With love-drunk lyrics and throbbing club beats, much of Talk sounds like Rihanna recorded it while joyously spinning in circles. Don't worry: she's still a naughty girl, too -- more than ever. But in place of Loud's themes of strength in submission, Riri climbs on top this time, making demands, acting the aggressor, even requesting you suck her "Cockiness." Her "Red Lipstick" marks her claim on hip-hop masculinity, rather than on a man, but even her self-presentation as a "Birthday Cake" feels like a finger-snapping command. Talk is a sexy, confident play on notions of power.
All right, who keeps doing Kelly Clarkson wrong? Because the unselfish humanitarian in us wants them to stop it. But our selfish music-lover side loves how good feeling bad sounds in Clarkson's voice. Album five is Clarkson doing what she does best: exposing her insecurities, giving the heartbreakers the Clarkson Kiss-Off and strumming our pain with her husky belt in variations on her dramatic pop-rock from '80s confessional pop (the lovely "Honestly") to country ("Breaking Your Own Heart"). Don't miss the title track, a classic diva-survival anthem complete with four-on-the-floor disco beats.
After blowing up with debut Lungs, Florence Welch holds nothing back on Ceremonials. Every song has a similar setup: Welch tiptoes in like it's a haunted house -- quietly, innocently, almost tentatively -- before she bursts through, a reckless siren of Kate Bush descent, boldly battling with rolling piano, huge bass, glistening strings and choral echoes. She works the romantic drama with gut-twisting grandiosity like fellow Brit belter Adele trapped in some sort of Transylvanian echo chamber. This is the kind of woman who will haunt your dreams -- and you can't help but like it.
For Take Care, Drake re-ups the lush R&B romanticism of 2010's Thank Me Later, albeit with a twist. "I know I exaggerated things/ But now I got it like that," he says on "Headlines," where he threatens to use his bodyguards on haters. (What happened to Gang Starr's "Suckas Need Bodyguards"?) Big cars, pliant women and deliciously ambient beats from Boi-1da and Noah "40" Shebib inspire this tastefully appointed exercise in debauchery. But Drake's not too famous to beg to girls on "Marvin's Room" and the title track, even if it sounds more like a booty call than true love.
Mary J. Blige can never recreate the experience that was My Life. The Queen of Soul has evolved since that 1994 classic, and nowadays she sings quiet storm ballads more often than hip-hop soul. That said, My Life II is her most vital album in years. It's hard not to get a rush of giddiness when she teams with Nas for "Feel Inside" and its Wu-Tang-sampling beat, and "Ain't Nobody" and "Next Level" recall Mary in her prime. Yes, there are plenty of sappy self-help numbers like "The Living Proof," but after two decades in the business, this R&B legend has earned the right to make them.
OK, so they may not be the best cover artists, but it's hard not to crack a smile at merely the idea of The Muppets Barbershop Quartet tackling '90s anthem "Smells Like Teen Spirit," or Camilla and the Chickens clucking their way through Cee-Lo's "Forget You." To add to the randomness, Joanna Newsom pops up on the theme song, and Feist livens up "Life's a Happy Song" (written by Flight of the Conchords' Bret McKenzie). Along with quick snippets from the movie, co-writer and star Jason Segel gets his rightful time in the crooner spotlight with gems like "Man or Muppet."
Like every other early 2010s pop star, Paulina Rubio has been bitten by the clubby dance-pop bug. And why not? She's got the voice (light, unobtrusively sexy) and the (diva) presence to pull it off. But while that material is pleasant and danceable (especially lead single "Me Gustas Tanto"), it feels a bit standoffish. The English tracks are particularly lackluster. The second half finds her branching out -- and warming up -- as she duets with Taboo, preens and prances through the vallenato-laced "Me Voy" and fetchingly coos across the sweeping synths of ballad "Que Estuvieras Aqui."
On their first album since Travie McCoy's solo turn, Gym Class Heroes plays things a bit safe. The Papercut Chronicles II doesn't get as playful as previous efforts have. Mischievous titles take off in serious directions: "Martyrial Girl$" is pretty cynical, while "Ass Back Home" turns out to be a kinda heartwarming love song. Much of the quirk is reserved for collaborators: British dance-pop weirdo Neon Hitch, indie ingénue Oh Land. But who needs quirk when you've got slick beats, smooth flows and, of course, lots of girl talk, like on "Lazarus, Ze Gitan," a revamped "California Girls."
The Biebster + holidays? Why didn't someone think of this sooner?! The boy wonder knows how to get you in the festive mood. And we do mean mood: Things get downright naughty on "Christmas Eve." The classics are craftily reworked (Santa comes to town with hip-hop swagger; the drummer boy goes clubbing), and the originals are finely tuned to show off Bieber's surprising range, from dubby coffee-shop pop to soulful country. Plus, a bunch of fabulous guests stop by, including Usher, Boyz II Men and, yes, Mariah Carey. Mistletoe's no Mimi holiday album -- yet. But it's one heck of a holiday party.
Saxobeats is not so much Alexandra Stan's debut album as a continuation of the Romanian pop star's first big hit. The familiar sultry coo, icy club beats and, especially, that jaunty synth-sax that made "Mr. Saxobeat" a smash are so prevalent that the appropriately titled album almost feels like a continuous mix, from the bouncy, innuendo-licked "Lollipop" through the clutch of remixes that round out the eight original tracks here. But little details (like the catwalk hopscotch beat of "Ting-Ting") and one big detour (hip-hop cut "1 Million") keep the groove from being a sexy, sexy rut.
Romeo Santos wisely doesn't deviate far from Aventura's Formula, dousing his first solo album in sweet-talking, hip-hop-infused shuffle-and-roll bachata-pop. But this is also Santos' chance to declare himself king of bachata and of the genre's crossover turf. So he cozies up to sleek dance-pop, dramatic Latin balladry, sultry booty-hop (see the Lil Wayne-featuring "All Aboard") and a host of high-profile guests from La Mala Rodriguez to Usher to George Lopez (!). It's a slick campaign that'll quickly convince you of how far Santos' "bad" boy charm and feathery tenor can take him.
"Ladies, the wait is over," Tyrese announces on "I'm Home" from Open Invitation, his first album in five years. Save for the aforementioned "I'm Home," which has a verse from L.A. rapper Jay Rock and a quiet storm tone reminiscent of Drake, the model-turned-singer-turned-Transformers star keeps it simple with bedroom adventures that will get the "beats back knockin', the beds back rockin'." His passionate vocals will make you believe these fantasies, but imagining his stunning looks while he sings them can't hurt, either.
Childish Gambino thinks he's the weird black kid who's different from everyone else. But he wants to indulge in rap clichés, too, from running through "b*tches" and driving Maybachs to clowning "backpackers." As he raps and occasionally sings in an impassioned voice reminiscent of Patrick Stump, and underscores his rhymes with string arrangements akin to Kanye West's albums, Childish Gambino doesn't bother to unravel Camp's contradictions. However, his best songs -- the intra-racial discord of "Hold You Down," the working-class kid in "Outside" -- help us understand what he's going through.
Twenty is, most of all, a testament to finding what works for you and then working it. And two decades into their career, Boyz II Men have perfected the art of candlelit, soft-focus slow jams and ballads. Thus, the new tracks on the album's first half flow almost effortlessly into the hits on the second, creating a continuum in which the Boyz position themselves relative to both classic (the solid, Temptations-esque "Benefit of a Fool") and contemporary (the almost club-ready "Flow") incarnations of the silky, smooth-talking croon. Also? "Motownphilly" is still a really good song.
