Well intentioned but frequently clumsy (“I want to be Hugh Jackman/ you know jacked, man”), the record demonstrates that the duo’s skills haven’t yet caught up to their ambition.

Mostly, though, Victorious simply colors within the lines drawn by others, scratching the itch of those already inclined to seek it out.

It’s a hard album to dislike, and an equally hard one to love.

Tracks like “Death Came,” “Dust,” and “Bitter Memory” have great lyrics, yet the clear conclusion is that Williams should’ve condensed her second self-released double-disc set since 2014 into one record--two is just too much.

“When You Are Young,” “Pale Snow,” and “Learning to Be” sound transitional even at full length, struggling for traction and momentum. “I Don’t Know How to Reach You” is grand and gloriously dramatic, propulsive, and vaguely off in the best Suede tradition, guitarist Richard Oakes pinging in sad ecstasy in tandem with singer Brett Anderson’s preening, come-hither mope.

Adhering to basic rock formalism, the all-women quartet captures a raw primitivism that’s undeniably appealing in an era when most mainstream rock acts are as manicured as Bravo housewives. Unfortunately, too many songs like “I’ll Be Your Man,” a sleepy (hungover?) stab at hooky, sunshine rock, seem like first drafts.

The wounded “Better Place” and soothing “Superman” stand out, showing how Platten’s songwriting skills can be used to tease out emotional subtleties. But too often here she’s battling stuffed-to-the-gills arrangements.

Adams starts promisingly with the rockabilly-etched “You Belong to Me” and mission statement “Go Down Rockin’ ” (”I ain’t gonna slow down/ I’m gonna go down rockin’ ”). But things flatten out with the repetitive “Do What You Gotta Do” and the embarrassing “Thunderbolt.”

The music was recorded in a Nashville studio with few overdubs, which lends a welcome organic crunch at times. But overall, the consistency is not what it could be.

Raury’s spirit and intent are laudable, but his broad lyrics and potpourri musical approach need refining.

The Pittsburgh MC has undeniably matured; a firmer command of internal rhymes adds slight intricacy to his verses. Unfortunately, he still sounds like the sum of his influences.

His versatility, combined with a high-profile guest list, conspires against him; among 14 tracks, Scott conjures just a handful of moments that hint at untapped reserves of talent.

Method Man is mostly in a lower gear (“Water”), only rising up to inspired heights intermittently. Augmented by a serviceably brittle production, the numerous MCs offer more energy than consistency, making it difficult for the 19 tracks to sustain momentum.

It’s a cheesy plunge into dance-pop that shows a crass haste to grab Top 40 radio play. Many of these synth-driven, computerized songs land with a thud.

Some of the 25-year-old artist’s songs here seem unrealized, his slim insights into relationships not as revealing as his often eloquent guitar work. Self-reflection turns to self-absorption, and never quite resonates on a universal level.

Displaying sharp technique and wordplay, he promises something special. Disappointingly, the record quickly devolves into pro forma bluster as the rapper never reveals himself, opting instead for familiar thug posturing.

These carefully manicured, melodic songs are much too transparent and lightweight, though, to leave much of an impression.

“Living With War,” his 2006 album about President George W. Bush, was a dud, and so is this new one.

Too bad that the rest of Forever feels incomplete without EDM’s streamers, lasers, and giant crowds.

“Far Afghanistan” is an interesting detour, a new side of Taylor as he ponders the hardships of a soldier and the devastation of war. It’s not enough to distract from the glaring fact that Before This World doesn’t add much to Taylor’s beloved catalog, but doesn’t detract from it, either.

Unfortunately, at times he still comes across as Usher-lite.

With the thunderous blues-rock of “White Sky” (where his voice takes on gospel fervor), the glam momentum of “Long Time,” and the watery vibe of “These City Streets,” he remains defiantly all over the map.

All of the things that made Snoop Snoop--his effortless, laconic flow, clever wordplay, and narrative skills--are almost completely absent.

In the hands of the grandiose Mumford & Sons, this shading [similar to the National] doesn’t quite work, forcing the band to shape-shift in a way so it sounds... well, not quite like itself.

If a collaboration with Snoop Dogg, “1, 2 1, 2,” exceeds expectations, it also reflects this record’s flaw: It needs more Raekwon.

The party anthems (“Lit Up”) aren’t as convincing as they once were, yet his star producers mostly serve him well; only David Guetta steers him wrong.

No Pier Pressure sounds simultaneously over- and underproduced: loaded with layers upon layers of instruments, but unable to shake the flat, bright sheen of something recorded in a basement studio.

If this derivative album shows that he’s not reinventing the wheel, at least the wheel is still rolling.