The real Slim Shady is officially in real danger of becoming clichéd. His free pass expires here.

A single CD's worth on two discs, Hurry Up indulges many watery washes ("Wait") but restrains sound collage use ("Echoes of Mine") in waiting for another 21st century merry-go-round ("New Map").

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.

With a desire to reach a wider audience, there always comes some compromise. Le Tigre's battle cry for revolution, girl-style, has now been sweetened for mass consumption. It shouldn't go down this easy.

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

Desgraciadamente, that's when Radiolina smashes against the wall. Fragments--stadium chants--rather than songs compound a larger issue of 'Rainin in Paradize' drenching the rest of the album.

Begins as a curious listen and ends up just being a drag.

I can't tell if The Wind is a final bid for immortality or some kind of dirty joke.

An inconsistent collection of life-affirming pop that lurches uncomfortably like a 50-year-old twerking at a bar mitzvah.

There's no question Miller can wring plenty of twisted emotion out of tender love songs. He's one hell of a songwriter. Problem is that even when working with uber-producers Jon Brion and George Drakoulias, Miller misses his bandmates.

Although Home isn't entirely successful, it doesn't get out-and-out boring until the second half, laden with generic songs about believing in love and needing more of it, plus a lullaby that sounds like Don Henley's "The End of the Innocence."

Loaded with fake anthems and wholly failing to capture the anarchistic musical charisma of past work, Freedom is a worst-case scenario. Refused was better off dead.

Unlike the trio's livelier breakthrough, 1997's Apartment Life, the rest of All Hours is functionally pleasant but largely unmemorable background music for restaurants with exposed ceiling beams.

Truly hyph-lite, LP four, Everywhere at Once, drops more fizzle than pop over a rote canvas of 1980s B-boy stance and 'Hott 2 Deff' breaks.

Much here to relish: cold riff sleet ("Parasitic Scriptures of the Sacred Word"), while warplane thrust in "Death to the Architects of Heaven" and backup "An End to Nothing" top off Blood for the Master. But sound execution can't overcome a sadly generic whole.

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.

Cash's voice has always had its limitations, and on "Danny Boy" and the Beatles' "In My Life," they're all too apparent.

Fitting that the Eagles' first studio gathering since 1979's The Long Run should be a Wal-Mart exclusive, since the entire 2-CD affair is a generic sprawl aimed for the largest (read: lowest) common denominator.

Three weeks spent writing and recording alone has resulted in a cathartic outpouring that's both half-baked and hauntingly memorable.

While Pollard's nothing if not prolific, if ever he needed an editor to cut some passages and refocus others, it's here on From a Compound Eye.

Tunes borrowing from Oasis and Echo & the Bunnymen via the clean, anthemic sound producer Dave Sardy provided for Jet, the UK quartet doesn't even try to sound new.

The young Brit's debut LP calls into question whether he's the next great electronic singer-songwriter or the worst bedroom-emo dubstep producer.

Self-assurance draws out opening salivation 'Down Among the Wine and Spirits' seemingly longer than its three minutes, and 'Complicated Shadows' follows suit, but anything longer--and almost everything is--stagnates.

All that talent still adds up to a disappointment filled with gauzy arrangements and magnified by Alvin's rare lackluster vocals.

Synthesizers are set to beverage warmer – nearly nil – but where a back-to-basics drums/bass/guitar bash continues since peak return Vapor Trails, pinpoint production to extract hooks from hard rock homogeneity continues to elude them.

As much as Evil Urges indulges, it rarely satisfies.

M83 are master recyclers of Eighties soundscapes on 2011 double-album Hurry Up, We're Dreaming. First offering since then, Junk attempts the same, but jumps the shark in the process.

Top-loaded with mildly engaging songs drawn out past the point of intrigue, Multi-Love sorely misses the psychedelic fancy that informed its predecessors.