Maybe this is what passes for rebellion now -- a major label, videogenic looks, and VH1's stamp of approval -- but it equals undistinguished California rock and will probably sell a couple million.

Kweli's generic sounds belie the so-called revolutionary front of his lyrics.

Digital garnishment works for Wilco, but not so much for the beat-impaired Oberst.

It's tedious where there should be tension.

Those farty sounds and the guy with the deeeeeeeeeep voice on "It Overtakes Me" are called "bells and whistles." That's what bands do when they don't have anything to say.

Pharrell's all-too-shallow schtick becomes monumentally tired over the course of an entire album.

It's one thing to be eclectic; it's another thing entirely for an album to lack a cohesive conceit that connects one track to all the others.

Everything about The Cost is inflated and with little payoff, a blight for a band worth so much more.

50 sounds redundant.

Kings of Leon here depend on a major label production budget rather than hooks. Caleb Followill's nasal yelp remains totally disarming, but the stupidity of 'Sex on Fire' douses all credibility.

No Line on the Horizon reaches for "The Unforgettable Fire's" post-"War" reinvention but misfires this side of "Pop" without the songs.

'Cotopaxi' and 'Desperate Graves' are the Volta's most straightforward carbon-burners since Frances the Mute's 'Cygnus ... Vismund Cygnus' yet lack structure and memorable hooks, while the introductory ballad 'Since We've Been Wrong' soars closer to the Eagles than Led Zeppelin.

The Watson Twins have inherent and proven talent, but it hardly shows here.

The band's full-length debut, however, still turns up drier than Laurel Canyon. Like most of Modern Rituals, "Nothing's Wrong" because it was assembled piecemeal in Pro Tools, stiff and lifeless.

Oberst's voice trembles with the emotion of his youth, only ripped with spite instead of vulnerability. That solipsism has shifted to an even more detached universalism, which leaves little for the listener to connect with.

Based on this evidence, Cold Cave is merely the New Coke of New Wave.

Square-peg/round-hole pairings of the Kinkster and guests seldom jell as duets (Bruce Springsteen), but covers from Lucinda Williams ("Long Way From Home") and Jackson Browne ("Waterloo Sunset") make for choice B-sides.

What stands out are shallow hooks ("I Stand Alone"), disjointed memoirs ("Love Is Real"), and the painful lyrical repetition of "Girls Girls $" littering a nightclub-ready canvas. "Stop It."

Sure, there's Somethin 'Bout Kreay, but it's not good.

Fool Metal Jack looks at modern America with kaleidoscope eyes, but it's more bad parody than pastiche.

Bogged down by Meth's lackadaisical approach and reliance on guest appearances, Tical 0: The Prequel falls flat on its befuddled front.

Unlistenable, grade-A manure.

A nearly unlistenable, shiny mess of weepy college rock.

All filler, no killer.

Save for Lyfe Jennings' refreshing cues on 'Hood Star,' there's nothing original about Last.

The remainder of the 16-song, hourlong question mark is emphatic spoken word hurled over a sound check--pretentious, superfluous, and ultimately unlistenable.

Duffy's the Clay Aiken of nuevo "soul."