It sounds good on paper, but the album unfolds as an undifferentiated wash of music, without the big toothsome melodies that have lifted John's music for decades.

Aside from an understandable naivete, Trainor's weaknesses are her stylistic cherry-picking and her compulsion to appear adorably relatable and socially correct all at once.

Neither a departure nor a return to Segall’s usual fuzzy form, Emotional Mugger asks a lot from the listener, and it doesn’t always ask nicely.

Produced for the most part by U2 collaborator Flood, the new album rarely operates at anything less than a frenzied fever pitch, with thundering percussion grooves, Leto's top-of-the-lungs yowl and wave after wave of Edge-style guitar theatrics.

It doesn’t all click, like when Imbruglia smooths over all the emotional grit of Damien Rice’s “Cannonball.” But her charms on Male win you over in the end.

The subtler, less stylized Wiped Out! keeps the palm-trees-at-twilight feel, but the sound is more hazy R&B than rock.

As on True, the nondance tracks are more or less power ballads, albeit with fairly pallid vocals.... The dance tracks are actually where most of this album’s pleasant surprises lie.

You either love or hate Pitbull's music, and sometimes a little of both when listening to the same album.

The album's most arresting moments are stuck in the shadows, mere teasers for an artist the listener knows exists, but is intentionally sidelined.

The chemistry works as expected, even if it never exceeds, or even reaches, the sum of its artists. There's no transcendent moment here, because the project is essentially a meeting of opposites who mostly stay in their lanes.

A handful of tracks strewn with cheesy metaphors shows the impersonality that mars Cuomo's post-Pinkerton songwriting, despite some redeeming musical qualities that reaffirm Weezer as a purveyor of feedback and fuzz (particularly "Cleopatra," a great rock single if you ignore the lyrics).

Caracal is the kind of effort that diehard fans might convince themselves to appreciate, and then never play again.

It all sounds amazing on the first couple of listens, but the wheat (songs like the title track and “Did You Know?”) separates quickly from the chaff. Regardless, The Scene Between opens up a whole new lane for an artist that would have been easy to write off.

Muse is one of the world's biggest rock bands, but for all its missionary zeal, Drones preaches to the converted.

While Turner is a worthy heir to such barrel-chested baritones as Don Williams, Randy Travis and Trace Adkins, his fourth album, "Haywire," is a study in inconsistent use of his vocal gift.

About half of them work, though which half might depend on your love or tolerance for the players involved.

The result is certainly more adventurous than anything from her peers, if a little forced.

Much of It's About Time is dense, cooking Southern rock. It can be frivolous (the bleacher-stomp shout-alongs "Club U.S.A." and "The Party's On") but has no problem nailing a groove.

It sounds like a collection of random one-offs rather than an album. Foxx's voice, falsetto and all, still sounds lovely, but he seems unsure exactly how he should use it.

Despite a few highlights, This Is Acting is scattered and forgettable next to the emotional 1000 Forms of Fear.

The nine-song album's softer ballads--like the piano-driven "What If"--distract from Derulo's powerhouse vocals. His talent is somewhat misused on the tune, blanketed beneath equal parts Auto-Tune and lyrical vagueness. However, the inclusion of club bangers like "The Sky's the Limit" and "Love Hangover" boost the set's energy.

What results is a new-ish, but not necessarily improved, Nickelback.

The overall sound might be slighter and less sprawling, but it's also more sharply focused.

The formidable 3rdEye ladies want badly to be a raw, stripped-down rock band, but despite their chops and the analog production, the performances are slightly anodyne, scrubbed of menace.

The album lacks the obvious potential hits to guarantee that, although the moody, Jeremih-featuring single "Like Me" is easy to get lost in. The album does, however, strike a graceful balance between gritty roots and big-budget sheen.

On Cheek to Cheek, Gaga justifies his [Tony Bennett's] faith--sometimes a bit too forcibly. Whereas Bennett is a master of restraint--a guy whose best performances play like melodic chat sessions--Gaga thrives on spectacle.

It's a promising teen's first album, and it will satisfy the ­longings of the keepers of fan Tumblrs. So far, though, Mendes' music is not nearly as inventive as his strategies to publicize it.

On Khalifa, he's characteristically mellow and melodic, mixing rhymes that are part equal parts braggadocio and motivational slogans in an almost singular pursuit of highs and riches. By design, none of the songs stand out, save for the Travis Scott featuring "Bake Sale," which wins mostly by sounding like an aired-out version of Scott's own hit "Antidote."

Grand Romantic has some moments more danceable than dour.

The recipe might be different, but the ingredients are largely the same.

An album that works better as a musical koan than it does a hip new collection of indie folk.

All that retro angst is more rote and less involving than the way its debut tried to square loud guitars with the hooky imperatives of chart pop. In the last several tracks, though, the energy returns.

The result is an album that doesn't quite reach the heights of Vessel, but nevertheless serves as evidence that one of pop's most daring duos isn't about to slow down--even if that means running into a few walls.

Accented by piano, glassy guitars, occasional strings and vocal harmonies inspired by ’90s R&B, the project’s highlights--“Deadwater,” “Weak” and “You’re the Best”--aren’t all that dissimilar from its lesser tracks: lovely, yet forgettable.

Fiasco turns Food & Liquor II into one long tirade -- everything sucks and no one's going to fix it.

The lyrical focus, along with raw production and eclectic instrumentation (including mandolin, strings and autoharp), give the 10-song set a heat that's honest and personal, but not quite the riveting bearing of souls that Heart is known for.

Young's scratchy vocal fails to complement its exquisitely cinematic orchestration until the final two lines show a fleshed-out poignancy. It's the same, too, with his blues performances.... At times, though, Young and his many collaborators do gel.

On Everything Is 4, some songs give him newfound definition, but then others distract from it.

Run is more of a technical accomplishment than an artistic one. Bruno the pop star is not nearly as appealing as Bruno the juggler.

Ink has clearly studied his success, and it feels strategic that Full Speed is sardine-packed with star collaborators.

Bundy's obvious affection for feisty predecessors like Loretta Lynn and Dolly Parton adds an appealing jolt to the music's already clever hooks and personal narrative. But what Bundy still needs to develop are the durable melodies and lyrical nuance that turned those artists' compositions into classics.

It's true that Eclipse unveils itself less coyly than previous Twin Shadow albums, and sounds more brashly contemporary. But it hazards turning generic in the process.

On Dahlia's debut, My Garden, she transcends the sum of her seemingly disparate influences, proving herself to be a relatively distinct artist, even if her risks don't always pay off.

While nothing on Repentless reaches similar heights of mayhem, overall the album is more focused and fierce than its predecessor, 2009’s Hanneman-assisted World Painted Blood.

The bum-outs outnumber the bangers by a decisive ratio on Ludaversal, but that speaks to the rapper's comfort in straddling dissimilar topics.

The music is more subdued than My Chemical Romance's, but Way's still not as understated as the influencers he's channeling. His storied themes of love and pain pop up throughout Hesitant Alien like embarrassing Facebook statuses. It's a largely smooth transition out of the dark and into the bright world of pop.

It's a quick listen, clocking in at less than 45 minutes, and the 10 tracks are laid-back--perhaps too much.

On its eighth full-length release, Glasgow, Scotland, indie pop group Belle & Sebastian ditch their sad-vibes-hidden-by-happy-melodies schtick in favor of legitimately upbeat songs.

The problem is that the hints of personality underneath the braggadocio overflowing on "Based on a T.R.U. Story" exist as faint flickers, pointing to a storytelling skill that has yet to be given the spotlight.

Given Healy's winsome vocals and his good-guy image, the grab at gravitas doesn't always connect.

Lil Wayne is back with the equally confounding Dedication 4, a messy rehashing of this year's respective rap bangers.

The band's first release since 2003, "The Chair in the Doorway," is too scattered -- and occasionally silly -- to make a serious re-impression.

Although the cleaner melodies and pop polish seem to mute the rapper's stream-of-consciousness salvos, he still shines on "Drop the World," featuring Eminem.

At times, Here Lies Love wobbles as a concept album, and listeners unfamiliar with Marcos' story may not initially understand the lyrical conceits. But it contains enough solid material to justify repeated listens.

Although a love for hydro is Cypress Hill's claim to fame, it's the more substantial tracks on "Rise Up" that smoke the competition.

Throughout Can't Be Tamed Cyrus seems checked out of her vocal performances, singing with neither the tween-queen enthusiasm of her Hannah Montana material nor the confrontational energy of 2008's Breakout.

Willowy Los Angeles art-rock group Warpaint summons a remarkably heady atmosphere on its debut album, The Fool, which follows a buzzed-about EP released last year on Los Angeles-based indie Manimal Vinyl.

Simply put, Weezer needs to exorcise the metal demons and find a balance that works.

The fresh material isn't likely to expand your idea of who Bret Michaels is.

Most of these strummy feel-good ditties-aw-shucks song titles include "Gotta Be Wrong Sometimes" and "Taking On the World Today"-make Jason Mraz sound like some kind of avant-garde noisemaker.

Interpol is undoubtedly a solid effort, but solid shouldn't be satisfying for a band that has proved to possess the talent of indie rock's elite class.

Clearly, Lambert has talent, but on Heart she's merely scratching the surface.

The album is a sprawling, experimental work defined more by ambient synth hum and field-recording rustle than by melodic hooks or danceable grooves.

Hood Billionaire lands in a dull gray area between feel-good retro rap (its first two singles are the Memphis homage "Elvis Presley Blvd" and the pleasant but forgettable jazz jangle of "Keep Doin' That [Rich Bitch]") and Rozay greatest-hits karaoke that tries and fails to recapture the impact of his bulletproof Teflon Don bombast.

Smoke + Mirrors may seem too recycled and belabored to entice the unconverted, but the hints of hidden depths are a pleasant surprise.

Lyrics like "You don’t have to be big and tall/To stand up and hold your own" (from "Miracles") play like inspirational memes. Still, their hearts are in such the right place that it's hard to totally root against them.

Who I Am is so polished and adult-sounding -trading teen pop moxie for organ and slide guitar-that one is left wondering whether the same songs about love, heartbreak and political curiosity wouldn't be a more satisfying evolutionary step in the hands of a scrappier troupe.

None of these tracks can match the best cuts on the act's first two albums for sheer catchiness.

Unfortunately, "Year" lacks the grandiose thematic concepts of previous outings as well as an immediate single, like past songs "A Favor House Atlantic" or "The Suffering."

Shock Value II packs plenty of heat from the layered beats, but never lets Timbaland shine as the artist he wants to become.

The tunes are competently rendered, but that actually makes them worse: That these guys are selling out shows as what amounts to a cover band is the kind of thing you need to be super-baked to wrap your head around.

Stone is clearly still finding her sound and, if Water is any indication, herself, too.