It comprises 11 tracks that sound like intros in search of songs. It is bland of lyric and tinny of sound. The rhythms plod alarmingly.

Ultimately, the witty lyricism of Wale's early material is too few and far between, as this set leans heavily on misogynistic themes and self-centred musings.

Unconvincing and overbearing, it's like being ambushed by the cast of a Broadway rock musical.

That Panic of Girls gives way from innovation to imitation is regrettable--but in an era in which bands are content to simply wheel out their back catalogue in return for a fat pay check, it's admirable that Blondie are still here and still looking forward, even if only fleetingly.

A Moving Picture proves a more nakedly ambitious--in the humdrum sense of the word--follow-up, which struggles to strike the right balance between street cred and pop appeal.

For a listener who's only been aware of Mraz by reputation, this is no instant-fix point of entry. It relies on past experiences, knowledge of what the artist is capable of rather than anything he delivers with consistency across these 12 songs.

Otherwise every passing second is a vocal battle against a declining attention span, like a clicked finger in the face, forever.

It's not groundbreaking, and it's not that interesting.

At least five of these songs [out of twelve] should've remained on the cutting room floor.

Maddeningly tame, neither replicates the whiskey-soaked sleaze and instantly classic riffs that have earned Slash his deservedly legendary status. Thank goodness, then, for three reliable road warriors, who ride in on a much-needed rescue mission.

It's the dampest campfire hoedown you ever did hear.

Right now, for all its impressive fireworks, it feels hollow as its title.

The band struggles to dredge up any sort of sparkle, no matter how finely-forged the hook.

Margins struggles to rise above the ordinary. Fans of Maxïmo Park will not be disappointed, but it's frankly hard to see anyone else caring very much.

Hollywood Undead are content to deliver cliches--more out of a lack of imagination than cynical opportunism, but it still smacks of both. That's why to seasoned ears or any genre fan requiring more than more of the same, they're very, very boring.

There may be arguments for Rusko's moves here; it's just that they're not very well executed.

Blue Slide Park ends up a charm-bereft everyman hip hop record merely ticking boxes required to shift units.

Here the daughter of bossa nova creator Joao Gilberto has made an album that either drowns in its own sensuousness and sentimentality.