“Smile” has some sparklers. But if there’s any phrase that could be operative with any review of almost any Katy Perry full-length, it’s “mixed results,” and the new album is not about to tip that balance in any significant way.

“Scenic Drive” is a pulsating, minor marvel of economical soul-hop that satisfies all that Khalid fanatics have come to crave — that high dozy warble, those out-of-the-blue hooks — while pushing his new-found exigency (and lower range) into the future.

The El Paso-raised vocalist and composer kicks--or shuffles--everything up a notch with a handful of fresh producers (including Digi, Charlie Handsome and Hit-Boy), richer, more lustrous sounds, and further explorations into AutoTune.

This feels like an album designed more to move tickets for his farewell tour, even if the first 60 shows did sell out on day one. You do get some selections on Revamp where the guests assert their personalities in interesting enough ways.

In its herculean embrace of teamwork, it suffers uniformly from the same flaw that infects nearly every other recent one-off that embraces the F-word in its credits: There’s no real trading off, and never for a moment do you imagine any of these people were in the same room. With such an impressive friends list, you hope for at least the illusion of chemistry somewhere along the way, but it’s the ultimate Dropbox duets album.

His voice and the production are flawless, and his soul is in the right place — but there’s something airless about the album, too, like he could have left the window open a crack to let some sunshine in. For a Valentine’s Day album about love in bloom, it sounds surprisingly serious and dark, with a one-track-mind.

Committing to kitschy ’60s bliss as much as that era’s real or imagined war zones allows Morrissey and California Son a chance to find a (literal) voice in a way he hasn’t in ages. It would just be an even greater feat if Morrissey could make more of its finer musical moments jibe with his personal vibes.

There is at least one major head-scratcher among these smarter choices: an unnecessary EDM version of “Jingle Bells” (seriously) that Clapton has dedicated to Avicii. But the rest of the set is suitable for anyone who needs a Santa with a Slow Hand.

If you have a soft spot for hard rock shredding but can’t appreciate its pompous contexts unironically, this is the album for you, with Steve Vai, Joe Satriani and Steve Lukather present and taking their eruptive tasks very seriously. A more eclectic guitar hero, Richard Thompson, even pops up to do the metal solo we always suspected he could.

The space opera is an uneven mix of synth-drenched power-pop, cosmic interludes (the band goes as far as inventing alien languages) and surprisingly affecting collaborations. It’s the emotional heft of the latter that pumps the brakes as Coldplay approaches that metaphorical Great White, making the band’s ninth album a minor — but not entirely regrettable — addition to an otherwise stellar discography.

Although he’s not really mixing musical genres as originally promised, he’s mixing up some music and lyrics that shouldn’t really go together, which makes this one crazy peanut butter cup of an album.

Resistance to change is part of its allure, a charm that, like Bryan’s music, won’t work on everyone. But for all the Born Here Live Here Die Heres, there are worse places to spend a life.

So many things caught up with him so tragically after a life he made such a mess of, you couldn’t help but be curious what would come next. For now, “Bad Vibes Forever” is a pretty decent answer to that question.

On the whole, however, the album is a lyrical mess, alternately alienating and bland.

“Faith” makes it clear Pop Smoke had a real future, with its show of soul and progress.

On a purely musical level, “Donda” is close to unassailable; any time spent tarrying on its release has been time well-wasted. It’d be hard to contend that an album that lasts nearly two hours exactly flies by, but until it gets to those last four completely superfluous remixes, it’s a collection that never comes close to wearing out its welcome, alternating the brooding and the banging with a well-honed sense of dynamics.

Any time “Dogs” finds itself, a lull is just around the corner, in large part because of its ungainly length.

Solo debuts with this much expectation are incredible challenges. While “Walls” isn’t a craven ripoff or an attempt to recapture One Direction highs, it’s not yet clear exactly who Tomlinson is without them.

He paved his own lane by being his weird self, but sadly, on “Nuthin’ 2 Prove,” Yachty’s guilty of following the crowd.

It isn’t the most groundbreaking album in his discography, but it’s the clearest vision that he’s presented in years. Its songs are mercurial yet intentional, each its own bizarre sector of a larger blueprint, and the 16-song set is often musically great, from the Brazilian funk sample on “Paperwork” to the bellowing horns of “Problematic.” .... Lyrically, however, those hoping for West to seriously reconcile with his public controversies will come up short on “Vultures 1,” where in characteristically antagonist form, he leans into them.

Timberlake doesn’t reconcile with remorse across the suitable yet uneven “Everything I Thought It Was”; rather, he quickly gestures towards it on opener “Memphis” and moves on.

Harlow builds upon his bedrock strengths and finds a heady musical elixir for his new album, a vibe more potent, direct and swaggering than on his first major label outing. ... If “Come Home the Kids Miss You” feels like Harlow’s “Off the Wall,” could his “Thriller” be very far away? Thankfully, Harlow is the type of artist that warrants that question.

He overdramatizes familiar carols as if every thought and emotion were occurring to him in real time instead of being read from a songbook. But a little of this goes a long way, and by the time he’s joined by Judy Collins for “White Christmas” or Iggy Pop for “Silent Night,” you will probably have long since lost interest in knocking around the eternal “kidding, or earnest?” questions. As an album, Shatner Claus makes a great single.

Harverd Dropout is by no means perfect: The album has a lot of throwaways and Pump’s development as a lyricist seems stunted by his youthful success--for all of his bragging and achievements, he really should sound as if he’s having more fun. But then again, maybe he’s concentrating on keeping the melodies simple and catchy and his words in league with his image.

Ultimately, a few things come from repeated listenings of “LP1″: First off, the writing and singing aren’t strong enough and come across as C-level Timberlake material. Two, without being surrounded by 1D, he shouldn’t sing high, flightily and airily, but rather stick to slow, low groovers. Three, Payno should find one or two styles that work best for him — and not put a host of other singers before him, male or female — and stick to them.