The apprentice runs laps around the master throughout the 54-minute overstuffed marathon. Though toxic masculinity is his calling card, there’s only so many times Future can say he’s going to steal my girl without hesitation and I’ll wear it like a badge of honor before it becomes disinteresting.

In a crowd of colorful guests, Scott’s contributions can feel listless. His rapping is more dexterous than ever, but he’s still saying things like “deep in her throat… I’m her favorite beverage.” When Westside Gunn swans into the Alchemist-produced “LOST FOREVER” with “poles in the Rolls/…alligators on the toes,” it makes a decent Travis verse look bland and unfocused.

While there are some highlights on the album, they don't nearly make up for the glaring flaws throughout, the lack of noteworthy lyrics or the redundancy in topics, flows, hooks and beats.

Existing within that world that overlooks lyrical competence or any moral deficiencies, there are enough instances where the veteran’s effortless style starts veering too close to effort-less.

Across the album, there’s a looming question--what makes any of these canned Confessions even remotely Dangerous? If Logic wants to be above commercial Hip Hop, he will have to try a lot harder than this. Scratch that, maybe he should stop trying this hard.

For all of its powerful lyricism, Prisoner Of Conscious is not a particularly dynamic listen.

As a byproduct of a team that has actualized potential for groundbreaking contributions, MellowHigh misses the mark by a wide margin.

B.o.B. has been adamant about his latest album being created organically, yet that doesn't justify the lack of cohesion or quality found on Strange Clouds.

This album is a polished, lateral step with an accompanying barcode for Weeknd’s fans. And outsiders looking to understand his appeal are likely better off downloading the three mixtapes that preceded the album.

What My Own Lane ultimately lacks is a true sense of creative risk from Kid Ink.

At the end of the day, I Am’s overall passable production and flashes of potency and strength keep it afloat for a time.

If only its last few tracks were just as focused and compelling [as "Wake Me Up"]. Lift Your Spirit only suffers when it winds down, as it panders to Blacc’s booming audience.

It’s when Bieber’s honesty feels less-than-honest and the tracks feel less-than-groundbreaking that this album falls short of the heights it should by all means be capable of reaching.

Overall, the album lacks the shine and luster of the previous two Maybach Music Group compilations.

Personality aside, Chris Brown’s ability to succeed artistically at delivering sounds in all three sectors of urban Pop makes this release a great, yet disjointed listen.

His seemingly unshakeable integrity and forthright spirit in music making shrouds Ludaversal in serious tones, marking a stark departure from the Georgia emcee’s status quo, making this one a novel and welcome addition to his catalog.

There’s no number of stars that can save this album from aiming high, falling short, and still somehow being quite entertaining at moments along the way.

When Macklemore deviates from his familiar sound, he gets mixed results.

The headliners don't seem like they're really trying, so even when the other acts are, they're still smothered by their leaders' apathy.

Lacking any cohesion, Kiss The Ring is a series of single tracks that hit or miss.

There is more to Black Rob than "Whoa," but there is nothing that quite lives up to it on Game Tested, Streets Approved.

Though French Montana fits well on "Diamonds," his presence distracts from the youngster's appeal with similarly dull results stemming from rivals Young Jeezy & Rick Ross on "Understand Me" and an updated "3Hunna" respectively. These flaws along with the senseless experimental delivery of "Laughin' To The Bank" water down an otherwise exciting listen for anyone willing to humor Keef's madness.

The heart of the issue with Lip Lock is that Eve hasn’t restored the command she once had, which subsequently allows these new sounds to lead her down a road of uncertainty.

With Selling My Soul, Masta Killa seems to have winged his way through songs that are lazy and conceptually not well put together.

Whether or not listeners make it through all 24 tracks on Funeral, it’s easy to see what Wayne is definitely in his own world. His rhyming remains unlike anyone else in the entire genre and despite this album not being his strongest, you don’t have to go far to find a Wayne quotable that inherently makes one admire his seasoned lyrical dexterity.

In Pieces misses the mark sounding too much like a rebrand for Chloe instead of earnest songwriting.

There are so many interesting, fascinating, and captivating things Yeat does with his voice, but very rarely does that consist of compelling words coming out of his mouth. If he consistently put bars together, this would easily be one of the best albums released this year so far. That’s how good everything else about the record is.

30 tracks is just indigestible and frankly unacceptable, especially with a stark lack of variety. Perhaps it’s a streaming/algorithm strategy or maybe even a way to fulfill his contract with Atlantic Records in attempts to leave the label early; either way The Last Slimeto can’t be enjoyed as a full “project” but instead a half dozen songs scattered across playlists that have the same album cover.