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.