Who is Michael Bublé? A swoon-worthy Christmas carol crooner? Yes. My 13 year-old crush? Definitely. As an established Bublé fan, I can honestly say I was pretty disappointed in his newest album.

The songs were, dare I say it, trite and stale. It’s almost like Bublé sang for genre rather than for himself. He played it safe this time. Really safe.

As a teenage girl, I want dark, moody, and different. I don’t need a boy version of Taylor Swift. That’s why there’s Cody Simpson.

So again I ask, who is Michael Bublé?

I got zero insight as to who the man was from this album. He whines and waits on his girl (whomever that may be) to come back to him and does nothing about it. Where’s the inner turmoil and conflict?  

Maybe, just maybe, one of these songs could feature in my playlist I listen to as a backtrack when I’m reading cheesy novels. But really, it wouldn’t add much to the experience. My sister related this album to a Nicholas Sparks story — decent execution, but for any true book-lover, it will never become a favorite.

I’m not asking for a symphony of music that will make me cry everytime I listen to it, just something that will make me feel anything. At all. In my head, over and over I said, “Blah blah blah,” as the songs droned on through my earphones.

So once again, I reiterate the fact that I wanted nothing more than to rave about this album. Sadly, the only rave this album would ever see is if Claire’s jewelry had a sale on ear piercings and the sad clerk decided this album would please the masses.