Watch your back, Bieber! And for that matter, JT, Mike Posner and maybe even Usher. Greyson Chance is indeed the prepubescent singing sensation of the day, which, yes, grownups, does mean his debut includes tracks obsessed with crushes and song titles like, um, "Unfriend You." But age ain't nothing but a number and "Unfriend You" (along with most of Hold On) is perfectly crafted pop confectionary, fraught with dramatic synth-strings, irresistible hooks, danceable grooves (don't miss the Bo Diddley beat on "Stranded") and, especially, Chance's warm, surprisingly rich blue-eyed soul vocals.
It's difficult to take Natalia Kills seriously, in spite of (or maybe because of) her desperate desire that we do so. The British singer-songwriter's debut is stuffed with dramatic, heavily stylized dance pop featuring Natalia as a self-destructive, kinda violent victim of love. Heavily drawn shades of Gaga color much of the album, but with dark-fairy-tale allegories ("Wonderland") and heavy-handed irony ("Kill My Boyfriend") in place of Gaga's playfulness. Does that all sound negative? It's not. When treated as the high-camp dancefloor theater it is, Perfectionist kills (sorry).
How do you follow up the success of hits like "Sexy Bitch," "Gettin' Over You" and "I Gotta Feeling"? French crossover sensation David Guetta stays with the smart money on Nothing But the Beat, the follow-up to 2009's One Love. The guest list is strictly A-list -- Flo Rida, Taio Cruz, Snoop Dogg, Usher, Will.I.Am, Akon, Chris Brown -- and the pumped-up synths have the gleam of money in the bank. A Timbaland collab throws back to Missy-era beats, but the rest is relentlessly contemporary, glossy, pumping club pop. In 2011, what counts is that it sounds expensive.
Like many Idols and big-voiced ladies, Hudson's large, lusty pipes have resulted in her languishing in a bland, adult-contemporary setting that shows off her skill but lacks style. But on album No. 2, Hudson may have the solid gold solution: dramatic club diva. Treacly inspirationals are carefully recrafted into survival anthems ready for their drag queen reenactment. Take "Everybody Needs Love": the vintage-cool, dance-pop-hot beats (courtesy of Alicia Keys and Swizz Beatz) breathe campy, compelling life into hokey lyrics -- and let Hudson show off both vocal and personality range.
As far as teen R&B albums go, Mindless Behavior's #1 Girl isn't too bad. Much like post-millennial pop group B2K, this quartet of Los Angeles boys doesn't have a dominant vocal presence, and it's hard to enjoy their songs without imagining the liquid dance moves in their videos. The clear standouts are singles like the title track and "Mrs. Right," where they and rapper Diggy Simmons celebrate the ladies over a grinding beat reminiscent of Chris Brown's "Look at Me Now." Other tracks, like the sugary "Hello" and "Hook It Up," rely on a tasteful amount of Auto-Tune.
Jason Derulo is good at many things: clubby nihilism, dramatic R&B synth-onies, candlelit booty jams, sweeping/desperate crooning over odd/exotic beats (see the Toto-sampling "Fight for You" or the arabesque beats of "Breathing"). He even (almost) pulls off hip-hop swagger. In other words, his second album showcases an artist who can wear many hats, but also risks getting lost under them, leaving us without a strong sense of who Jason Derulo is. What he does best, in fact, is to recreate styles we know and love with just a teensy twist. But that, friends, can be a great recipe for pop success.
Lupe Fiasco publicly battled his record label to get Lasers released, but was it worth it? He aims for the bleachers by quoting Modest Mouse's "Float On" ("The Show Goes On") and spinning a bizarre metaphor for racial harmony ("All Black Everything") amid loud drums and keyboards. Every track is drenched in yearning, echoey vocals from Skylar Grey, MDMA and others, but the songs aren't sturdy enough to sustain them. Whether you hear Lasers as a slump or a creative leap depends on whether you miss the lyrically dense backpack rap of Food & Liquor or are dazzled by his arena rock aspirations.
If you only heard the first three tracks of Vanessa Carlton's fourth album, you'd be forgiven for worrying that the girl has just never quite found a way to evolve beyond the plinkety-plankety-angsty coffee-shop pop of her big hit, "A Thousand Miles." Then "Fairweather Friend," awash in driving currents of piano and waves of strings, makes your ears perk up. And then, "Hear the Bells," with its gauzy minimalism and echoing vocals, begins a series of hazy, vintage-hued tracks that sound like what an Anthropologie ad looks like. Vanessa skips through them all like a honey-voiced love child.
Abandoning the emo-pop angst of sister band Meg & Dia, The Voice runner-up Frampton instead delivers a solo debut that showcases the kind of artist the show wants to foster: compelling, self-possessed, but with a malleable talent. Red is stylistically scattered, but charmingly so: Guests include Kid Cudi and Blake Shelton; tracks glide from rolling alt-country to shimmering disco, from straight-up Nashville pop to coffee-shop acoustic delivered with a femme fatale swagger (the surprising "Bullseye"). Frampton's velvety, torch-kissed voice molds to every inch of this impressive range.
Forget Gaga: Jessie J is who's gonna be keeping Christina Aguilera up at night. Smart, fierce and frank, the British singer-songwriter has pipes would-be divas would kill for -- and the ability to bend them to a wide stylistic range. Who You Are hops from vintage-tinged soul to hip-hop-doused dance-pop to Broadway blues ("Mamma Knows Best"). Jessie squeezes melismatic acrobatics, bold belting and subtler, hushed timbres into each cut without sounding (too) showy. Only the dramatic "Big White Room" feels a bit forced ('til you learn she wrote it as a hospitalized kid).
What is Katy B's mission? To be queen of dubstep's pop crossover? To conquer a U.S. crowd skeptical of British R&B? Possibly both. Produced by scene veterans including Geeneus, Zinc and Magnetic Man, the record ranges widely, from rolling U.K. funky to skeletal breakbeat soul, and from peak-time club hits to idiosyncratic house a la Basement Jaxx. But the standouts "Perfect Stranger" and "Katy on a Mission" prove her effortless command of dubstep at its most epic.
If nothing else, Ellie Goulding's debut proves how translatable the concept of an icy blonde singer with a feathery gasp of a voice and a pleasant, polite beat is. Lights takes that core concept and runs it through frosty Euro-dance, otherworldly indie electro, mournful alt-rock (think: Cranberries), slightly creepy alt-rock (think: Kate Bush), even a wee bit of rom-com soundtrack-ready adult alt. A girl could get lost in all those stylistic twists and turns! Goulding, however, is a quietly compelling presence who subtly makes each song, each style bend to her wistful, winsome will.
Like any good sequel, Sorry For Party Rocking is every bit as fun as its predecessor. Like 2009's (you guessed the title) Party Rocking, it's full of throbbing dance beats, that "oonce-oonce" sound, tons of club synths and rapped lyrics about all the good things in life: parties, being sexy and champagne showers. Even if the idea is to get laughs (check out "Take It to the Hole," with Busta Rhymes), the bottom line is LMFAO really just wants you shaking your booty.
True to his name, Pitbull is a bit of a horndog. On Planet Pit, Mr. 305 touts his masculine prowess to the ladies over dance beats from Afrojack ("Give Me Everything"), David Guetta ("Something for the DJs") and other pop-house producers. Sometimes his formula succeeds, like on shamelessly bouncy hit "Hey Baby (Drop It to the Floor)." But he fails, too, with cheesy songs like "Shake Senora," a lame remix of Harry Belafonte's calypso classic "Jump in the Line (Shake Senora)." Ne-Yo, T-Pain, Jamie Foxx, Kelly Rowland, Akon and others help Pitbull work it out.
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.
Swedish pop often sounds like it comes from an alternate universe where the girl group (wall of) sound never died out, and, thus, Lykke Li sounds sort of like '60s pop refracted back across the space-time continuum. Wounded Rhymes is at once familiar and alienating, sweet and seedy, like the album version of creepy baby doll art or aural deja vu. The watery landscape and flat-voiced siren's call of "I Follow Rivers," crazy/cute/confessional lyrics like "Sadness is my boyfriend," the dark, dirty slink of "Get Some": It's all deliciously uncomfortable. You can't not listen.
Producing some of her most successful singles yet, Here I Am finds Kelly Rowland settling into styles that work for her, like dance cuts that suit her wispy, malleable voice. More than anything, she's flexing a more brazen sexuality than she's exhibited before on tracks that saunter through the club (or slink through the bedroom). It's a strong eroticism, though, that builds on the diva stance she took up last time around: She may be cooing the most blatant come-on this side of "Love to Love You Baby," but she's doing it while giving instructions for providing her with, um, aural pleasure.
When superstars join forces, we expect blasts of energy, and Kanye West and Jay-Z's Watch the Throne succeeds magnificently, from the joyous old-school roundelay of "Otis" to the street-hop of "Welcome to the Jungle." But the duo's attempt to turn Throne into the scepter of the hip-hop diaspora proves trickier. They deplore black-on-black violence in "Murder to Excellence," tout their success as "Made in America," and scold their many haters on "Why I Love You." "I tried to teach n*ggas how to be kings," says Jay. Unfortunately, as Langston Hughes once wrote, "Life ain't no crystal stair."
Less than a year after A Year Without Rain, Selena Gomez picks up where that album left off: on the dance floor. Only this time, she's staying out late (and possibly at a 21-and-over club). Sun is a sleek, chic and, yes, sexy affair that starts off planting four firmly on the floor and doesn't let up through sassy kiss-offs, catwalk struts and Gomez's first Spanish track. It's all perfectly crafted. Maybe a little too perfect, painted as it is in shades of La Roux, Ke$ha, even Blondie! At least Gomez's touchstones are good ones. And her sweet purr is stronger than ever.
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.
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.
It's easy to be cynical about pop stars' post-breakdown rebirth albums. But Demi Lovato's first album since seeking help for several issues in 2010 not only feels movingly genuine, but pragmatic and pop-tastic. She loses herself on the dancefloor (the Missy-featuring "All Night Long"), belts out poignant confessionals ("Fix a Heart," the heartbreaking "For the Love of a Daughter") and gives herself a crucial post-rehab reality check (the earthy "In Real Life"). The title track does it all at once. She also does some of her best singing ever. When Demi says she's a new girl, we believe it.
Lady Gaga's second album steps ever so slightly away from the dance pop she helped dominate the charts with -- or, rather, she widens her gait to include a broader musical range. Euro-industrial club beats meet metal meets anthemic classic rock (complete with cameos by E Street Band sax man Clarence Clemons) meets '80s mall pop -- and all of it filtered through religious metaphors (from organ swells to "Judas"). It's a postmodern pastiche of pop references hot-glued together with Gaga's earnest ethos of individualism and freak-flag-flying.
On one level a response to Gaga and the general dance pop-ification of the charts, some of Britney's seventh album is gonna sound overly familiar: "Till the World Ends," for example, has co-writer Ke$ha written all over it and will.i.am cut "Big Fat Bass" sounds like bland Black Eyed Peas. But listen up, kids: This here's a house Mama Brit built. And she finally sounds comfortable in it -- enough to try some experimental stuff, like the singsong-strange "How I Roll." No more menage-a-messes, no stripper poles: Britney's grown up and ready to relax into life as a sexy, serious dance club grand dame.
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.
Adele's shtick seems to be album titles that completely belie the old soul inside. 21 sounds like no 21-year-old. Adele spends most of her sophomore album dominating styles she has no business knowing how to sing so intuitively, from the rafters-shaking, revival-ready "Rolling in the Deep" to the big, brassy '70s rock of "I'll Be Waiting." Elsewhere, she croons weathered ballads that sound more lovelorn than someone so young should (see "Turning Tables," a "Chasing Pavements" redux down to the syllabic structure). Still, her rich, distinctive, well-aged vintage pop has serious legs: 21 sent Adele skyrocketing to the top of the charts.
