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."