If you were expecting some next-level shit from Pharrell Williams on his self-produced solo debut, you're in for a huge disappointment.

If I didn't know better, I'd swear Jill Cunniff had crawled under a rock and refused to listen to any music since her old band, Luscious Jackson, split in 99.

If you already didn't like Brown – he would classify you as a "hater" – this album's combination of lewd (Wet The Bed, No Bullshit) and saccharine (Next 2 You, Should've Kissed You) content, delivered in that gross, oozing cadence of his, will only aggravate you further.

Those two qualities [Perry's sex appeal and goofy, self-effacing charm] are out of balance for most of the album, resulting in awkward jams like E.T. (Futuristic Lover) and Peacock.

There’s a mopey, self-pitying quality to the lyrics, and the duo never once connect with or transmit the sultry passion that existed between those 60s icons [Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot].

That comedy gap between concept and finished product appears to be par for the course with Black's ventures.

His subpar wordplay is easily out-rapped and out-sung by guests like Future and 2 Chainz.

Surprisingly, it’s a light and catchy bunch of convincing hip-hop- and R&B-influenced Timberlake-esque club pop.

The highlight is the laid-back Across The World with B.o.B, where Pitbull gets introspective for a minute. “Mr. 305” is at his best when tying together different styles, but the mindless, misogynistic filler on tracks like Full Of Shit and Girls sours the album as a whole.

Most bizarre are the contributions of studio drummer Terry Bozzio, known for his work with Frank Zappa, who, despite his reputation as one of rock's most talented stick men, fails to sound heavy, menacing or even relatively interesting.

Actually, that's the vibe of the whole album: retro mid-90s LL.

At best, the songs on their ninth album are bland recreations of their past successes.

Temperance might dull his inspiration, but it can’t shake his confidence. Unfortunately, that smugness is also his undoing: there’s no quality control here.

Here And Now reinforces all the reasons so many people hate Nickelback, but those are exactly the same things that make fans pump their fists in the air.

The album could've been distinctive but instead lacks depth or the transporting quality of her imaginative lyrics.

G-Unit needs to stop remaking Lloyd Banks's first hit, On Fire, from, like, two years ago.

On first listen, Matricidal sounds like an hour of Friedberger playing with all the buttons on his keyboards, taking no care to connect sounds or smooth the edits. Yet taken as a whole and with time, it evokes something melancholy, strange and nostalgic--equally beautiful and eerie.

It's not what anyone is hoping for from Harry, but the highlights are decent enough to keep hardcore Blondie fans satiated until she finds some collaborators worthy of her talent.

These directionless, half-baked jams may show a young artist trying to find himself and mature, but he sure isn't there yet.

To make listeners' hearts melt, there's a lullaby for Joel's daughter, Harlow, a bit of a cynical move when most of the album is about sleeping with other radio stars, getting wasted like it's your birthday and getting wasted, sleeping with someone, blacking out and thinking it was the best night of your life.

There is plenty of momentum on the first half of the record.... So, it’s a bummer that the last half of the album descends into bland and skippable.

Unfortunately, there are none of the ridiculous disses, insane freestyles or wacky interludes that make real mixtapes entertaining.

First single Dope has that by way of Dr. Dre’s Deep Cover, but it fails to push the balance of the album beyond mediocrity.

How poignantly they express their inarticulate messages through Blink-182 rip-offs and recycled versions of their own material.

Curve isn't going to change anyone's mind about Our Lady Peace.

There’s a built-in redundancy to a Linkin Park remix album. Their music already sounds like hard rock that’s been tweaked by a knowledgable 15-year-old on his first laptop.

There are a couple of moments of idiosyncrasy here, particularly on the title track and 'On & On,' but Guilt’s formulaic approach makes it easy to pass on the whole album.

The Second Round isn't much different from the first.

Beyond The Neighbourhood isn't Athlete's triumph, but with far more rock moments, spacey sounds and well-placed hooks, as on the driving anthem Hurricane and the dreamy Airport Disco, they've redeemed themselves a little.

It'd be one thing if the new trio built on the band's legacy. Instead, Yours Truly regurgitates Sublime's 90s ska-punk blueprint and gussies it up with a new layer of radio-ready sheen.

While they must know they won’t be reinventing the wheel any time soon, Sparkle Lounge is their most upbeat music in a while.

This “mix­tape album” decently whets the appetite.

Like the Double Down monstrosity, the first bite is an odd mix of tasty and disgusting, but by the end of it you just feel ill and ashamed.

They're still making forays into metal (Crash), but most Sum fans will agree that the band just hasn't been the same since guitarist Brownsound left town.

The bulk of Boys is sufficiently well put together; the generally witty pop walks that tricky line between edginess and accessibility.

On a disc that ultimately exhausts itself with boredom and clichés, it's just not worth it.

This disc is dullsville.

If the lyrics were cleverer, they might work as a critique of vacant rock culture, but instead they come across as the embodiment of what they profess to be sneering at.

NAV’s songcraft is sharp, but the lack of dynamics ultimately makes this debut feel one-note.

Brendan O’Brien, best known for his continuous work with Pearl Jam and Springsteen, takes over from Gavin Brown on Billy’s third s/t offering, and there’s some noticeable dulling of the edges here.

Sure, the beats bang like crazy, but the songs are emotionally hollow, thematically one-dimen­sional and conceptually lifeless.

After years and years of hating every ounce of Maryland's mall-punk icons Good Charlotte, it seems now that the actual trick to enjoying their music on any plausible level is to go into the whole thing with absolutely no expectations. Not even low expectations. Nothing.

His first album in four years picks up exactly where The Trinity left off: at the centre of the dance floor.