Memories: Do Not Open, the debut full-length from EDM-lite duo the Chainsmokers, is a calculated dose of millennial escapism that peddles the same sounds as their far more engaging EP work. Following Bouquet and Collage -- home to their megahits "Closer" and "Don't Let Me Down" -- Memories serves as evidence that the Chainsmokers might be better equipped for shorter releases. Even with the help of producer DJ Swivel and guests like Emily Warren, Phoebe Ryan, Florida Georgia Line, and Imagine Dragons' Dan Reynolds, Memories is just not that memorable. Over 12 songs that mostly sound the same with little to differentiate one from another, Andrew Taggart and Alex Pall shill a live-fast-die-young attitude that quickly grows tiresome (if listeners reach penultimate track "Young," where Taggart sings about wrecking a girl's car, almost fighting her father, and sneaking out to bars, the patience will likely have already run out). However, fans are probably not seeking depth and gravitas in a Chainsmokers album. Rather, they can rely on the duo for fleeting feelings of joy and bliss, no matter how overly simplified. The Chainsmokers' typical chords and drops are all present, carrying waves of naïve and sophomoric lyrics that stretch for profundity, like on "Bloodstream" -- one of the many electro ballads on Memories -- where Taggart sings, "I'm fucked up/I'm faded/I'm so complicated." It not only comes off as obnoxious, but the production itself is so similar to "Roses" (and "Closer") that listeners might be hit with an annoying sense of déja vù. There's plenty more MOR EDM to be had on Memories ("My Type," "Honest," and "Don't Say" for starters), but in terms of songs that actually stand out, there are just a few. Singles like "Paris" and the Coldplay duet "Something Just Like This" are undeniably catchy, especially the latter, which is a double-whammy of Coldplay's pure ineffable joy-rock and the Chainsmokers' patented drops. Two other standouts benefit from guest vocalists. On the Sam Martin co-write "It Won't Kill Ya," French singer Louane delivers a soulful and dramatic sequel to Daya's turn on "Don't Let Me Down," while R&B singer Jhené Aiko elevates "Wake Up Alone." This certainly is not one of the worst albums ever recorded; indeed, it has its moments of merit that hit the proper spots and deliver the intended dose of dopamine. However, as a cohesive statement worthy of an album's length of the listener's attention, Memories is lacking. With a pair of strong EPs behind them, the Chainsmokers need further practice before they can prove themselves to be an album act. Only a few songs have the necessary half-life that extends beyond the tracks that follow. On "Wake Up Alone," Aiko asks, "Will you still care in the morning/When the magic's gone?" Until there's more evidence to the contrary, the answer is unfortunately "no."© Neil Z. Yeung /TiVo

After disappearing from American radar screens for several years -- even as Armand Van Helden's trend-setting remix of "Spin Spin Sugar" remained very durable in clubs -- Sneaker Pimps became a radically different group with their third album. Less experimental, less distinctive, and definitely missing the production finesse of Nellee Hooper, Bloodsport suffers musically from a lack of imagination and vocally from Chris Corner's surprisingly post-grunge style of delivery. From the sub-Depeche Mode industrial pop of the opener "Kiro TV" to the bland "Nightclubbing" sound-alike "Small Town Witch," Sneaker Pimps hardly sound like the same band that made indie pop sound hip again back in 1996.© John Bush /TiVo

Melancholy, decidedly disheveled, and rootsy, Young Criminals' Starvation League is a captivating and timeless collection of countrified dirges that sound as if they were rendered on a back-porch shanty somewhere in rural America. An therein lies the charm of Bobby Bare Jr.. With a cracked voice and broken spirit, Bare's astute observations of life's little victories and big failures are delivered with all the grace of a lingering hangover. Gallows humor abounds, especially in "Dig Down," a self-deprecating dialogue targeting a myriad of rock stars who stand accused of sucking up all the brilliant ideas while leaving the over-the-counterculture generation in a retro daze. "Monk at the Disco" pumps up the Americana engine akin to post-psychedelic-era Byrds and Flying Burrito Brothers. Abetted by ramshackle renditions of the Smiths' "What Difference Does It Make" and Shel Silverstein's "Painting Her Fingernails," both of which capture the pathos and misery-loves-company splendor of the originals, Bare Jr. wears his heartbreak rather well.© Tom Semioli /TiVo