When Minaj leans into her untouchable strengths as a rapper, things get really exciting and an album of tracks as strong as "LLC" or "Barbie Dreams" would be one for the books. As it stands, however, Queen is another chapter of Minaj's good but largely meandering and inconsistent full-length album output.

A prevailing quantity of the tracks is either forgettable or regrettable. Nas often sounds unenthused.

Instead of a magnum opus from an artist reaching the next level of his craft, or even a serviceable new album, Rolling Papers 2 feels like an awkward mixtape (or two) without much to say and too stoned to realize it's been rambling.

Phantastic Ferniture shares a certain retro spirit and thoughtfulness with Jacklin's work as a singer/songwriter, even though others are involved in the writing here, and even when it's trying not to think too much.

A diverting if inconsequential EP filled with a lot of flippant humor and a little serious reflection.

The record is a little shaky, but it's to the band's benefit that they retain a desire to not be so serious. At those moments, the Vaccines deliver some rock & roll spark.

At their best, Chromeo are a big, dumb party, the embodiment of guilty pleasure much like the cheesiest moments of the '80s hits they emulate. But a few choice songs, special guests, and Chromeo's studied arsenal of '80s signifiers can't keep Head Over Heels from growing tiresome, absent the hooks required to keep the party going.

Like Rae Sremmurd and Migos, these big-bass trap anthems owe much to their club-friendly vibe, but offer little in terms of substance or lasting impact.

Tim Wheeler--who produced the record on his own--is as much a craftsman as a songwriter, hammering out melodies and riffs, and his resulting tunes aren't fashionable, but they are sturdy.

Scorpion doesn't even come close to being one of his best; instead, it's a one-trick record stretched out into 25 endless tracks by an artist who's so deep into the self-obsessed, self-pitying rut he created for himself that he can't see daylight anymore.

Davies still possesses a sharp eye and sly sense of humor, so Our Country has its moments, but they're moments, not songs, and they're overwhelmed by his clumsy dramatic pretensions, which are undone by his reluctance to tie his theatricality into an actual narrative.

That's a lot of songs about life and death, but The Blues Is Alive and Well has a lot of songs in general--a full 15, lasting well over an hour. This excessive length means there's a lot of room for levity, too.

While the album could benefit from some tightening-- the middle stretch stalls the momentum--Expectations affirms Rexha's songwriting prowess, ear for catchy hooks, and ability to pull emotion from otherwise serviceable radio pop.

They haven't quite arrived on a focused, cohesive sound yet. They certainly have something to say about the state of London nightlife, however, and it's worth paying attention to their insightful observations.

Ye can feel uneven, sometimes boring, and more indulgent than usual, but it's a fascinating peek into West's psyche.

On Nightstand, she almost splits the difference, softening her tone but not abandoning the crunchy effervescence of prior albums.

While in some ways Testing is more musical than anything we've heard from A$AP Rocky before, it's also more confused, with ideas and musical shifts colliding at times to the point of randomness.

Collectively, the songs play like movements of a single work, making for a consistent set of low-light, David Lynch-ian ambience.

Despite these two tracks ["Psy-Fi/Fantasy" and "Forever Jung"] and the presence of electronics, 1984 is memorable for its folky, Scout Finch-like recollections that mix the playful, unfortunate, and innocent.

Not everyone who digs Donovan's more rock-oriented projects will connect completely with How to Get Your Record Played in Shops, but if you want to experience his musical vision in primal form, this merits your time and attention.

While the acoustic treatment is more effective on some tracks than others (certain Alex lyrics and melodies demand noise, including "Filthy Luck"), the naked distress of these versions often delivers its own power.

Beerbongs & Bentleys is an apt reflection of his lavish lifestyle and his subsequently begotten hardships, but its attempts at sincerity work only when Post Malone stops trying so hard.

The album isn't an album of a moments, it's a collection that sustains a mood. A mood that's ragged and slack, but too dulled to charm.

Godfather II isn't bad, but coming after a career highlight, it's quite disappointing.

While Megaplex has its moments, the pleasures are fleeting and listeners aren't left with much meat to stick to their bones.

Working with producer Shawn Everett (the War on Drugs, Alabama Shakes), Sheff has crafted his least-Okkervil River-sounding Okkervil River outing to date, employing a colorful palette of sonic hues that flirt with everything from soft rock and soul to left-field '80s synth pop and Beatlesque classic rock.

As was the case with Hills End, the sonic and architectural puppetry is meticulous and heartfelt, but the absence of any sort of innovation induces a sort of pleasant fatigue that grows decidedly less agreeable with repeated spins.

As odd Neil Young albums go, Paradox doesn't hold a candle to Americana or A Letter Home, but this could have been trimmed down to an EP and it would have worked better. Fans will want to give it a listen, but they might not pull it off the shelf again for a while.

Shaggy and Sting might not first appear to be an ideal match, but they're both rooted in reggae and are both international stars, so they share a vernacular that helps turn 44/876 into a surprisingly enjoyable pan-international pop album.

By grounding it so heavily in the metal that served Spinal Tap so well, Shearer turns Smalls Change into a bit of a grueling hourlong experience--there may be the occasional taste of prog pomp or a Richard Thompson cameo, but it's all in the context of hard rock--but listened to as a series of EPs, the craft behind its silliness shines through and it's quite palatable. Which makes it not all that different from a John Entwistle album.

America succeeds in representing its namesake: it's confused, inspirational, and, like Thirty Seconds To Mars circa 2018, at a serious crossroads where the future is uncertain but oddly hopeful.

Pearson's point has been made: he's upended the high expectations his 2011 album set, no longer seeming like a soul-baring troubadour. Whether that was worth a seven year wait, only fans can decide.

Taken on its own terms, Revamp is dull, but its companion album Restoration: Reimagining the Songs of Elton John and Bernie Taupin--a modern country tribute that takes chances--reveals what a missed opportunity this is.

Sometimes, Expectations can be generic, like on "Sleepover" and "He'll Never Love You," which could have been released by any of the aforementioned singers. However, despite this occasional dip into indistinguishable pop territory, Kiyoko's debut hints at untapped potential from a fresh voice with a relatable perspective.

It's a breezier listen than its predecessor, but the Voidz's willingness to try anything--whether it works or not--still might be too much for all but their most die-hard fans.

Tthe effect is utilitarian for lethargic revelers and humorous for teetotalers.

He's certainly less distinctive as a rapper than he is as a singer--both lyrically and vocally--original only for the level of his combativeness and the number of times he references his luxury coupe and wrist wear.

World Beyond amplifies how efficient Erasure's own arrangements are, while at the same time giving Bell more space to command the room, which he does, with nuanced performances.

While it's not so much a step back as it is more of the same, fans of this emo revival sound should find enough pain and yearning here to elicit pangs of nostalgia (or, if the wounds are fresher, a sympathetic shoulder to emote on).

Bible of Love is an admirable turn for the former Doggfather--now grandfather--and serves as a wholesome but inessential addition to Snoop's protean catalog.

Because the Fratellis are no longer rushing toward the finish line, In Your Own Sweet Time can seem a little stiff and fussy, but the group's instincts remain sound, and that helps turn this album into something handsome instead of something stuffy.

AmeriKKKant is just a depressing slog through and through, perfectly summed up by its Statue of Liberty faceplant cover art.

It's a bit of a shame that the record is so half-baked, but somewhat predictable as their creativity has been slowly waning with each new album.

The album's scope and ambition are admirable, but the group sound best when they're full of energy, and their slower, more reserved moments can be difficult to get excited over.

Maturing past their screamo years was a necessary endeavor, but on Wait for Love, PBTT feel a bit stuck in phase two.

All this feverish digital desperation makes the already clamorous M A N I A feel positively cacophonic: it may only be 39 minutes but it's one long ride.

A set that is less scattered stylistically--dominated by tropical house and trap stylings--yet less consistent quality-wise.

His gentle pleadings and luring lines evoke lightheadedness, and at times lack enunciation, like he was just wheeled out of oral surgery and had his water laced with an aphrodisiac.

With its mix of intriguing sounds and occasionally underwhelming songwriting, Always Ascending feels more like a first effort than the band's actual debut did. As it stands, it's a somewhat shaky but promising start for the revamped Franz Ferdinand.

They sound like a band treading water, desperately looking for their place in the modern pop landscape and never deciding whether to go pop or stay totally weird. This indecision leaves them stuck in the middle of the road, which isn't a very interesting place to be.

Conceptually muddled, qualitatively uneven fifth full-length.

These old-fashioned album rockers are so loud and awkward, they overshadow the excellent singer/songwriter album that lurks at the core of I Knew You When. Such imbalance makes I Knew You When a bit incoherent, yet in its quietest and angriest moments, it offers some of the best music Seger has made in the 21st century.

Here Come the Runts doesn't shine or resonate like Awolnation's previous material, though it is quite clear that Aaron Bruno's songwriting abilities are understated. His penchant for effortlessly combining bright melody and harmony with gritty distortion and towering walls of sound never ceases to entertain.

Die-hard fans may appreciate the musical switcheroos on The Worm's Heart, but others may not understand the need for them.

While the bulk of Underworld is immediately enjoyable, there is a lot of material that is ultimately unmemorable, despite a handful of key tracks that serve to satiate until the next release.

While the feisty, Imagine Dragons-meets-Twisted Sister vibe remains their forte, it's Vale's pop proclivities that ultimately win out, suggesting that future endeavors may rely less on fighting the man, and more on working alongside him.

It looks like they were having fun, but sounds slightly less so--overall, it's clear that no one here was expecting to blow the industry apart; instead, they sound content just making music and recording the experience.

Full Closure and No Details is messy and not entirely focused, but it possesses charm and character, and points to greater things ahead from Cohen.

Lost at Last, Vol. 1 is filled with loose ends and mess. ... Even if Langhorne Slim can't come up with the tunes to suit his sound, that sound is bewitching enough to make Lost at Last, Vol. 1 worth a listen.

Wood$ still writes primarily about his indulgences--liquor, weed, pills, women whose acquiescence evidently falls short of his standard--and occasionally shows some vulnerability.

On Pressure, the solid if routine follow-up to Trap or Die 3, Jeezy doesn't deviate from his standard set of themes. He's still rhyming about his rise from the bottom, the product he's shifting, and all the disposable wealth and women that have come with it, all the while castigating would-be detractors and snitches.

Provocative and muddled, Revival percolates with ambition but doesn't lack in laziness either.

Stranger has its cloud-rap niche and should please listeners eager to enter this world, but casual rap fans should arm themselves with enough patience and caffeine before taking the plunge.

Covered in a shiny electronic gloss, the album flits between slow-burners and mellow pop.

The future will not be too kind if subsequent efforts continue to climb the stairway to heaven, but there are worse ways to get your Led out. Ramble on, gents.

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.

Ultimately, Tribute to 2 is uneven and fuzzy. When it works, it's lovely; when it doesn't, it's a head-scratcher. This is for fans only.

Neil is making music for the moment and he doesn't much care if it lasts beyond that day or not, and while living in the moment is a good way to get through life, it doesn't do much for albums.

Retro-conning the existing Songs of Experience material to suit the political climate wasn't the easiest task and the album often shows its seams, particularly when Bono decides to tackle the crisis head-on.

Versatile certainly has its flaws and will likely appeal mostly to longtime fans, but Morrison invests himself in each tune, singing as if he wrote them. This is head and shoulders above similar efforts by his peers.

Ultimately, listeners who can embrace the idiosyncrasies of Rothman's voice and the throwback production (don't miss the Kristin Kontrol track, "Jordan," for that niche Casio-and-saxophone sound) will find an intriguing if hit-and-miss set of underlying songs with strokes of classic Brill Building and sophisti-pop.

The tracks feel more like musical poems than songs. Poetic lyrics that refer to ogres, unicorns, and ghosts only reinforce this impression. Taken together, the album may challenge even some indie-tuned ears, but at its best, its catchy, composed strangeness is refreshing and compelling.

Over the course of the album, Sia tries to cover all the moods of the season: "Ho Ho Ho" gets into the Christmas spirit with gin, bourbon, and loopy cartoon sound effects; "Puppies Are Forever" could be from a children's holiday album; and "Sunshine" finds Sia helping a sad friend with heroic doses of Christmas cheer. However, some of the album's best moments tone down the merriment.

Low in High School can seem as aurally conflicted as it is politically, and that may be an appropriate look for Morrissey in 2017: He's opted for a mad world of his own creation and doesn't much care whether his fans follow or not.

Upon repeated plays, these lyrics fade, as does the monochromatic production, and what's left is a coming of age album anchored by some strong Swift songs, most of which are bunched at the end of the record.

As it stands, New Shapes of Life is a solid record that connects quite often on an emotional level, but is far too easy to tune out and shift to the background, something that can almost never be said about any of Carr's previous work.

Better then to treat World Wide Funk less like an addition to an immense discography and more like a porta-party.

Discounting Losing's debt to the past, this is a high-grade garage rock record chock-full of emotionally honest, melodically engaging tunes. It may feel a little too familiar for those who experienced the '90s alt-rock boom firsthand, but those who didn't will no doubt be able to extract and enjoy its vibrancy.

It has a few worthy cuts and in its ungainly construction, it holds true to the weirdness of most of Russell's discography.

There's none of the emotional mess that has enlivened some of P!nk's best work, and while this sense of calm may be well earned, it does result in a tamer record.

As they're both charismatic singers with a way with an elliptical melody, it's pleasant enough, but by the time its 45 minutes wrap up, Lotta Sea Lice feels like a party where the hosts are having a much better time than their guests.

Pinewood Smile should be all killer no filler, but late-album offerings like the vapid "Happiness" and the infantile no-fatties ballad "Stampede of Love"--Spinal Tap's "Big Bottom" was ludicrous and infantile, but it wasn't cruel--suck some air out of the room, making the whole thing feel a little stale, which is the last thing you want from a project that so fetishizes another era.

Double Dutchess couldn't possibly match the commercial success of The Dutchess, and much of it is merely adequate, but Fergie is demonstrably as energized, and having a ball with nothing left to prove.

The Desaturating Seven is unlikely to attract new fans. Typically eccentric, it's an interesting exercise, although nonessential outside the sphere of Primus/Claypool devotees.

2017's ambitious full-length Emperor of Sand saw the progressive/sludge metal veterans delivering a heavy-hearted concept album about grief, and while Cold Dark Place's title would suggest an extension of that narrative, it's more of a loosely knit addendum that illuminates the latter outings' soul-searching proclivities by proxy.

Now feels fussy, as if every element was triple-guessed because the pressure to have a triumphant comeback was too great.

Stills and Collins have a gentle, easy chemistry and the studio-slick supporting performances provide a nice bed for a project that is less nostalgia than a reassuring reminder of the comfort of growing old together.

It's a clunky end to a disappointing album; one that sounds less like a reinvention and more like a giant step down a path best left unexplored further. Maybe they can strip back down to a trio, get their pedals back, and return to being a first class psych band instead of second rate indie rock troubadours.

Starr remains fond of late-period Beatles, goosed with a bit of arena rock volume, and since he's working with a group of well-seasoned pros, this guitar pop is all well crafted and amiable.

Of the pair, Vol. 1 is the most interesting lyrically, but it's uneven--even boring at times--musically, particularly in the last third.

The album may take an unexpected tone, but it's not without its seductions. David Metcalf handles the majority of vocals with a haunting, Nick Cave-like quality that comes with an air of noir-ish suspense, and arrangements that highlight ensemble vocals and animated percussion without encroaching on the realm of stomping banjo folk are, at the time of release, a novelty.

One could easily imagine hearing these songs at a store and bopping along as you shop. However, where their '90s idols oozed personality and hooks that defined an era, on their album, Fifth Harmony often just sound fine.

Anyone who missed Hype Williams the first time around should start with any of the group's early albums rather than this, but there's no guarantee that they'll make any more sense.

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

Overall, Issa is a competent statement that demonstrates promise from the young rapper.

The release is certainly pleasant, but it often seems too laid-back and sluggish to really get excited about.

The album as a whole seems unfocused, and while the producer deserves kudos for making his most mature work yet, Foreign Light contains too few high points to warrant a recommendation.

Despite the array of reference points touched upon, they manage to maintain a uniqueness in their work that's both confrontational and entertaining. Bands like Breakfast Muff are reclaiming punk from its heritage status, and molding it in their own image. The result is anything but ambivalent.