“JackBoys 2” isn’t a bad JackBoys album or a bad Travis Scott album — it’s just repetitive and monotonous.

An album that feels more akin to an oddly shaped misfire of a satirical take than it does the latest installation of an ultra-successful series of rap albums.

The monotonous lack of infection in his voice is prevalent throughout the album, to the point where it sounds like he loses interest in his own words.

In Bad Boys, Smith was cool. In Hitch he was funny. In Twelve Pounds, he was vulnerable. He doesn’t seem to retain any of these qualities in his raps, instead opting for a smorgasbord of soundscapes designed to mask what could have been a revealing, emotionally interesting rap album.

I’m glad he found a lane, stuck to it, and rode the hell out of it until he had to go to the clinic for a shot. On the other hand “Play Cash Cobain” is nearly one straight hour of listening to another dude read me the letters he wrote to Playboy. I prefer that to a rapper bragging about how many people they’ve killed, but an hour straight of either one with no variance is monotonous. He’s a solid producer, and while pitch corrected rap singing isn’t my favorite thing, he’s better than average at that too.

This album feels like “how do you do fellow kids” in rap form. It’s trying so hard to be slutty that it’s transparent in its aims and it robs Latto of the power she once had.

It’s difficult to gauge its direction, and it often seems aimless and forgettable, despite some interesting experiments here and there. Overall though, it’s a continuation of their gradual decline since their stellar debut, resembling more a mixtape of half-formed ideas than a cohesive, fully realised project.

All of these guests can be distracting, but Ghostface’s performances are as you’d expect. It’s not quite as precise with the abstract vocabulary, a bit diet-Ghost if you will, but his flow remains sharp and his energy levels are high for a 54-year-old. .... The frustrating thing about “Set the Tone” is I have no idea who it is even aimed at.

Of the nineteen tracks on offer here, there are just too many skippables for a Busta Rhymes album. It may not be a proper Busta album, and it may be Busta’s way of sharing the flame, rather than passing the torch (as he so eloquently describes it), but in the context of Busta’s catalog, and the rest of 2023’s hip-hop releases, it frequently disappoints.

In nearly every way, it is downright unremarkable. The Toronto superstar has once again delivered a tiresome and inflated LP composed of 23 tracks, the bulk of which are only successful thanks to the guest features that aid them.

His album is incredibly well polished, but the gleam of his ice is an illusion, as these diamonds are nothing more than cubic zirconias.

I can listen to “Mansion Musik” for 76 minutes and it’s fine as background music, but if I start paying attention to tracks like “WITCHCRAFT” the bars are so relentlessly negative it accidentally becomes a turnoff.

There’s so much that could be done with a Northern UK emcee to celebrate a part of England that has numerous industrial cities with interesting stories, but Aitch’s message doesn’t register as well as it should thanks to production akin to a box-ticking exercise.

This two-hour epic may not be his best work, but it’s his most Game album yet.

Jack Harlow’s attempts at grandiose appeal ultimately fall short on “Come Home The Kids Miss You”. The young rapper fails to inspire or interest and his attempts at grand standing charm are without merit.

Drake breaks no new ground here, and retreads the same tales of love and regret so many times that the songs bleed together. If you just want background music for making love, this is your album. If you want to have your imagination captured by fantastic tales or be taken on an emotional roller coaster, don’t bother. There are no highs or lows here. We’re on medium the whole time.

The hard truth is that “Dope Don’t Sell Itself” takes a tumble down into the same hole of forgettable 2 Chainz albums that has become home to the likes of “Trapavelli Tre’”, “Pretty Girls Like Trap Music”, “Collegrove” and the like. 2 Chainz seems burnt out.

Sullivan herself is certainly an artist that doesn’t follow the rules, which is why it’s mildly disappointing to hear her sound like Post Malone or Juice WRLD on tracks. For a woman with as much power and agency as she clearly has, she let too much of this release be shaped by what other people sound like in terms of the production of her vocals and her instrumentals.

Overall, aside from some promising lines and one, maybe two standout tracks, “Richer Than I Ever Been” is an album that predictably falls short. It simply features too many weak beats backing up bars that often do more to bore than they do to convey a sense of skill or originality.

It’s beige, hollow music and that’s what ultimately frustrates your dedicated rap listener because it doesn’t make sense why it’s so damn popular. When you throw the poor writing on top of this, and some real hit-and-miss production into the mix, “Certified Lover Boy” may well be Drake’s worst album.

In the end though it’s all just a little too polished, like a hip hop manicure after a rap spa day, one that leaves everything radiant and glossy but says nothing about what’s underneath.

It feels like the audio version of Madonna releasing a coffee table art book of her sexual exploits, and I’m not in any way judging you if you get off on that, but it’s just not my thing.

He’s a fine producer, a middling singer, and a very forgettable lyricist. The album’s title banks on his name being the sole draw, but if it has been titled “Featuring Kanye West, Quavo, Kid Cudi, Young Thug, Big Sean and Future” it would be a whole lot more accurate.

Relentlessly preachy music can be just as obnoxious as the relentlessly vapid, but even pop music can offer more substance than this. If this album was a soda, it would be light and bubbly, yet its sugar free nature would make you crave a Mexican soda in a glass bottle instead.

He clearly cares about his output, but “Music To Be Murdered By” is, unfortunately, another mixed bag of tricks, propped up by lyrical acrobatics and underwhelming production.

Very little is going on lyrically above but Smoke’s energy is priceless. That same energy is only marginally filtered through these swift-moving tracks. The entire album is more of an elongated intro to the Cactus Jack brand.

slowthai gained notoriety for being unvarnished in his lyrics over his country’s politics, but that isn’t shown much on the album except for its title. He says there’s “Nothing Great About Britain“, but the same can be said about his debut album, even with the bright spots.

“Hot Pink” doesn’t show an evolution of Doja Cat artistically or musically. The production from the likes of Tyson Trax, Yeti Beats and even the famed Saleem Remi is as slick as her debut, but also just as saccharine as her debut.