past the dancehall signifiers (Paul's increasingly strained lilt and tepid syncopated pulse), the new record is brazenly mediocre.

It'd be one thing if the new trio built on the band's legacy. Instead, Yours Truly regurgitates Sublime's 90s ska-punk blueprint and gussies it up with a new layer of radio-ready sheen.

While they must know they won’t be reinventing the wheel any time soon, Sparkle Lounge is their most upbeat music in a while.

This “mix­tape album” decently whets the appetite.

Like the Double Down monstrosity, the first bite is an odd mix of tasty and disgusting, but by the end of it you just feel ill and ashamed.

Robert Smith, Franz Ferdinand and Wolfmother offer glimpses of what this project might’ve been, but then along comes 3 Doors Down-clone Shinedown and it’s off with the heads of everyone involved in this nightmare.

They're still making forays into metal (Crash), but most Sum fans will agree that the band just hasn't been the same since guitarist Brownsound left town.

The bulk of Boys is sufficiently well put together; the generally witty pop walks that tricky line between edginess and accessibility.

On a disc that ultimately exhausts itself with boredom and clichés, it's just not worth it.

This disc is dullsville.

Authentic is ridiculous right down to the heavy-breathing interludes, which worked for Usher circa 2003.

If the lyrics were cleverer, they might work as a critique of vacant rock culture, but instead they come across as the embodiment of what they profess to be sneering at.

NAV’s songcraft is sharp, but the lack of dynamics ultimately makes this debut feel one-note.

Lulu sinks to almost unimaginable lows.

A Wu-Tangy darkness permeates the whole album, which is cluttered with gems both musical (live sax and jazz flute) and lyrical.

Brendan O’Brien, best known for his continuous work with Pearl Jam and Springsteen, takes over from Gavin Brown on Billy’s third s/t offering, and there’s some noticeable dulling of the edges here.

Sure, the beats bang like crazy, but the songs are emotionally hollow, thematically one-dimen­sional and conceptually lifeless.

After years and years of hating every ounce of Maryland's mall-punk icons Good Charlotte, it seems now that the actual trick to enjoying their music on any plausible level is to go into the whole thing with absolutely no expectations. Not even low expectations. Nothing.

His first album in four years picks up exactly where The Trinity left off: at the centre of the dance floor.