The brilliantly titled Sheezus has loads of great punch lines. But Allen also rocks a sisterly warmth.

The album is undone by Leto's baffling, pretentious poetry and the sanitized quality of the heavy guitars.

Some of the tunes slip into vague kvetching. But the tenderhearted rave–up 'Victory Lap' combines the best of Against Me! and the Replacements.

The resulting LP is roughly 100 times less fun than the Boys' cameo in This Is the End.

The combination of self-pity, grandiosity and leaden spirituality can get trying. And all those attempts at musical worldliness can feel like stylistic tourism.

Though he cycles through a major-label budget's worth of sounds and vocalists (including Selena Gomez and earnest rapper Logic), Zedd's colors are often hard to tell apart.

Some sleepy stuff hurts his cause, but his best songs... combine vivid, polished tracks with solid tunes that pack a sneaky emotional weight.

Thrives on a classic formula. [10 Aug 2006, p.98]

They wield massive choruses, stadium-ready production and the keening vocals of Toby Martin. [22 Feb 2007, p.80]

The music isn't exactly groundbreaking, and none of the remixes improve on the Hybrid Theory originals, but the boyish energy of Reanimation has its own appeal, and it's not too far emotionally from the tried-so-hard spirit of "In the End."

Punky but sloppy, as if the band were denied rehearsal time before the tape started rolling.

The Script have enjoyed Euro-chart success with a mix of lite rock, rap rock and Guinness-informed crooning they call Celtic soul - at once soaring, melancholic and treacly.

Cudi's Satellite signal needs some descrambling, but his core cadets likely read him loud and clear.

Luda's heart doesn't seem to be in the party songs.

Pumping up country's boy-girl duet tradition in a trio format, but largely minus grit or wit, Lady Antebellum's follow-up to their Grammy-gobbling Need You Now is a set of heart-squishing power ballads and airbrushed twang rockers ready to woo Walmart shoppers.

At times it's catchy, but its maudlin ballads and monochrome synth-pop production are also kind of dull.

It's hard to figure out what's "extra festive" (as the full song title promises) about her "All I Want for Christmas Is You" update, and far easier to determine what's wrong with "Auld Lang Syne" (an awkward dance beat), but the LP's warm heart is in the right place.

This is the sound of a team of great fighters competing in an uncomfortable new arena.

Ciara sounds a bit incidental on her third disc's dance jams. She fares even worse whenever the tempo drops, thanks to meek vocals and a stale sensibility.

None of it sounds better than capable.

It's often cute, rarely precious. But it also has some sort of "concept." And hard as it may try, it isn't Bjork. It isn't even Deerhoof.

They Might Be Giants are just a stitch more serious about being silly, and that extra earnestness makes all the difference.

Beyond Good and Evil shakes with vitality.

The tight arrangements are impressive in their guitar-bass-drums spareness, but the overall feel still falls somewhere between sterile and silly. [7 Sep 2006, p.107]

The beats are terrific--the problem here is the MC.

The future-shocked verses and digital wheedling often miss their marks, but as a vehicle for Harrison's soulful voice, the band is a work-in-progress worth watching.

What evades White Lies is the candid charm of his Brit-gloom forebears. The sleek synth tunes are more anthemic this time out, but the lyrics are no less overwrought.

Jay often sounds like he's trying to convince himself that he should still be excited about making music. What's disappointing is, he doesn't always seem to be winning that argument.

Frantic, faceless, fake-sexy R&B.

These songs emphasize edgy grooves while only occasionally pandering to R&B obviousness. [14 Nov 2002, p.86]

While the title track is a bright, finger-snapping highlight, most of Michaelson's ditties are fit for kindergarten teachers.

When Timeless succeeds, it's beautiful, boundary-breaking music.

Most of these twelve tracks are impressive structures with periodic highs... that never resolve into songs. [7 Sep 2006, p.105]

Farrell's new explorations into electronica rock are satisfying as neither electronica nor rock.

Unfortunately, the vocalists riding on top of the grooves, from the limpid Clair Dietrich to the ridiculously affected Jeremy, are uniformly l-a-m-e.

City is so drab that the cameos from the Libertines' frontmen get lost in the darkness.

Making records, it seems, may not be her strong suit anymore.

Throughout Lessons in Love, Lloyd sounds like he's actually having fun dishing out come-ons, adding an emphatic exuberance to each one.

The lyrics--delivered in a borderline sexy-creepy style that sometimes veers into Gregorian-chant territory--range from esoteric and dark to crude and dumb.

These Detroit rockers emerge with an album that's pop-friendly but raucous enough to park in a Motor City garage.

Though she nods at Rihanna-style slither and Britney-esque grind, this is the sound of Gomez gliding gracefully into adulthood.

Third Eye Blind are as earnest and energetic as ever but sadly uncatchy.

Space Invader does have a carefree abandon that Kiss' 21st-century LPs have lacked. It also contains any number of lyrics cringe-worthy enough for his old band.

Her first album in three years, Reasonable Woman, is also solid, a return to the aesthetic mean that works more than it doesn’t. None of the singles released from it so far have been hits, but they’re all resolutely competent examples of Sia’s knack for sweeping, feelings-heavy glitz.

On Rolling Papers, Khalifa, the 23-year-old Pittsburgh rhymer responsible for the jersey-waving hit "Black and Yellow," manages to give life to those kinds of cash-gorged perma-baked cliches by warmly luxuriating in the space between pop's fresh-faced exuberance and hip-hop's easy arrogance--between skater and playa, Bieber and Biggie.

As quality control at Khaled HQ dips slightly yet noticeably, it might be time for him to receive more undeserved blame than undeserved credit. ... With no commercially undeniable moments like the Rihanna showcase “Wild Thoughts” (from Khaled’s Grateful), Father of Asahd grooves along like an adequate 54-minute stretch of hip-hop/R&B radio (with no commercials, at least).

Their ballads now get choked up over bygone glory days, while their Gary Glitter and Bryan Adams riffs sound re-purposed for sports and strip bars.

An indie version of Weezer's arena emo.

By combining the cinematic ambition of Massive Attack with A Tribe Called Quest's soul-clap minimalism, Slum Village step forward on Trinity -- even if, at sixty-nine sprawling minutes, it could have used some serious pruning.

Chingy is charming in presence and in singsong flow, but not particularly engaging. [25 Nov 2004, p.91]

His new release might be his most sophomoric yet.

The coldness of the instrumentals is compounded by the duo’s vocal delivery.

Songwriters Justin Rice and Christian Rudder are fluent melodists, but the hooks can't redeem a peppy preciousness that veers into indie self-parody--the sound of post-collegiates far too convinced that they're clever and quirky.

Frontman John Rzeznik remains an assured singer. But amid his vocal polish is a new sense of strain, and for a band this lightweight, the additional anxiety doesn't flatter.

The beats and some sharp songwriting keep Milian's unremarkably airy voice from having to stand on its own. [18 May 2006, p.229]

Ja Rule seems to be more interested in movin' on up (to the pop side) than keeping grounded on the gangsta grid.

The downside of Glitter is the downside of all Mariah Carey albums. They're called "ballads," and Mariah still likes them big and goopy, with zero melodic or emotional punch.

The last holdover from Xzibit's underground days is also his sole weakness: cartoonish hooks that sometimes spiral solid material off in an awkward direction. Otherwise, Man vs. Machine is state-of-the-art.

There are lyrical uh-oh moments ("Schizophrenic Playboy"), but Roses reminds us that note-hammering Brits from Adele to Florence owe Dolly a small debt.

Outside of its strong singles ("Only That Real" and "What You 'Bout"), Sincerely fades into rap's existing trends instead of bucking them.

The Mums were much more likable back when they were pretending to be coal miners who churned their own butter. Compared to this stuff, that was a decent look.

The band's thrift-store pastiche, from that track's skidding-siren hook to a few not-quite-ecstatic EDM-style builds, has a manic, self-aware intensity – call it grandiosi-twee. And try to take it in small doses.

"Make better music," he wills himself on "Bolo Tie." And sometimes he does, especially when the beats turn soulful and artists like Leon Bridges and Chance the Rapper swing by for assists. With the exception of the exuberant "Downtown," coming up with "Thrift Shop"-style catchiness is rarely the goal here.

No Mercy is the sound of a rapper addressing his idiocy without sacrificing his swagger. Sometimes, the gravitas feels perfunctory, like T.I. is just fulfilling a public-service requirement; other times, it totally backfires.

The album is oddly inert, lacking both the brute force and big choruses that raised Linkin Park to rap-rock godhead status.

For people who enjoy watching celebrities fall apart, America's Sweetheart should be more fun than an Osbournes marathon.

Most of Ultra Payload feels pretty random.

The band plods more than pushes, and while the riffs stick, the songs generally don't.

Deadmau5 brings a love of spectacle--and the humor of a natural ham--to his strobe-lit club anthems.

On his third LP (and first minus additional songwriters), 22-year-old U.K. roots revivalist Jake Bugg mixes Americana and British folk as skillfully as ever. ... He's less successful updating his sound.

His first album since 2006 is a proudly nostalgic testament to the Shaolin way, full of vintage, gritty New York beats, cameos from pals like Redman (plus Wu brothers Inspectah Deck and Raekwon), and a chill, shooting-the-shit vibe.

Stone is best when she's rawest, bookending LP1 with "Newborn" and "Take Good Care," stripped-down tunes where her howl goes from plaintive to bone-shaking in a few lovesick heartbeats.

These nine buoyant, no-frills tunes could've been recorded anytime in the past 40 years.

You root for the good intentions and enjoy the glints of sunlight from singer/viola player Anna Bulbrook. But portentous verses thud like birds against fuselage.

They might not be as manic and frantic... But The Spine rocks without any loss of wit or melody.

Unfortunately Imagine Dragons’ actual vision is one that is milquetoast, formulaic, nearly anonymous, free of any real lyrical insight. ... The one place where the Dragons themselves really shine is an outlier in their catalog: “Zero,” made for Ralph Breaks the Internet, is a giddy college rocker that does for the Cure, David Bowie and Jimmy Eat World what Bruno Mars and Mark Ronson did for Prince, Gap Band and Zapp.

The band mostly avoids the mythic seriousness of the past in favor of party-ready stuff like "Country Girl" and meaty rock sonics.

For all the glitzy sonic veneer -- echoed vocals, swirling, effect-laden guitars, time-travel keyboards -- the album never sacrifices the heart of the song.

The singing's understatement and harmonic sophistication help the band transcend overblown corporate rock and embrace sensitive emo pop.

Cry remains contrived, an album of crocodile tears from an entertainer who can sing anything but often means nothing.

It takes gall to put a song called 'No Surprise' on your second disc, but gall is something Daughtry does not lack, and that's what made him one of the only bona fide rock stars to come out of American Idol.

Many of Sleepy's songs sound oddly unfinished, relying too heavily on his insistent falsetto.

While Grobler's music often bursts with light, frivolous energy, this album has an undertone of dissatisfaction that's new.

Future mostly sounds like a bunch of so-so Smashing Pumpkins songs, stripped of everything except Corgan's adenoidal vocals, and then set to a chorus of synths and electronic drumbeats.

She's grown into her voice. Now, if only her music would grow up too.

He's just a bit too overeager--too determined to please all of the people all of the time.

They joyfully plunder rock riffs and hip-hop beats, but a logjam of lousy ballads suggests Bryan Adams embodies their ideal of maturity.

He’s equally rooted in old-school melody and beat-derived new-century songwriting. In its best moments, = brings together those two worlds. ... Yet as genuinely in love as he appears, his devotional songs tend to bog down in generalized sentiments and gooier melodies.

The band can still deliver the angsty goods (check out the gusty "My Shadow"), but Keane have proved themselves masters of--gasp!--pop perkiness.

Lewis is technically flawless, but behind lyrics about "the scars on my heart," there's little personality.

On an album where she's surrounded by dudes (including her pal Spank Rock), she makes being ladylike sound hardcore.

Her ballads and neo-disco songs are steeped in lovelorn melodrama, but her bland persona doesn't give the storms life. You're left with saggy stylistic gestures that seem to drag on, endlessly.

While the 21-year-old singer rocks more sass and self-empowerment on her full-length major-label debut (which, confusingly, shares a name with the four-song EP she released in September), she's also charmingly old-fashioned.

The end result isn't quite as lovable as they'd like.

Almost every song features a skull-rattling groove and one or two darkly melodic hooks. [16 Sep 2004, p.79]

It falters when the band indulges in out-of-nowhere rap verses or misplaced filtered vocals.

Music is the Weapon is a stale, mixed bag that aspires to the global ubiquity and incredible commercial success of Major Lazer’s 2015 spastic moombahton anthem “Lean On.”

It would be laughable if Flowers wasn't 100 percent committed, and if the hooks on Flamingo weren't irresistible. He is, and they are - and you'll be too busy singing along to giggle.