More about creating a low-wattage soundtrack for chemical and sexual mischief than foundations for songs.

Ultimately, Lulu is a brave experiment for both Reed and Metallica, but it's one that falters as often as it succeeds.

Sure, they make all the right moves, hiring superstar producer Rodney Jerkins to helm most of the tracks and attempting to seem mature, but this all results in a record that is curiously self-conscious and flat. Neither the production, the songs, or the performances have much life to them, with the exception of the closer "Goodbye," which significantly was released as a Christmas single in 1999, long before the rest of the record was finished.

When they stretch farthest away from their origins, as they do on the plodding power ballad 'Sudden Movements,' their sound takes a turn for the best.

Its lack of more compelling compositional ideas and some of its ham-fisted production problems are balanced by the fact that Santana is not coasting on his rep any longer; he's trying, and he's playing the hell out of the guitar again.

When the scale tips too heavily toward rhythm--as it does on "Booty" and "I Luh Ya Papi"--the productions don't do Lopez many favors, burying her in their thrum.

There are only two quality songs, a lot of redundant trash-talking, and an overall sense of ridiculousness that pervades.

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

Later cuts like "Love in the Time of Surveillance" and the nervy, angsty closer reveal some decidedly complex layers of sonic architecture. Toss in the requisite instrumental, the all-atmosphere "Make No Sound in the Digital Forest," and you've got a pretty solid Incubus record in your hands, albeit one that won't win over any of the group's detractors.

When things are light and simple on Live It Up, DeWyze seems like himself: a threadbare talent who floated in on the vapors of Idol's empty tank.

Whatever snotty humor they once had has calcified into smug sanctimony, rendering this a slick, stylized, stiff affair whose brief signs of life... only put the shortcomings of the rest of this turgid mess in stultifying relief.

If the songs don't quite deliver upon their promise, at least Crook's production and Meat Loaf's performance keep things interesting.

Hannicap Circus is solid, filthy, fun, and everything else that you'd want from a less nimble Kool Keith.

Skins takes that unrealized potential and cobbles together these tracks--basically b-sides and outtakes--strictly for fans who needed just ten more reasons to hear his voice.

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

Skynyrd are making sturdy, old-time rock & roll for an audience that's likely peppered with Tea Partiers, the kind of Middle American worried that the world they knew is slipping away, and Last of a Dyin' Breed provides a bit of a rallying point for them: it's true to their roots but living in the moment.

A major disappointment that puts a real chink in this great band's legacy.

Front-loaded with mostly forgettable trifles, the album is saved by this bountiful back-end, which plays like an early prediction of a potential greatest-hits collection.

Generation's toughness rings hollow like a rerun.

Her voice is damaged, and there's not a moment where it sounds strong or inviting. That alone would be disturbing, but since the songs are formless and the production bland -- another reason why the hip-hop announces itself, even though it's nowhere near as pronounced as it has been since Butterfly -- her tired voice becomes the only thing to concentrate on, and it's a sad, ugly thing, making an album that would merely have been her worst into something tragic.

"Juice WRLD Did" doesn't have the same ring to it, but the wobbling/chiming track is among the album's few other memorable moments despite being dusted off and slapped into the sequence after Khaled added his vocal stamp.

Lackluster as music and downright puzzling as a cultural artifact, Unleash the Love confirms that whatever you think of Mike Love's 21st century edition of the Beach Boys, he's better off doing that than trying to make music by himself.

Even if Lee's songs of solidarity are basically sweet in nature, his puppy-dog earnestness winds up being off-putting in the long run on The Rebirth of Venus.

Lacking any of the imagination of previous albums, The World We Left Behind feels brilliantly disappointing, almost to the point of undoing the good work that came before rather than just standing on its own as a weak 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.

No matter how hard Simpson tries, no matter how foreboding the surface, beneath it all she's still light and frivolous. But that doesn't mean, by any stretch, that this is bubblegum music, since that term implies that this music is frothy, fun, and, most important, hooky, and I Am Me is none of those things.

Between the airless production, the clunky arrangements, and the songs that are bereft of hooks, the album is their worst to date by far and hopefully signals either the end of the road, or rock bottom.

The whole thing sounds good on paper, but in practice, it's a bit of a mixed bag.