Robin Thicke "Blurred Lines" [2013]

Robin Thicke's "Blurred Lines" sounds like the kind of two-dimensional party music for dipshits who throw beads at girls who show them their tits at Mardi Gras. As such, is it really harmless fun, or the source of shame for the rest of some once-drunk bimbo's life? I know I feel pretty shamed listening to this pile of crap, and no one's called me a bimbo yet. I'm pretty sure Thicke's heard it plenty himself, however, but it's no stubble off his chin -- he's just marking time between Justin Timberlake releases with the over-cologned whiteboy nightclub soul, complete with whole verses in sugary falsetto and way too many notes in his vocal runs. Ubiquitous crossover producer Pharrell Williams clearly has no problem substituting Thicke for Timberlake; not only are they cardboard cut-outs of each other, but Pharrell's been a pop industry sell-out so long he makes Will.i.am look like Ol' Dirty Bastard. Ultimately, though, what could one possibly expect from a Robin Thicke album -- depth? Sincerity? Actual human emotion? Come on, that'd be like Tom Cruise playing Hamlet. You already know what this album sounds like before you even hear it; he was literally born into the network television entertainment industry, and not only would he be stupid to knock over the gravy train, it probably never will ever occur to him to do so. He's completely cut and dried -- the only blurred lines here are in the album's title.