It's ironic that 30 years later, a record like this could make psychedelia seem as curmudgeonly as rock & roll seemed then.

Instead of sounding like a refreshing change of pace, it's a muddled, aimless affair from an artist that's had too many middling efforts over the last decade.

Tonally, Beck and Depp don't quite mesh -- Beck's guitar wants to soar, Depp stays earthbound -- and instead of generating something rife with tension or an outright failure, the results are just leaden and dull.

Digging out this handful of songs from the 16-track proper album-- inflated to as much as 24 tracks with the bonus disc added in--is flat-out exhausting, necessitating trawling through too many dull beats, breathy bleats, a phoned-in Snoop Dogg cameo and Missy Elliot name-dropping Katy Perry.

While this isn't necessarily a bad idea on paper, the Concretes unfortunately forgo much of what made them an enjoyable listen in the process.

It's a comfortable and familiar fit that poses only one significant problem: nobody bothered to write any songs; they're just playing for the sake of playing.

Guilt may be a bad title for a pop-rap album so slick and shallow, the completely ludicrous I Am Hip Hop's Savior was the original plan, suggesting that this project was misguided since early development.

Only with "Who Want the Smoke?" does the first half rise above the preceding album, yet Yachty's the third wheel, eclipsed by verses from Cardi B and Offset. He's more at ease on the lightheaded "melodic" tracks of the latter half, back to goofy-vulgar observations, musical crib-mobile melodies, and occasional openhearted moments that sound natural rather than forced.

Less experimental, less distinctive, and definitely missing the production finesse of Nellee Hooper, Bloodsport suffers musically from a lack of imagination and vocally from Chris Corner's surprisingly post-grunge style of delivery.

Ingle's ability to write a pop melody is promising, perhaps, yet it's too hampered by nasal vocals to make much of an impression, and the album’s short running time proves to be one of its biggest assets.

For the most part, Versus falls in line with its parent release's mix of detached hedonism and pleading heartache.

Not only were there not many musicians hanging in the studio this time, but all of Rise seems stitched together on the computer, with each of the three core members doing their part when they cleared time in their schedule. The result is a drag, the sound of a revelers who have no idea that it's well past time for them to head on home.

Jessica's team haven't had a knack for picking the right song but she could possibly clear that hurdle if she showed some sign of life as a vocalist, but she's unfailingly listless no matter how many theatrical gestures she attempts to cram in her big boring ballads.

Discardable as it may be, Mission Accomplished shows that Tricky's still got plenty up his sleeve.

The whole thing sounds like it was made fairly quickly, as if Tim came up with a clever idea and proceeded to fill out the track with whatever came to mind first, rather than truly enhance it.

As a cold description, this modbilly beat sounds pretty interesting, especially because the group goes to great pains to rearrange many of its covers, but as an album Modbilly drags, offering endless permutations of the same plodding boogie.

Rewolf ends up being a failure in two ways. The first is that the songs aren't strong enough to withstand the acoustic treatment....The second major flaw, and the one that really kills the album, has to do with what the lack of volume and energy uncovers.

This rather bizarre disc is something of a self-aggrandizing concept album. In song after song, Josie sings about how off-beat, sensual, and unique she is...

It feels as if this is as calm as a placid lake. Sometimes, the record is as pretty as that, too, a nice, polite collection of adult alternative pop designed for young girls and their moms.

Along with empty flash like "Something Bad" and "Time of Your Life," they're all part of Thicke's least appealing album.

This certainly is not one of the worst albums ever recorded; indeed, it has its moments of merit that hit the proper spots and deliver the intended dose of dopamine. However, as a cohesive statement worthy of an album's length of the listener's attention, Memories is lacking.

That material ["Like A Drum"], as well as much of what surrounds it, is significantly less substantive than the singer's past work.

A bland, friendly affair that disappears into the ether the moment it's finishing playing.

He's never been one for lyrical subtlety, but this set contains several stretches of monotonous, joyless carnality.

One fulfills all of the "faceless" criticisms thrown at them in the past, while alienating whatever fan base they had before.

Backed by stale songs, formulaic arrangements, and mediocre songwriting, Williams is forced to rely on his volcanic personality to bring this album across -- and despite a few strong performances, he sinks into lame self-parody time and time again.

The crew is still intentionally misogynistic and profane, sounding like caricatures of Eminem or Kid Rock as they rap and sing about gangsta cliches like puffing blunts, drinking Patron, getting booty, and "flossing."

All this means is that Chickenfoot's big picture is roughly in place but the pieces don't quite fit, but that doesn't stop the group from trying to force it, with Sammy sounding as awkward singing about south-of-the-border drug runners as Satriani does spinning off complicated riffs on party rockers.