You get what sounds like Karl Hyde doing freestyle slam poetry overtop of dull beats on 'Ring Road.' 'Crocodile' starts off promising but then gives up and becomes a backdrop for a one-syllable nightclub with white sofas.

No No No's a pleasantly nostalgic experience, but ultimately it feels insubstantial.

This is unabashedly a pop album, full of big melodies and simple metaphors, that adds just a bit of analog fuzz to her usually pristine sound.

There is some insubstantial filler here, but more often than not, E = MC2 hits the mark.

Goodbye's overall prettiness is both its weakness and its strength; the album is pleasant but blends into the background a bit too easily.

The choruses aren't quite as contagiously catchy, and they occasionally try too hard to be clever with their songwriting.

The Followill boys were experimenting and started leading us somewhere. The fact that Come Around Sundown falls short, then, is all the more disappointing.

Spears is immersed in an often trite, intensely narcissistic look at her existence, crafted almost entirely by songwriters other than herself. That’s not to say that some of the songs aren’t catchy or danceable, but they’re wasted on a singer who brings no real personality along for the ride.

A few breakdowns and builds fly off the rails on the clubbier numbers, but the better songs balance shiny, modern production with exuberant melodies and timeless songwriting.

The hooks and charm of their epic debut, "Logic Will Break Your Heart," were decidedly missing from their 2006 sophomore effort, "Without Feathers," but Oceans Will Rise marks a partial return to form for the Montreal quartet.

Artists who put out album sequels are often criticized for trying to capitalize on a classic work. No one will accuse G-Unit lieutenant Lloyd Banks of that with the second instalment of his uneven debut.

There's tons of potential here, even if the disc feels like a work in progress.

A record that finely straddles his gruff past and glitzier present. DJ Toomp buoys T.I. on Trap Back Jumpin. An incandescent collaboration with André 3000 balances out an unfortunate Pink cameo.

So instead of rehashing Cosmic Thing for an ill-fated comeback banking on nostalgia, guitarist Keith Strickland learned Pro Tools, bought some electro records and voila: the B-52’s have a contemporary dance-rock record. Startlingly, this works.

¡Tré! offers a few ballads, swelling string-laden anthems and even a six-minute medley à la American Idiot--styles that once represented a new aesthetic for the band but now sound forced and exhausted.

People who like him, rejoice. Those who don't may continue to live without his music.

The whole album lacks focus. Williams jumps around from big band to Pet Shop Boys electro to piano ballads to easy rocking. The one common thread is overproduction.

The bigger problem is an overall lack of energy; there are only so many mid-tempo middle-of-the-road psych-pop songs you can listen to before starting to watch the clock.

The Bronx’s third self-titled album sounds a little too comfortable.

If you haven't encountered Jenkinson's strange world of jazz-fusion-hardcore before, this is a decent starting point, and if you're more into the jazz funk than the digital hardcore, this is one of his less abrasive outings.

As the title suggests, the band is evolving gradually rather than in dramatic swells.

City Of Refuge’s 15 tracks are uneven in both length and musical depth--one track, 'High Plain 3,' is just a minute and 31 seconds of quiet, droning ambient static--yet the record plays out like the cohesive score to a postmodern, post-apocalyptic western.

Isis is an actual MC with real hip-hop history and skills, who, in between throwaway odes to ass-shaking, manages to tell some stories and flesh out some characters. That, coupled with Grahm Zilla’s versatile approach to beat production, puts them far ahead of the pack.

Despite a more eclectic stylistic palette, his sophomore Puscifer album is just as moody and dramatic as those other projects.

Miller's compositions are typically well crafted and slightly artier than what you'd hear on, say, a Josh Groban disc, but this isn't too far off that sort of pouty boy bellowing.

It’s an album of spare and precise beauty, and when it was over I really wanted to see the film.

Gillespie will definitely need it [a new Mamma Mia-loving audience] once long-time-Primals fans hear all the twee synth-tweaked frivolity and snappy handclaps where the sleazy, distorted rock ’n’ roll jams should’ve been.

Sam's Town works well as a cohesive album, despite its delusions of grandeur.