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

Unfortunately, unlike Deerhoof's complex sonic and logical experiments, the Curtains' material feels too spare, too underdeveloped, less like well-honed songs than fledgling ideas that'd benefit from the input of additional bandmates.

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.

Ultimately, your appreciation of the quaintly crafted pop ditties on Soft Airplane will depend on your tolerance for listening to an adult male trying to sound like a naive little boy.

This is background music for a mundane clerical job at Medieval Times or cash duties at a fantasy sword store. But why not just pick up an old Jethro Tull record?

Much of his old work still sounds more vital.

Ultimately, though, the comp is uneven, and it's difficult to determine the intended audience; fans likely already own these songs.

While Big Sean is a charismatic and occasionally clever rapper, he often fails to dominate the big production elements he rhymes over.

There are some pretty moments, and the production is immaculate, but it's plodding and dull for the most part.

This is no-frills rawk that's been dumbed down for mass consumption.

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.

Leave A Light On, for example, sounds an awful lot like the Rio-era ballad Save A Prayer. Unfortunately, these doppelgangers are the album's best songs, which makes you wonder why the band bothered.

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.

Instead of knocking out another wall-shaking psych rock blast... Avatar comes off like a series of sedate recital pieces performed from sheet music while seated in the round.

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

The most surprising letdown, though, is vocalist Luke Top's decision to sing mainly in English, which only serves to highlight his shortcomings as a lyricist and emphasize an unfortunate nasal quality that didn't seem nearly as annoying in Hebrew.

What's missing is the emotional heat.

Aussie collective Architecture in Helsinki return with an awkward mess of shrieking faux island riddims and embarrassing rump-shaking elasto-funk.

Mostly, though, it's the usual whining about his tortured life as as a once-celebrated pop star and being unloved in a harsh world, but with fewer droll song titles and clever couplets.

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.

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.

The features wouldn't be so bad if Game didn't yield to the wattage and personalities of his co-stars. (Again, he can rap when he tries.) Used as a constant crutch, however, they quell his ferocity.

The Sexyback single makes wise use of filtered vocals to artificially deepen his tone and support his macho pose, but only so much can be done with studio gimmicry. He's soon back to tweeting his game in a prepubescent chirp; the more suggestive his come-ons, the funnier it gets.

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

He clutches that control so tightly that the album has turned out insular and ill-conceived.

Scott goes for spacey sounds, stoner vibes and vocal filters, but despite the eclecticism, he's too elusive and bland for Rodeo to amount to a stylistic--let alone a subversive--statement.

Gaga has wrenched herself away from dance-pop to focus on the country and classic rock influences that have always been present in her music, albeit gussied up like a coked-out drag queen stumbling out of a bar at 4 am.

The band can still come up with strong hooks, and some of the 80s guitar rock references hit their mark, but the results are sabotaged by singer Julian Casablancas, who sounds like he’s conserving all his energy and passion for his next solo record.