Sophisticated dance-floor mischief rarely gets this sexy.

It’s hard to tell how serious De Luca is being here, so over the top is everything (there’s a song called Fish in the Sky. No, really). It could be misconstrued as a parody of 70s and 80s musical mores, cramming as it does all manner of instrumental bombast and excess into its 50 minutes.

We Can’t Fly is over the top, trying to embrace everything Vito De luca ever loved about radio, or all the music he ever loved, period. It’s a cosmic mess of styles and guests. People who are fans of his DJ sets will not feel at home in this setting, with no crowd pleasers except for the title track.

You can probably imagine what it sounds like: minimalist drum machine beats, techno-lifted synth pulses, plinky keyboard hooks, retro-fitted hip-hop callbacks, pitch-shifted vocals, and songs that chain your brain to the furnace and beat you over the head with their cursed affability.

It’s a much lesser record than The E.N.D., and yet it isn’t boring, even when the echoes of old songs are more than echoes.

Consider it a musical Snuggie for tottering Valley party girls – it will feel marvelous in the cold, drunken and lonely hours of the night.

Only One Flo, Pt. 1 flings extremely polished club tracks at the listener without a breather.

Only One Flo embraces the electro pulse of international clubland, with hedonistic lyrics to match. But although Ludacris and Gucci Mane inject momentary charisma, Flo Rida mostly flows as anonymously as any dance diva.

The fact that he sings many of his own hooks might seem like a useful skill, but the combined blandness of his singing and rapping only increases the overwhelming blandness of Only One Flo, an album that seems insistent on reminding us how dispensable he actually is.

L.A.’s veteran indie rocker is on a tear in his third outing with the up-for-anything Miracle 3 – guitarist Jason Victor, drummer Linda Pitmon and bassist Dave DeCastro – fusing Wynn’s penchant for Americana rock, psychedelia, brutal punk and extended jams into an intriguingly seductive blend.

The album is not only perfectly balanced; it stands out as a bright (black) light amid the dross of postmillennial rock.

Wynn has already shown us what he can do when he turns the volume knob and lets ‘er rip, but his best music results when he stops and thinks first.

Whilst most of her R&B contemporaries resort to histrionics in order to display emotion, Sullivan’s vocals sound lived-in, cracking and fraying on the stately 10 Seconds and deftly wrapping themselves around the beat on the sample-heavy, Missy Elliott-produced Holding You Down.

The Philly singer’s begging America to Love Me Back, and these warm soul tracks and two-Gucci-handkerchief ballads make it difficult not to.

Her voice is narrow and jagged, with more grain and more tears as she applies gospel dynamics to her venting; the productions use hip-hop programming but aim for soul. While Ms. Sullivan revels in drama, she still has a sense of humor.