There are missed opportunities--the She & Him track is slight, and a rumored Frank Ocean team-up is sadly absent--and a few too many retreads (the "Sloop John B"-ish "Sail Away"), although the harmonies do sound grand with Al Jardine and other Beach Boys teammates on board.

Producer Medasyn's beats are uneven, and so is Sov's hood-rat humor: weak on what should be a layup college-pub rant, inexplicable on a song about sex with food.

A horny, disco-infused party starter for those who like their funk with a side of irony.

Why settle for pseudosleaze like Peaches when Paris delivers the real thing? [21 Sep 2006, p.82]

The 16 songs on Changes focus almost exclusively on the logistics of having sex when you are both hot, young, and working in fields that require a lot of time apart. The concept itself is kind of funny, but the execution is often unimaginative and cliché, especially given how earnestly Bieber delivers every line, no matter how ridiculous.

All too mundane.

Though the songs recall the Fountains' smart, well-crafted material, they lack that band's detailed lyrics (typical line: "All I really want to say/Is I need you every day"). But these likable tunes usually hit their modest marks.

Every song here goes for immediate payoff – as Thomas broadcasts on "Radio," they have been built for lifetimes.

Harris is updating his EDM template rather than coming close to reimagining it.

[YOKOKIMTHURSTON] distills the kind of audio radicalism these three have channeled into pop music for decades.

The novelty runs dry on Die Antwoord's second album, a marathon of overwrought beats and clunky horn-dog-rebel boasts.

Problem is, much of Indestructible, banks on the same old angst-mongering that has fueled a zillion rock-radio hits in the past 10 years.

In an era where disco has found a second life all over the pop charts, Green's throwback barely makes a thud.

His debut album, Cloud Nine, is naturally very same-y--deep house wasting away in Margaritaville--but unfailingly gorgeous.

Dragged down by too much unremarkably brawny fare. [27 Jan 2005, p.60]

Despite a few feverish moments, 98 Degrees remain slightly below average.

Awake has the occasional spiffy tune... but it's padded with pop-rock toss-offs and an unlistenable, ten-minute instrumental noise jam.

The political commentary could be stronger--"No justice for us blacks/But they send just us to Iraq" is as sharp as it gets--and though Story has got radio-ready appeal, Banner could learn a lesson from his buddy Wayne: Interesting and crowd-pleasing aren't mutually exclusive.

This EP by the costumed doom-metal Swedes (they are Ghost B.C. here for legal reasons) is a weird, appealing detour from their regular godless crunch.

More often than not, Rock lets his flag of self-awareness fly right alongside his freak flag.

With the exception of 'Hey You' and 'World Behind My Wall,' the album is melodically anemic and strangely low-key. Subtle is not a mode that suits Kaulitz.

As blandly charming as Hill's all-American drawl. [11 Aug 2005, p.74]

There's not an "Ohio" in the bunch but Young's grizzled jeremiads can be endearing.

On If Only You Were Lonely, Hawthorne Heights up the drama-punk ante, channeling tricky rhythms, shimmery soft parts and a metal-schooled three-ax attack into songs that are both action-packed and gratuitously stylized.

How can Morrissette expect her introspection to be taken seriously when her songs sound like vintage Bryan Adams? [10 Jun 2004, p.91]

He has no knack at all for the subtle sound he's trying now.

The conceptual stuff is ill-advised.... But she's a competent angst-belter who knows how to imitate singers she likes, from Courtney Love to Kim Carnes--even if her Janis Joplin is too close to 30 Rock for comfort.

Chief could learn something from fellow California nostalgics Best Coast: Atmosphere is great, but so are sprightliness and hooks.

It gives credit to his cheerily assured worldview that Pain's roboto soul sounds like inspiration.

The tunes--or at least whatever M. Shadows feels like bellowing--sound like the kind of lame, nu-metal angst-mongering that dominated the radio in the late Nineties.

Khalifa mostly circles the drain of clichés and love letters to his favorite activity: smoking weed. It’s only when he lets himself get a little weird, and flexes underused strengths like his singing voice, that his music is as fun as he wants it to be.

It's not his greatest LP, but it's one of his most fun.

The problem isn't overheated rhetoric, it's half-baked songs.

A beguiling, infuriating mess. [26 Jan 2006, p.55]

The beats, by Pittsburgh homeboys ID Labs and others, whip up aural smoke billows, and Khalifa's are just off-kilter enough to give you a contact high.

The boys continue to expand musically, making this their kickiest and catchiest CD yet, even better than last year's A Little Bit Longer.

Another slow, meandering CD.

She dresses [her songs] up in the kind of shamelessly poppy hooks that make Top 40 programmers giggle in delight and "real hip-hop" heads shake theirs sadly. If this is the future, it's one strange place.

That's right--gangstizzle nostalgizzle. [2 Sep 2004, p.142]

Sweet as she may be, there's nothing in Mandy Moore's bubblegum world that makes her stand out from the wallpaper of Disneyland background music.

Kittie sound like they want to pursue harder extremes but can't decide whether to snicker or snarl, to play doomsayer or dominatrix.

It's enough to make you think Deadsy are all a hilariously high-concept prank. Which it is, um, right?

Sure, 70 million bong hits have rendered B-Real and Sen Dog confused political theorists (complaining about taxes during a recession? What up, Glenn Beck?). But when they write what they know, they strike a nice balance between visions of bong-water Armageddon and Nineties light-'em-up boom-bap.

Jessie's at her best when she's having fun. She just doesn't have enough of it here.

It's a self-titled affair but it lacks the calling cards that originally made them interesting.

Bryan just can't match, say, Kenny Chesney's knack for lonely contemplation. Given the drinking songs he's best at, he'd be better off pretending spring break lasts all year long.

Dirty Vegas' earnest lyrics can get in the way, but they make up for that by rejecting the desultory repetition of much electro.

He delivers overheated poetry like "As history gets lost and as I took that final breath, I felt alive," and his bandmates rock like shiny Satans.

Roth's tight, witty debut lives up to the Internet hype that has swirled around him for months.

They're still pumping American-Coldplay ballads full of sky-groping choruses and symphonic rushes.

"Pick Up the Phone" sounds like Imagine Dragons with rap verses. Instead, press play on the first eight or so tracks and hear a killer concept EP of hard beats and hard politics for hard times.

This vitriol-tsunami of a record misses a chance to connect Aguilera's music with her warm, empathetic TV presence.

Their songwriting sometimes comes up short, but these avatars of the Nineties jam-band movement know they can placate their fans with a little showboating.

Ja Rule plays it painfully safe on his second album, doling out pop hooks over gimmicky production.

Things stall mid-album with a string of dull ballads.

Do You Sleep at Night offers little in terms of actual ingenuity. Instead, it presents a smattering of existing tropes thrown at the wall with little in terms of depth.

If Guetta's fifth album doesn't convince you that he's the Bono of the four-on-the-floor beat, it does show how good he is at making Eurohouse's thumping trounce and jet-engine synth whoosh feel like natural elements in the hip-hop, R&B and even rock continuum.

Even when the Junkies rock out a little... they're pretty bland. [19 Apr 2007, p.63]

most poppy album yet is full of reggae hybrids and his best stab at arena rock.

Unbreakable makes small nods to adult pop, peppering the processed music with tasteful piano and light guitar riffs and keeping bright, danceable grooves to a minimum. But the material stinks worse than ever.

The band's piano rock suggests a more earnest, less arty Coldplay. The Fray are going for introspection and dramatic sweep but don't rise above bland pleasantries.

He's gotten the Chicago basement vibe down exactly right... What's missing are songs -- instead, we get sketches, riffs and doodles.

The Ladies' inoffensive singalongs seem just plain tired.

The Strokes-ish quality is in the music's rigor: Assassins combines groove and melody with the same machinelike precision that sets Fraiture's other outfit apart.

On their fourth LP, they ditch the guest stars to bluster, drop stale references (Yes, "winning"!) and obsess over chicks.

With its lack of gimmickry and a surplus of sweet Seventies soul, Stripped is almost an album for grown-ups.

His first album, What Is Love?, is light acoustic pop on which he shows melodic skills. But Drew took some bad lessons from emo and his dad's folk record.

By the end of the album, all the candy-coated excess might leave you feeling a little like Courtney Love after a heavy night.

An endearingly scattershot take on spaced-out R&B, complete with drug fetishism and a load of moves apparently copped from the Neptunes.

Lewis raps about tiny dogs and nasty, food-based sexual acts with a cadence that doesn't have the slightest prayer of rhyming ("Wannabe") and the entire thing implodes spectacularly.

It's all piss and vinegar and posturing.

The most notable aspect of Testify, in fact, is how little P.O.D., or their guitars, have to say.

“Infinity Sign,” with its pastel-colored disco bounce, New Age keyboards, and distant sample of a chanting crowd that sounds like a Close Encounters visitation over a sold-out soccer stadium. That unique level of thematic specificity notwithstanding, the record itself doesn’t get weighed down by any sort of Rush-size storyline, nor is there some pain-in-the-ass heavy-handed sci-fi message to deal with (beyond the predictably intimated vibes of harmony, wonder, etc.).

We're introduced to a charming talkrapper named Euro and not much else beyond some diverse but mundane urban contemporary music dominated by familiar players.

For the most part, Kelly uses rock to express his pain and rap to escape from it, i.e., abusing substances with Lil Wayne on two fairly pointless tracks. He has a nice rapport with Iann Dior on the pleasant pop-rock exercise “Fake Love Don’t Last.” But whether Kelly deploys “rock,” “rap,” or “pop,” selling out and annoying people online are the least of his issues.

The Lavigne heard at the beginning of the record is almost an entirely different person by the end; the hard part is figuring out which part you like more.

Examines small-town origins, fatherhood, and matter of the heart with extra earnestness but few surprises. [Aug 2020, p.73]

His umpteenth solo set is a well-timed all-star candygram.

Die-hard fans will be delighted. Others might yawn.

With too many half-baked songs, he ultimately comes off like a generic amalgam of a bunch of Seventies singer-songwriters.

Only One Flo embraces the electro pulse of international clubland, with hedonistic lyrics to match. But although Ludacris and Gucci Mane inject momentary charisma, Flo Rida mostly flows as anonymously as any dance diva.

On his second major-label album, he has more artistic aspirations, though they're mostly flat Kanye retreads.

The balance of respectful tributes and reimaginings recalls John Fogerty's similarly structured 2013 collection, Wrote a Song for Everyone.

For tuneful, middle-of-the-road rock, The Silver Lining ain't bad.

Perhaps it's best to think of Gettin' In Over My Head as Wilson's celebrity children's record.

On their third album, the Cali quartet swing for the fences - it's as if CWK, once a sharp band with retro leanings, have been gorging on Springsteen and Kings of Leon.

The cash influx hasn't reformed these B-boys. [4 May 2006, p.57]

On their fourth LP, they bang out styles with such preposterous ease--Seventies Philly soul, old-timey gospel, Celtic folk, metal, reggae, jazz--they could incorporate as a single-band music-placement agency. If only they reached a little further.

Her seventh LP brings the mama drama.

With Jackson's world-remaking grooves as a guide, even the gaudiest setting can be a party.

There's admirable sonic purity to these live recordings, but that only underscores the astonishing lack of verve in the performances.

Perry Farrell strives for a Radiohead vibe that leaves guitarist Dave Navarro confused (though he gets his on "Words Right Out of Mouth").

On the couple of cuts when Mika's campy steez isn't all up in your grill, he's boring.

As on the last few Oasis outings, particularly the arrogant Standing on the Shoulder of Giants, from 2000, Noel's nerdy-architect tendencies are counterbalanced by the bratty and hedonistic snarl of his brother Liam.

Though Carlton's a better lyricist than faded contemporaries such as Michelle Branch, that fussy piano tends to muscle her out of her own songs.

Although a handful of dated, unimaginative instrumentals drag down Déjà Vu's momentum, Moroder has always been more of a singles artist.

Lacking the star personality of a Robbie Williams or the wit of a Ben Folds, Powter doesn't rise above his instantly familiar keyboard riffs, yet neither does he drown in them.

Seemingly every track... contains nothing but raw bile toward those who have wronged Alexakis. [21 Sep 2006, p.88]