Since her 2004 smash, “Goodies,” Ciara has had trouble finding the right commercial song and it appears she’s still searching.

Those expecting Wale to finally take his game to the next level will have to wait as his third record is inconsistent and mostly forgettable.

It’s the first Eisley album that fails to improve on its predecessor, recapitulating earlier ideas while seemingly in retreat.

The-Dream barely breaks new ground artistically and the set doesn’t approach his finest effort, “Love vs. Money,” but the music is often so seductive it’s easy to ignore a misstep (“New Orleans”) and often distracting auto-tuning.

The Moroccan born New Yorker’s long-delayed debut finally arrives, and much of it lands with blunt force without quite demonstrating a fully formed vision.

Demi sounds like Lovato’s grasping for hits, when she used to sound like she was making music and having fun.

Little Boots’ hooks rarely fall flat but can’t fully take off, either--they’re chained to the dance floor.

The disc’s more subtle moments are also the sweeter ones, with just enough whimsy to honor the brand and earn this new crop of self-styled mutants their name.

Intentions may have been good, but the result smacks of carpetbagging.

It flat-out confounds.

On “Jackal,” O’Brien’s digressive songwriting was held together by a unifying palette. Here, he’s all over the place.

Despite two potent blasts, “Gunwalk” and “No Worries,” the disc is both numbingly haphazard and inconsequential.

The album may be based on a true story, but it doesn’t offer enough personal touches to distinguish it from a lot of other tales coming out of Nashville.

The Strokes’ hallmarks--those lean melodies, that steely interplay among guitarists Nick Valensi and Albert Hammond Jr. and bassist Nikolai Fraiture, the urgency of Julian Casablancas’s vocals--are largely absent on Comedown Machine, their fifth studio album. In their place is a looseness that’s refreshing enough, until you realize these guys are perhaps running short on ideas.

The best way to enjoy What About Now is to not listen too closely, ignore the clumsy lyrics (“I feel just like Picasso, and you’re my masterpiece”), and ignore that it’s watered down U2 flirting with pop-country.

It works better in theory than in practice.

He sounds completely adrift here, struggling to articulate vulnerability or trying to figure out relationships. More problematic, he seems to have cherry-picked beats off a thrift store rack.

The album continues in the vein of longtime Groban producer David Foster’s Olympic-ceremony pop: panoramic in scope, the better for Groban’s clear, tremulous tenor to stand on mountains and call out vague blandishments.

Despite the experimentation, most of the album sounds as brittle as a demo.

Harlem's A$AP Rocky finally delivers his long delayed major label debut, and while it builds on his mixtape legacy and emphasizes his strengths as an inventive stylist, it also amplifies his flaws.

There's nothing bad about these 13 tracks, but nothing remarkable either.

Ultimately, Pitbull sounds like a slave to the beat, while rhymes become an afterthought.

Even the club bangers ("Phresh Out the Runway" and "Numb," featuring Eminem) are heavy with bass that rumbles more in your chest instead of rattling your feet. Ballads work well for Rihanna, and this album has two of her finest.

There are missteps, including needless Auto-tune and a few of what sound like Rihanna or Katy Perry leftovers. And there are several tracks that sound mindlessly repetitive as sedentary listening experiences but will likely improve with the addition of a dancefloor.

Too often bloat tempers the brilliance.

The traditional tones and textures of country music are largely lost in the array of guitar solos that sound like Bon Jovi audition tapes.

Kiss's 20th studio album is a steady if unremarkable outing.

It lumps together all the rap tracks on the first half, and lets the pop fluff fill the rest.