The acerbic kiss-off Love Yourself feels like an honest stab at subverting the standard breakup ballad, but elsewhere his lyrics are overly concerned with righteousness and keeping things PG-rated.

Wisely, he doesn’t sing this time around, leaving that to Kenna and Phonte of Little Brother. But the tracks with guest vocals never really take off either, reinforcing the producer’s weakness as a songwriter.

There’s more softness and vulnerability than one usually associates with the Weeknd, but also his signature numbness. ... Opener Call Out My Name’s title is typical of the EP’s uninteresting lyrical approach, but he sings with a grandness that is further amplified by sturdy production choices: a buzzing bass line and waltzing drum beat that sounds recycled from hit single Earned It.

The 12 songs verge on inert, and singing is beginning to sound like a painful act for him. His lyrics, however, are inspired.

His best songs tap into the wistful-pop-anthem tradition by simultaneously exposing and celebrating the artifice of club culture.

Their fourth, Last Of Our Kind, includes some formulaic hard rock, Cheap Trick and Starship apery and flat-out misses. But it has its moments, to be sure.

Being out of control is a hallmark of Wayne’s style and what’s made him impossible to ignore for the last two years. In this crew, only Minaj’s paying attention.

The Owl City duet is a bit of a misstep, as is the Justin Bieber collaboration, but two just okay songs and 14 great ones is better than most acts can manage on their greatest hits packages, let alone their second album.

It's an accomplished record for singer Adam Levine and his faceless group, even if the whole affair sometimes sounds clinical in its approach.

On their seventh disc, the music successfully carries the message, thanks in no small part to Bowie/Morrissey/T. Rex producer extraordinaire Tony Visconti, who pumps even more life into these loud, rousing singalong choruses and driving power chords without sacrificing dynamics or naked emotion.

They may have quenched their thirst for charging rock, but it’s their mellower songs that stand out.

This could be a glimpse of a post-Interpol Banks or a hint at a musical transition within the band. It’s worth a listen either way.

The record is rife with brow-raising darts and the mindblowing beats to match, outstripping the last two Dilated records and threatening the alignment of your neck vertebrae in the process.

For the most part the record is a sluggish mess of sweeping guitars and stoner-rock sounds, not unlike what you might hear at a high school talent show.

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.

Though murky mixing obscures their incendiary songs, the overall mood of disquiet and anxiety is potent (perhaps prescient?). If only they could shape it into something with more of a jolt.

Nevertheless, I'm With You is a strong record, with Brendan's Death Song and Police Station among the highlights, especially considering the challenge of replacing Frusciante's creativity.

It may not be earth-shattering, but it’s doubtful this album will ever sound dated.

Although it’s not as immediately catchy as their debut (but, hey, we’re almost saturated when it comes to revivalist bands), Glow & Behold proves they’ve got chops for a lengthy career.

At its best, The Elected offers moments of quirky intrigue – a brassy horn here, a hidden banjo there – reminiscent of the Long Winters' chamber-pop, but in general it's a bit too safe.

Those lyrics may seem slightly ridiculous, but between them and his thinly veiled metaphors for his need to perform cunnilingus (Sweet Tooth), Kelly's originality and talent for making instant club hits is un-fucking-deniable.

Two fundamental problems: he's got an incredible amount of energy, raging away in the high-pitched voice that Eminem haters can't stand, with little to say that he hasn't already said before; and the beats are often middling.

There aren't really any Beautiful People-type moments, only a collection of songs that work surprisingly well as a kind of musical diary for a performer who has finally acknowledged that he's not the threatening icon he once was.

No sophomore slumping here.

You might only remember the songs with words, but the rest of the album puts those moments in context.

Rae is prepped and, in his own focused, deliberate way, amped, but the production and arrangements are generally uninspired.

Take You High, Dance With Me and Nostalgic find her ceding the floor to a few grating drops, builds and chopped-up vocal samples as well as some trendy 80s synth rhythms. Those diversions aside, this is another Kelly Clarkson album that's all about maximizing her big steamroller of a voice.