Part of Morrissey’s charm is his resistance to change. Another part is the sick wit that lies behind his vitriol. The titles of his songs alone draw perverse smiles. He may be a pill and a scold, but you can’t deny the guy’s got style.

In sound, composition and performance, Sia captures the melodrama of teen life, with all the lunatic exaggeration it deserves.

Thicke’s considerable vocal skills can’t wipe away the sneaking feeling that he’s always doing an impersonation of someone else. Listening, you never feel you can entirely trust the guy, which may be the album’s most revealing aspect of all.

Actually, there’s nothing Sheeran does here that Mraz hasn’t done before, often more cleverly. Even so, Sheeran can write a hummable tune and, clearly, has something young girls love even more than looks: heart.

Only in a few songs does he draw on soul’s common language of strain and overstatement and it’s exciting when he does. At his most forceful he can sound like Simply Red’s Mick Hucknall. Far more often he’s in the erudite territory of Smokey Robinson, letting his falsetto waft ever higher.

A.K.A. finds J.Lo throwing anything she can at the wall to see what sticks.

The sound is so dense it threatens to asphyxiate the singer, which may just be the point. Everything about her work plays into fantasies of a potentially fatal manipulation.

The band that has most closely followed his lead--the Black Keys--sticks to conventional takes on American genres, but White treats them with something fresher: a sense of menace.

The slicker R&B tracks--alighted by singers like Trey Songz and Guardan Banks--have a more generic appeal. And, as always, 50’s bling-driven verse isn’t as rare as his rhythmic delivery. But when his rich instrument undulates over the minimalist riffs, there’s magic worth waiting for.

Contrary to its title, the new album may be Carey's least elusive work. Rarely has she made her talent more clear.

They raise issues only to question them, a point driven home by the askew music. It doesn’t make for the most direct, or exciting, of sounds. But by embracing hip hop and also standing outside it, the album lends the genre a perspective it could use.

If the new music has the consistency of loose porridge, the lyrics prove just as watered down.

Turn Blue may not rock as resoundingly as past works, but the added soul in Auerbach’s vocals, and the extra beauty of the tunes, give the album a slow-burn warmth.

It has just eight short songs, and the material isn’t about to eclipse “Thriller.” But it does a service by adding worthy songs to Jackson’s canon. Even better, it makes him sound, once again, alive.

The relationship between the music and Albarn’s voice deepens the album’s theme.

Like most star collaborations, this one shoehorns in some ill-suited, name-brand guests--like Gloria Estefan and R&B’s Miguel. Santana’s glistening leads compete with, rather than complement, these artists. Some tracks feel as awkward as Match.com first dates.

It’s a flinty, raw and ravaged recording, like some audio equivalent of a message in a bottle long ago tossed into the sea. It may be hard to listen to but it lends the disc an arcane charm.

Due to the depth of LaMontagne’s talent, any recording by him has automatic conviction and appeal. But Auerbach’s sound proves too defining, making the star seem like he’s trying to squeeze into another man’s clothes.

The new Honest goes for something more personal and earnest, though many of his rhymes lack the nuance to make those revelations more than rote. Luckily, there’s enough depth in Future’s spoken, and sung, verse to lend them the vulnerability they demand.

It lacks the philosophical breadth of previous Wilson songs like “Free Life” or the wit of his masturbation ode, “Get a Grip.” But there’s more than enough here for pop stars to plunder, aided by its rich points of view.

Regardless of the musical style, Kelis’ vocals manage a rare balance--between maternal nurture and a lover’s caress.

The music on Lower Reaches follows the pattern of all three Currie solo albums. It’s slower and more ballad driven than his zippy work with Del Amitri. But he does kick up his heels in “Bend to My Will,” which recalls the Eagles' hit "Already Gone."

If the music still plays to the lighter side of power pop, it’s more animated and edgy than either musician has managed in too long a time.

Many of the other stars sound like they want to crawl inside Browne’s throat, the better to get closer to the mind that created such exquisite work. Even the most reconsidered renderings make sure never to get in the way of the words.

Each [Fillmore volume] presented a wholly different side of the icon’s genius. But only Fillmore captures the apex of his adventure, a time when an already middle-aged Miles managed to out-freak even the freaks.

Heard in what would have been Cash’s 82nd year, the songs find this icon embracing Music Row conventions without losing his soul.

There’s no getting around the fact that his versions of “Feeling Good” or “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” pale compared to those of Nina Simone and Roberta Flack.

The band’s songs are as dense to listen to as they are to contemplate.