The New Danger is as overextended as it is self-indulgent.

Workmanlike from start to finish, only the brain-stretchers bear lasting distinction.

Fool Metal Jack looks at modern America with kaleidoscope eyes, but it's more bad parody than pastiche.

Four producers besides Ingram are listed. And still he's come up with another generic disc of heartland rock that some call country.

A scattershot collection of wobbly garage-psych ("Virgin Mary Queen"), broken country ("Misery Again"), and promising pop ("Hanging Around," "Don't Waste My Time").

The vocals long to break out of their high-flitting preciousness, and despite the polish of the production, the album as a whole seems unable to wrangle its various impulses, revealing ONOM trying to move beyond the dated charm of their debut but not quite sure where to go.

Seventy-three crack-in-the-earth's-crust minutes liquefy into the same basic miasma as the sophomore LP that inspired them, yet more streamlined, less apt to wander into the ambient dead zones like "Caviglia," a problematic disconnection of the disc's overall forward thrust.

Working on an epic, operatic canvas, Foster and his bandmates hide the spinach of existential angst into sweetly binge-worthy dance pop.

Autobiography covers up whatever emotional depth is lacking with tight, glossy arrangements.

50 sounds redundant.

Derivative but entertaining.

Sadly, the last third of this Boy sinks, but by then the damage is already done.

A cursory listen is stultifyingly dull and alarmingly same-y, a pale follow-up to 2004's One Plus One Is One. A more careful ear reveals the sort of complexity we've come to expect from our Boy over the years.

On Jigsaw, erstwhile Jay-Z protege Lady Sovereign reaffirms that she's the singular queen bee in the hive of the still-buzzing London grime syndicate.

Twista & Bluesman Ceddy St. Louis hybrid a blues toaster bringing out the best of BB, and fellow H-town boss Slim Thug cruises "Ridin' Slow." B boasting "I Git Down 4 Mine" rides nobody shotgun and again shoots straighter for it, same as "Snow Money" and "Let 'Em Know." Time for a solo joint.

The devilish duo flips dubstep, EDM, and Dr. Dre's 2001-era G-funk with nary a hitch.

It's all perfectly serviceable pop, if a little dull.

Satisfied lacks a contemporary six-string firebrand like Ely's late partner in crime Jesse Taylor and a team of young production bucks kicking in the stall all night.

The band's full-length debut, however, still turns up drier than Laurel Canyon. Like most of Modern Rituals, "Nothing's Wrong" because it was assembled piecemeal in Pro Tools, stiff and lifeless.

Methyl Ethel's sophomore LP begins promisingly enough. ... Then things go south. "Act of Contrition" and "Groundswell," whose slogging beat and island vibe sound wildly out of place, are clunkers.

Save for Lyfe Jennings' refreshing cues on 'Hood Star,' there's nothing original about Last.

Whatever's on Your Mind is as scattershot as the band that made it.

Iggy Azalea's a fun girl booty-shaking a few morsels of neon, hashtag-spangled pop.

Summer's gone, but the buoyant vibe to The Sound of Sunshine extends year-round.

Lacking the band's prior specificity, too much of the album languishes in uncommitted sprawl.

If you've followed Wilson's treacherous saga, it's heartening how upbeat Getting' in Over My Head sounds, even with a fair number of tracks misfiring.

Just how bad can an LP produced by "Neil Young & Booker T. Jones with Duck Dunn and Poncho Sampedro" be? Not bad at all.

Reed's wraparound originals are mostly vaudeville, which is to say laughable. [Note: The score listed is for the 2xCD version. The single CD version received a lower score of 1/5 stars.]

The onetime rapper's new foray into Lionism deviates so far from the norm that its proprietor's been edged out, melded into a nonconfrontational reggae singer whose drops can't muster a single memorable moment.

The edges have all been sawed off of Lynne's sound by producer and co-songwriter Glen Ballard, and she appears as a positively wimpy adult.

If Ghostland Observatory's serious about more than modern raves, the locals need to bring in an outside producer (Austin's Wolfgang Gartner?) to help construct something fresh. Otherwise, the party's just about over.

Between the two best tracks that bookend the UK quartet's third LP struggles an album slighter than the last, which was already thinner than the first.

This is no five-star, but the disc's greatest wobble is also its strongest suite: It genre-hops.

With too many songs trying too hard, Duranies will still go hungry for quality.

Pharrell's all-too-shallow schtick becomes monumentally tired over the course of an entire album.

Hunted by cryptomusicologists with a zeal once reserved for Zimmerman's Basement musings and the Pixies' purple phase, this addition is alluring.

Square-peg/round-hole pairings of the Kinkster and guests seldom jell as duets (Bruce Springsteen), but covers from Lucinda Williams ("Long Way From Home") and Jackson Browne ("Waterloo Sunset") make for choice B-sides.

Bogged down by Meth's lackadaisical approach and reliance on guest appearances, Tical 0: The Prequel falls flat on its befuddled front.

Touches of Simon & Garfunkel lift "Catalogue" and "Gold," but the lingering harmonies feel more forced and measured than natural.

It's a tale of two cities that was better off reaching an accord for a single CD.

This is not the sound of a band with anything on the line.

Sure, there's Somethin 'Bout Kreay, but it's not good.