Grand statements about humanity in “Savages” and “Immortal” fall flat, and moments like the three-syllable “di-a-mond” in “Solitaire” mistake quirk for personality. But a few slices of FROOT are exactly ripe enough.

The songs are impeccably layered, but like tiramisu, those layers bleed into one another, so that even a relative rocker like “Rattled” gets lost in its own swirl.

Twice, he wisely enlists Jhene Aiko, who has become rap’s signifier for bruised emotions. Yet the conflicted despondency throughout (“I Know,” “Win Some, Lose Some”) never yields to enlightenment; the results are more murky than dark.

There’s a temptation to view Whatever, My Love as a companion piece to its lone predecessor, 1993’s “Become What You Are,” when really it’s just another Hatfield album. As such, it lives and dies by standard Hatfield calculus.

Father John Misty’s I Love You Honeybear takes a more ramshackle approach to the same style [as Beck], with vocals stretching into the distance, strings drenching fingerpicked acoustics, and saloon pianos aplenty. But with a default mode of arch snarkery, Misty doesn’t have much to say; he gets off a sharp line here and there, but can’t string them together into anything greater.

The infectiousness and jagged, bass-heavy production in some of the songs (“Like a Hott Boyy”) can’t compensate for the disc’s hollow core.

Save for “Superstar,” which falls just short of being tranformed into a Julie London torch ballad, Krall’s darkly sultry voice isn’t enough to enliven her material.

Then Came the Morning never overcomes its distance; Williams can keen all he wants, but he’s no louder than someone speaking right to you, right in front of you.

Alas, not enough of the songs have great tunes to go along with that production and vocal quality.

There are other winners here: “The Mephistopheles of Los Angeles” (sheer autobiography by Manson) and the unexpected “Killing Strangers,” a slow, dirgey track that appears to pinpoint a terrorist’s mind-set: “We got guns, you better run, we’re killing strangers.” Elsewhere, the album often flounder.

For better or for worse, Title, Trainor’s full-length debut, is more of the same.

Almost every song has a mournful tone, and too many sound alike: slow, ponderous ballads steeped in negativity.

He’s undeniably an intelligent MC with a sense of social justice, which makes all the half-realized ideas, indulgence, and misogyny (clueless “No Role Modelz”) puzzling.

Sucker is better when Charli has a bite.

An unfortunate monotony sets in with the slow tempos, but Nelson’s acoustic guitar provides some life on Django Reinhardt’s “Nuages.” This appears to be a special album for Willie; whether it will be so for his fans is open to debate.

While RZA’s desire to evolve is laudable (drumline, terrific), the flawed musical execution on sluggish tracks “Ron O’Neal,” “Miracle,” and “Preacher’s Daughter” is at odds with the rappers’ combustible virtuosity.

It’s as if Idol stumbled into a Renaissance Faire, answered someone’s questions about his old hits, then decided to record it, surveying his lazy, crazy, drug-hazy Sunset Strip days to the accompaniment of flutes and lutes.

The disc ends timidly with two sentimental songs, in an attempt to inject soul into this mostly hollow affair.

Guetta’s signature throb--so loud in its way that it almost loops back around to silence--is inescapable, overpowering almost every other song with a booming lushness that’s used seemingly by numbing default.

Sonic Highways isn’t a bad album, merely a disappointingly bloodless one; after all, one thing Foo Fighters have never lacked in the past is immediacy.

The baker’s dozen tracks on the collection break like so: two classics, six above-average cuts, and six songs, like “People,” that are just fine.

Most of the drops on the 15-track disc disappoint; too many songs never truly take off.

You can admire its uncompromising spirit, but you can just as easily loathe its saccharine sound. After hearing some of these songs live in their acoustic forms, it’s jarring to see how Young has neutered them on record.... The album’s saving grace is its deluxe edition, which presents all 10 songs in stripped-down, intimate settings that allow you to savor and bask in their beauty.

The music is a bright, shiny, and bland pastiche of electronic pop and faint nods to new wave and R&B. And the songwriting feels generic, a departure from the personable details that have made her a unique voice.

Kelley and Hubbard are genial enough hosts but the preponderance of monochromatic, midtempo tracks--occasionally featuring awkward, rapid fire rap-sung interludes--blend into an indistinguishable blur that may be sufficient while the party lasts but aren’t as memorable after the buzz wears off.

The music, executive produced by Pharrell, is inviting, soulful, and sonically inventive (the mournful “Light ’Em Up RIP Doe B” is especially impressive). The rhymes and subjects are so stale, though.

This might finally break Jessie J stateside, but by trying to be all things to all people, the soul is drained out of it.

This is a mostly meandering, unfocused collection of half-finished sketches.