Songs like 'Death' and 'Nothing To Give' are strident due to big production and well-placed hooks. But commercially geared goth is so much more hideous than the real thing because it wants to be palatable and accepted.

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.

Stylistically, their fourth record doesn't depart much from previous ones.

Repeatedly tries to regenerate the neo-soul-pop formula of I Try, down to its beat pauses and rich, piano-driven arrangements.

The album repeatedly teases you with glimpses of the unhinged, earnest urgency that made the Violent Femmes semi-famous, and then flips into an annoying faux naive whimsy just as you’re starting to enjoy it.

It could have worked, but the dated production style bogs it down.

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

Her pain is less harrowing – she's older now and knows how to cope -– so instead of singing only for herself, she's doing it for her listeners, a noble goal but also dull and predictable.

It sounds like FutureSex, so you’ll desperately listen over and over hoping to replicate how that album made you feel and end up surrendering to its pleasant, sanitized soundscape. But you’ll feel nothing.

Hard-hitting drum rolls, reverb and hooky guitar refrains are all over the album, so it’s a shame that it still grows stale by the end.

Another Fine Day sounds less like a party platter made by boozing buddies than a desperate attempt by yesterday's alt-country stars to slap together tunes that wouldn't sound out of place between Journey and Fleetwood Mac on classic rock radio.

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

Phil Ramone’s austere production seems designed to let Lynne’s voice carry the album, and that’s a big mistake, since she has neither the emotional range nor the soulful finesse to convey the real hurt at the core of this material.

Unfortunately, their sixth studio album, Anthem, has neither the undeniably sweet earworms of their first effort nor much of the catchy soul-rock they’ve produced since.

Fans might find it a fascinating revelation, and Madonna will likely swipe a few ideas, while everyone else is left wondering what happened to the tunes.

While Tony Iommi churns out stock riffs, Devil You Know’s success largely depends on whether you can take Dio seriously--not as a vocalist (he’s one of the best in the metal game), but as a diminutive old man bellowing innocuous dungeons-and-dragons lyrics, and so unconvincingly that you have to wonder if he actually believes a single word. This record doesn’t make a strong case.

On the whole, L-Shaped Man feels like a boring exercise: a band performing post-punk idolatry (Root Of The World could pass for poppier Public Image Ltd.) instead of bothering to try anything new.

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

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

There are some glimmers of pop gold.... But those moments are overshadowed by dated cheeseball synth presets, uninspired choruses, goofy samples and clunky rhythm programming.

Production, shared by J, Young Chop and Mike WiLL Made-It among others, at times subtly nods to the menacing beats of early Three 6 Mafia but is otherwise bland.

There are a handful of feel-good moments. ... But it’s not enough to carry the bloated 18-song track list to a satisfying end. Instead it feels like getting caught in an endless kaleidoscope of solipsistic nostalgia. The effect is suffocating in its repetitiveness.

His voice is bland and has little variety.

50 is back with his larger-than-life persona and even bigger Mack 11, remaking his classic first album for the second time, with tiresome results.

The biggest problem beyond the recycled rhymes is the production. There are lots of beatsmiths on hand here, but none even come close to doing what the Neptunes did for them on their proper albums.

This disc comes off like an early home demo for a mediocre New Pornographers recording before all the bright colours and drama get added.

Awkward and embarrassing, the mixtape as a whole feels like a PR move to get you to listen to Nash-free embedded song Silly by new protégé Casha.

Somehow, fond recollections of the bad old days in the ghetto with fellow superstar Wyclef Jean just don’t have the same resonance and uplifting power as previous songs that came from a place of near-defeat and unfulfilled aspirations.