Bearing the core sound of a 20something Justin Bieber and the back-sideways-baseball-cap fashion of the truly detestable, Gillette panders to the lemmingest lemmings of this generation, people who don’t grasp the basics of trends and music but whose hippocampuses know their church group wouldn’t be offended by this type of trendy music if random softcore platitudes are thrown in (not that that happens in this collection of Four-Loko-fueled epithets for tweets and Booyah applets). Gillette has made a name for himself as an Autotune-dependent choreographer, knocking together off-the-cuff snippets of nu-Vanilla Ice hatefulness that abuse crowd eardrums during NBA time-outs at Nuggets games. There need be no further mercy for this kind of stupidness, not when our broke-ass population desperately needs some inspiration and there are sampling programs that could make Beethoven out of chimp farts — here it’s rap-snap-croon, then Autotune fluff — you know, Justin Timberlake without the army of songwriters, ADD-afflicted genie-pants-80s for those who don’t care if Dr. Dre’s got nuance or not, because, you know, woot-woot dawg, we’re all up in it, that whole future-laughingstock tip. D  — Eric W. Saeger