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.

They're doubling down on that sound [mad-hatter psychedelic sprawl of 2010's winkingly titled Congratulations] for Album Three, pushing their love of acid-tinged bubblegum right out the back door of the booby hatch, in a good way.

If his booty-poppin' subject matter isn't original, the kaleidoscope R&B butter-storms he cooks up give his sexcapades a hallucinatory drama.

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.

On Autumn Variations, the storytelling skills that paved the way for Sheeran’s mainstream success are on full display.

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

In terms of consistency, craftsmanship and musical experimentation, Goddess in the Doorway surpasses all his solo work and any Rolling Stones album since Some Girls.

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.

But like everything here, it documents the unlikely transformation of an emotive indie rocker into a bona fide soul singer.

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.

Sting has shown he's a rocker who knows how to scale up.

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

While this album may lack his debut's soul-jazz seamlessness, it compensates with bipolar freakiness.

The band manages to squeeze the last remaining life out of this nearly extinct formula with volatile performances and meticulous editing.

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

Kylie Minogue definitely sounds like she has a few more tricks stored on her hard drive than Britney or Christina.

With unexpected juxtapositions learned from hip-hop and a sense of spiritual release gleaned from underground disco, Oakenfold steers the ultra-European, classical-minded pulse of trance toward syncopated rhythms, drum-free interludes and actual songs.

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.

MNDR's debut is a sweaty workout that mixes chilly electro moves with the kind of joyous beats that soundtracked summertime in the 1980s.

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

The combination of mournful maturity and club-ready fun they come up with on Till Death Do Us Part suits them just fine.

Strong storytelling redeems cheesy stuff like "Touchdown Jesus," as does the music, a savvy mix of down-home twang, pop tunefulness and rock heft.

Though some of the slow songs have thoroughly memorable tunes, the lyrics are full of bland self-affirmation and saggy lines....But the "Sasha" disc boasts Beyonce's most adventurous music yet.

His good-hearted faith in rock & roll delivers a powerful kick. As he well knows--and Rock N Roll Jesus proves--roaring guitars, truckloads of attitude and an unquenchable lust for life make up for a multitude of sins.

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.

One of his horniest albums yet (!), Kelly's 10th gets ridiculous fast.

It's the kind of magical revisionism you can attempt 45 years down the line. And they damn near pull it off.

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.

The refrains may be featherweight ("You and me were meant to be"), but the musical touches that surround "Love Is Rare" (particularly Ross Godfrey's arching slide-guitar leads) and the dream-cloud vocals of "World Looking In" are strong enough to carry even the tired cliches - rarely has the shallow end sounded so richly appointed.

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

Both [discs] combine into one excellent combo platter, proving Nelly as one of the most clever and effusive pop minds around.

A slender set of humorously coldhearted would-be club hits that celebrate hopelessness, freedom from tedious human relationships and numbness to heartbreak.

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

He rhymes more like a ghetto businessman than a natural talent, sprinkling gruff rhymes with silly lines. But his open-armed commercialism mostly works.

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.

With Killing Puritans, Van Helden means to scramble and then reassemble house music like the Beasties' Paul's Boutique scrambled hip-hop in 1989. Like Paul's Boutique, Puritans initially seems chaotic and arcane, but with repeated dosage it starts to reveal itself as a pugnacious party album.

As Her Loss abandons 21’s form of smack talk as a playful, revelatory exercise, its tone shifts to Drake’s toxic petulance. ... There’s a gloominess this time around, and it’s not just the sloppy sequencing and hit-or-miss quality that ranges from clear standouts like “Pussy & Millions,” where the so-called “treacherous twins” team up with Travis Scott, to aimless dross like “Major Distribution.” ... Singular misfire.

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.

The gypsy queen is in royal form on In Your Dreams - it's not just her first album in 10 years, it's her finest collection of songs since the Eighties.

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.

Pairs the thrilling hedonism of early-Seventies T. Rex and David Bowie with cartoonishly sexed-up vocals that make winking fun of glitter rock's excesses.

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

The result is indeed a whirlwind -- the kinetic rush of vintage punk minus the self-conscious nostalgia, the discipline of pop songcraft with, thankfully, no sugar added.

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

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

Stronger than most star-fronted posse records.

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.

This charming man's bowshots at English society can get repetitive. [Apr 2020, p.87]

DMX is stuck at the crossroads that confronts every rapper trying to keep it real when reality no longer plays like an action movie.

Her high notes are sweet and pillowy, her growl is bone-shaking and sexy, and her midrange is amazingly confident for a pop posy whose career is tied for eternity to the whims of her American Idol overlords.

"When I Built This World," a minimalist suite that feels like it's made for strings and Nintendo, is weirdly gorgeous, but otherwise this just sounds like two electronic greats e-mailing dorm-room demos.