Lady Antebellum have potential, but they're mostly dull--by design.

Da Realist is catchy and seductive in small doses, and Plies' no-frills chest-thumping has a certain logic to it. But when he says, "You ain't got enough guns, you gonna need some help," he could be talking about himself.

Some of the Nineties-style boom-bap beats sound a little on the cheap side, but this stands as a worthy addition to the decent-to-great output of Raekwon's past decade.

Things don’t always gel--Marcus Mumford and Miguel turn in half-baked Zooropa moves on “Find Another Way,” and “Where It’s At Ain’t What It Is,” with fellow guitar master Gary Clark Jr. and producer Nico Stadi, feels like too many cooks in the kitchen. But when Atlas Underground works, it upgrades the RATM game plan with motivational anthems for a newly-fucked world order.

The OG American Idol manages to pull off that clock reversal, flooring her DeLorean back to the Eighties on her seventh studio album.

Saporta can't tune out his favorite decade, adopting a silky croon on "Anything for Love," a synth-pop winner that might've been a real hit in 1986.

The songwriting is sometimes clunky or kind of silly (see "Sexual Religion"), but there's a lighthearted warmth on nearly every song.

On his first album since 2010, he's still the same elastically flowing shout-rap dirty bird.... At 37, Luda also indulges in some dad-rap introspect.

The oft clunky Translation doubles down for a full-length that deserved EP treatment at best.

Pocket Symphony reverts to the textured beat-and-bass-line rifflets of Air ordinaire. [8 Mar 2007, p.82]

An elegant, sometimes sleepy collection.

Phil Collins has retired, but his legacy endures in the new Hunger Games soundtrack, which channels his recipe for Eighties melodrama: synth strings, croaked vocals, crashing drums.

Partying tunes like the funky "Firebreather" sometimes feel like not much more than a rich white guy bragging. But Macklemore's trademark awkward humanity comes through on "Good Old Days," a reflection on aging (with Kesha), and "Church," a thank-you letter to making it that's warm, vivid, earnest and earned.

For the most part, Unleashed puts the grits and gravy back into mainstream country.

On this Lady Gaga remix album, 10 producers and DJs sink their teeth into her meaty catalog--with predictably uneven results.

He takes on his indecisive twenties on "Rolling Stone" and "27," attempts a road epic on "Riding to New York," and, on "Scare Away the Dark," implores, "We want something real/Not just hashtags and Twitter." Impressively, he sings it like he thought of that cliché himself.

While she oozes charisma and has a fine voice, Beyonce isn't in a class with the likes of Whitney Houston or Mariah Carey as a singer. [24 Jul 2003, p.86]

The rest of their debut is all sleazy jams, booty boasts and enough irony to clog your Jacuzzi.

He sticks to the persona he established with his 2016 mixtape The Artist, evoking a young man whose rap life affords him every desire, yet still gets rattled when a relationship goes sideways, or when opps cross him in the streets. These are themes he mines over and over, deploying melodious hooks and diaristic lyrics to keep them fresh. The result is an hour-plus album with few surprises.

Depending on your taste for high romance, it either adds up to heart-tugging pop or nice dinner music.

Under the shimmering surface of the group's previous three albums -- and magnified on Pelo by the translucent production of Tortoise jack-of-all-trades John Herndon -- is a longing that's poignant and disturbing.

Sparks emotes about bad love amid beats that mix snazzy electro with stadium-rock bigness. She also comes off like a scrubbed-up deep feeler who doesn't distinguish herself.

The Caesars adopt a bombastic, arena-friendly brand of Sixties revivalism recalling that of... The Soundtrack Of Our Lives. Fortunately, the Caesars are good at it. [5 May 2005, p.74]

An album that can express itself only through understatement.

Shelton is the paradigm of the modern Nashville pro.

"Drunk Americans" is a charmingly awkward red-blue-state bear hug; the button-pushing title track rues godless youth who need a good whuppin'. Per usual, highlights put hard-earned truths before identity politics.

Hick-hop juggernaut Yelawolf may strike some as Alabama's answer to Eminem... but the boozy, stone-faced rhymes on his debut leave little room for laughs.

McCartney is better transforming influences than mirroring them.

Thankfully, [Tyson Ritter's] band shows signs of cracking through its own arrested development, especially in the sinuous groove of "Bleed Into Your Mind" and the sweetly vulnerable orchestral ballad "Affection."

There are toe-tapping moments, but the best song is a Roxy Music cover. [Jun 2020, p.71]

If not many riffs or choruses grope your hindquarters like their biggest hits did, the recurring Eighties Billy Idol pulse beneath still grinds tawdry enough for strip clubs.

Ultimately, Kamikaze’s length and curtailed guest list make it less grueling than Revival, but Eminem’s indignant grandstanding has no discernible relation to the rap world he complains about.

These songs are missing some of the hyper mall-rat poetry that made Panic's first two albums such daffy fun. But the arrangements are tight, even when the songs get baroque.

Folds has a gift for melody--nearly every song comes with a memorable hook--but his imagination as an arranger remains limited.

Producer Markus Dravs (Coldplay, Mumford & Sons) does an admirable job of translating Followill's signature slurred delivery and the band's muscular jangle into thicker arrangements, though the result can feel generic.

A clunky mix of late-Nineties easy listening and 2000s emo pop. [Mar 2021, p.73]

Too many songs are full of bombast and bland angst, as if these smart guys know better but can't help themselves.

Bringing Back the Sunshine brims with horn-dog hookup jams like "Sangria," where he makes a sloppy hotel-room encounter sound like the modern equivalent of a trip to Margaritaville.

What comes through on Sidewalks more than anything else is a sense of optimism.

Mellow, shambling rock.

The coolest thing about Incubus is the way they come front-and-center with their inner little girl.

the more you listen to Pieces in a Modern Style, the more warmth and affection you hear... They're not meant for classical purists; they're charming little curios for anyone who's interested in the process of reinvention -- or in just chilling out.

Rapping with his affectless slur and bricklayer's tempo over rolling, mid-speed beats, Keef (who was criticized for mocking a murder victim, his rival, on Twitter) seems unshakably confident but profoundly directionless.

On an LP of quiet activism and love songs, Johnson reboots the Zen-master delivery and swaying-palm-tree melodic sense that made his Curious George soundtrack LP a Number One hit. It's no less inviting, especially with a frozen cocktail.

Clarkson remains a slightly wearying one-note artist--she's a wounded lover, bellowing her pain and scorching the earth. But wow--that voice.

Lynch, a man of minor obsessions, here explores just one -- quavery, Fifties-style guitar. The result's long on atmosphere and short on anything approaching mystery.

Given her chic image, it's a surprise how dull, dreary and pop-starved Born to Die is.

Its fakeness comes to the fore. [28 Oct 2004, p.99]

Feel That Fire has its fun moments ...But Bentley--a plain vocalist-- needs great tunes to hold your interest, and his songwriting slips here.

The Wanted take cues from Coldplay ("Clocks"-style piano shows up on "Gold Forever") and Kings of Leon ("Use Somebody" moans swirl around "Lose My Mind") to no avail, and their dance pop droops where it should bounce.

Bob Dylan celebrates the Christmas hit parade the old-fashioned way: He plays it straight, as much as his pitted baritone allows, with a band that mixes David Hidalgo with R&B guitarist Phil Upchurch.

[Producer Ron] Fair's [music] is concentrated sugar water, and Gray... too often pens lyrics and sings tunes just as cloying.

The faster Shaggy's music gets, the better it is.

At last, new metal has its answer to Depeche Mode's Black Celebration.

What TA does have in abundance is grooviness -- the Rio-inspired techno of "Basta," the Devo-esque brittleness of "Positive People," the PIL-like dub reggae of "C Sick" -- and a knack for re-creating the vibe of a New Wave dance club, circa 1983.

The Long Island native is too unruly to fit into a mainstream country costume. Her pop sweet tooth is in full effect here on the single 'Highs and Lows' and 'What Love Can Do,' which nod to Rumours-era Fleetwood Mac.

On her third album, Simpson skillfully shifts her crunchy, guitar-driven pop to Eighties-influenced electro-rock with the help of Timbaland and the Neptunes’ Chad Hugo.

An 82-minute combo plate of half-finished songs, choruses unmoored from verses, bursts of skyscraping beauty and long passages of sonic murk, all vaguely redolent of the Rolling Stones and Jesus Christ Superstar.

The result is a set of prog-inspired balladry with less bounce than her last disc.

Trauma's chilled-out middle sags, but "Revenge," her bad-romance duet with Eminem, is an early shot of energy; Max Martin and Shellback's homage to Dr. Dre's skip-step beats may be too on the nose, but Em's rhymes nicely recall a time when even lunatics rode bright hooks.

Things work better when they balance the impulse to hulk things up with their natural traditionalist intimacy.

Scott Kirkland and Ken Jordan have dumbed down their sound even more - and their music is all the better for it.

Teddybears' second U.S. release seems designed to be a coming-out party, but it's just slick hodgepodge.

The album has a rushed feel--a likable but low-personality version of her familiar bubble-pop solo mode, alternating between miffed breakup plaints (the Amy Winehouse tribute "Naughty") and gushy new-boyfriend songs.

Too often Tyler keeps his swagger in check when he could be kicking up some down-home dust.

He’s certainly matured as a singer, and navigates these songs impressively, but that doesn’t mean he’s developed much of a vocal identity. He’s only as good as the songs he sings. Fortunately, the album closes with two huge, very different ballads that are perfect for him.

30 songs of soft-focus gorgeousness can make his comfy hideaway a bit claustrophobic.

Like most DJ albums, unfortunately, Encore does little with its A-list guests.

It's a promising start from a guy whose tastefulness too often trumps the spirit of experimentation that distinguishes him from his soft-rock peers.

The problem is that he brings the same vague, feathery touch to everything he does.

American Idol's 12th victor deserves better than this much-delayed hodgepodge of styles and ideas.

Funeral is wildly uneven, a landscape of pronounced highs and lows.

Give her credit for trying to turn her growing pains into prickly, sometimes enjoyable art, even if the Pieces don’t always match the overall effort.

2093 takes enough daring leaps out of typical Yeat territory to warrant repeat listens, but Yeat’s ambition ends up being the album’s undoing. At 78 minutes, 2093 ends up feeling monotonous, even as Yeat’s exploration into new sounds and cadences yields occasionally interesting results.

Jet are at their best in the high power-riff gear of "Stand Up" and "Rip It Up"... with singer-guitarist Nic Chester barking and bawling like an improbable trinity of Liam Gallagher, Bon Scott and Axl Rose. When those songs take off, you fly.

The more muscular approach nearly always suits Lewis' strengths better; his contemplative moments, like "Alone," tend to get drowned out by pompous synths and howled pleas.

Indie Cindy has hit-or-miss songs already released via digital dribbles and drabs.

While the album flirts with a few radiant moments, Smith's endless yearning isn't wrapped in as many irresistible packages.

Things loosen up on older material (a thrashing "Aqua Dementia"), and the band do a punishing cover of the Melvins' 1996 psych-sludge gem "The Bit." Replacing the original's sitar with Hinds' 12-string guitar roar, Mastodon again prove themselves broad-minded headbangers.

In their past lives, the members of this band were enraged. Now, fierce as they might sound, Audioslave just seem sorta engorged.

On Fiddy's fourth album, the muscle-bound-warrior routine is the only one he trusts, so he keeps milking it.

At 30 tracks and classified as his fourth album, The Last Slimeto feels like an overstuffed, overlong and sometimes-compelling compact disc from the No Limit years.

These collaborations reveal one fatal flaw in the album's formula: All the imported noise makes the X-Men's delicate routines of cutting and juggling seem hopelessly obscure.

Rote emo-core, all predictable quiet-loud shifts and overwrought vocal melodies. [5 Aug 2004, p.108]

On the better half of this eccentric concept album, A Perfect Circle... revisit classic protest hits, jacking up the terror by throwing out iconic arrangements and performing heretical surgery on the melodies.

It's submerged beneath the noise of a dream unraveling, schizoid instead of sexy.

The nine-song set shows that keyboardist-mastermind Vince Clarke's genius for weaving grand melodies with ecstatic beats is still intact, but tinny vocal compression muddles throbbers like "Whole Lotta Love Run Riot."

Diddy’s rhymes are more adept than they used to be, but his flat voice and retro boasts drag things down.

Jay Sean works his fluttery falsetto alongside Rick Ross on "Mars" and finds a serviceably sexy jam with "All on Your Body," which features Ace Hood, but even at its best, Neon barely flickers.

Free Somehow sounds like what happens when ­wizened road warriors hit the studio begrudgingly.

This is one of the most subtle male R&B records in a good while.

Brazenly consistent, if unimaginative. [13 Nov 2003, p.99]

They get halfway to a hot neo-New Wave record. [14 Jun 2007, p.102]

His rants get boring over track after track of bland Nineties G-funk (a promised collaboration with his estranged N.W.A homey Dr. Dre never came through).

For the most part--despite Auto-Tuned slow songs--Kingston's mix of young-adult desire and disco heat shows he can cross over in unexpected directions.

There's a somber, nearly a cappella take on the Motown oldie "It's So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday," and "Quiet" laments suburban sprawl--but those are rare chin-down moments for a guy who makes Jack Johnson look like Ian Curtis.

DaBaby’s greatest enemy on Blame It On Baby is his staggering prolific streak; the struggle to find something new means he’s fighting against his own current.

What makes Raise Vibration more than just Professor Kravitz orating about the world’s ills is how he never forsakes catchy melodies for seriousness. His language is cutting (“It’s enough, and we all are just getting fucked” he sings on the latter track) but he presents it in a sweet, catchy way that’s easy to digest.