The 22-20s are simply more of the same--the same clichés, the same melody-free blasts of noise, the same old garage rock that sounds positively primitive.

Tracks like "Lonely No More" might strike a chord because people will think it's a funky new Maroon 5 song. However, Backstreet Boys-esque ballads like "Ever the Same" and "When the Heartache Ends" are just way too much to handle.

A set of predictable, plastic, street-tough R&B jams.

By getting real, Garbage has produced quite a find.

It is the sound of Interpol as reinterpreted by Tom Waits--a breathtaking album with bite.

Coldplay comparisons are instantly apparent, but you get the feeling that these guys aren't going to end up with movie-star girlfriends.

The lyrics are clumsy, the synth-pop melodies bland and the genius long gone.

High kicks above their breakout debut by being brighter ("Dirty Mouth), wilier ("Goodnight Goodnight") and all around more pogo-inducing.

The First Lady should be the last album on anyone's shopping list.

The whole affair is overly polished, strangely detached and contains a thoroughly unnecessary cover of Don Henley's "Dirty Laundry."

Beck's taken everything he's good at and made it better.

Sure, sanitary party jams like "Switch" will get the PTA meeting rocking, but there's just no getting around Smith's insipid rhymes.

While their sound is decidedly of the moment (Bloc Party, the Killers, et al), their songs are undeniably catchy as all get-out.

The B. Coming attempts to document the emotional upheaval Sigel went through during his trial and conviction, but from the start the sober moral tone and forced gospel choruses make it obvious the MC's mind is on other matters.

Like the Streets or Dizzee Rascal, Arulpragasam's beats are minimal, but tracks such as "Pull Up the People" make use of every ounce of groove as tight, crisp synth lines backing her catchy raga delivery.

The Alternative to Love is tipped to be his big breakthrough album, and it's easy to see why. It's full of bright '70s power-pop choruses, infectious guitar riffs and the kind of laid-back breeziness that suggests most of these songs came to him in his sleep.

What sets Silent Alarm apart, however, is the presence of singer Kele Okereke, who has a dazzlingly elastic voice like the Cure's Robert Smith.

A few moody moments work, but this CD should come with a warning sticker that reads vacant.

Lullabies to Paralyze explodes with tight, meaty riffs, enormous pop melodies and vocals that seem to come from outer space.

Best Little Secrets Are Kept pays homage to the fairer gender with punchy glam-rock guitars, winking double entendres and Hill's swaggering Rocky Horror Picture Show-style vocals.

Employment is thrilling from beginning to end, packing in 45-minutes of exuberant Britpop melodies, na-na-na choruses and buzzsaw guitars that make Franz Ferdinand look like a bunch of stiffs.

If imitation is the biggest form of flattery, everyone involved in the Manchester scene circa 1988 will be smiling ear to ear when they hear Kasabian.

Fortunately, Fiddy's rhymes are a riot, and Dr. Dre's production is as golden as ever.

Some Cities brims with confidence, as the band delivers a mix of Motown rhythms and windswept melodies with unblinking force.

If you've got the time to dig in, Frances the Mute proves a cohesive, intricate and expertly layered experience.

The sophisticated retro-pop sound, dreamy melodies and soft electronic beats of Ivy do more to further international relations than any George W. Bush visit could ever hope to.

It says a lot about an album when the best song, "Get Right," is actually a leftover from Usher's Confessions.

There's a little reggae touch here, some mild folk there, but mostly Johnson just excels at creating gentle background music that sways like the waves and feels twice as cool.

Now the melodies are sharper, the scissor kicks are higher and the grooves are, er, groovier.

Somewhere in here, there's a lovely, compact, cohesive little album. It just takes a little too much digging to find it.

The disc's simple melodies and slightly dated alt-rock sound are unlikely to change his fortunes anytime soon.

It works brilliantly.

Shows the SoCal outfit mining the same bright pop-rock riffs that are being done better by the younger kids today.

It's killer stuff for any frame of mind.

One man has made a beautifully subtle magic in his bedroom studio--and it will be heard on The O.C. in no time.

Amazingly solid.

Sometimes it sounds like he's trying too hard.

Suffers from many of the same problems that tripped up its predecessor: too many skits, too few ideas and a voice that is neither hard nor particularly flowery.

Some of the posturing gets a little wearisome after a few rounds, but whatever, we like where the neighborhood's headed.

Somewhere in here there's a really good album just fighting to get out.

A slower album than most, Bomb eventually reveals itself as a work of genius, wrapping religion, love and life into emotionally thrilling gifts.

This is undoubtedly the best excuse for a solo outing since Justin Timberlake's Justified.

For hard-core fans, there's a wealth of rare gems here.

His rhymes don't say much new, and the repetitive bounce of Powerballin' rattles your head after a while.

The first word that comes to mind while listening to Destiny Fulfilled is: boring!

Two is his most highbrow effort yet.

A little bit less filler and the album would have really lived up to its name.

His scattershot approach at taking on everyone and everything gets a wee tiresome after a while.

John sounds as old and crusty as his recent tirades.

With lyrics that sound like teen soap-opera scripts and music so mellow it makes Dido sound like an espresso junkie, songs like "White Houses" and "She Floats" are tailor-made to soothe the soul.

What it lacks in aggression, though, the disc more than makes up for in inspiration, as these covers are so radically reworked that they sound as much like originals as the disc's lone new tune, "Passive."

Given that this may be your final release, this is no way to say goodbye.

He gets all beautiful on your ass for the Orpheus portion of this double-disc set, then explodes with a pounding intensity on Abattoir Blues that'll knock your socks off.

While the signature muffled beats of Shadow are missing, Land is so much more expansive, effortlessly melding electronica and Britpop.

Gold Medal's tempos are sluggish and the lyrics are emotionally vacant.

This isn't just a step in the right direction for the band, it's--believe it or not--a good move for the pop-punk genre as a whole.

Futures goes back to the band's roots, sporting 11 sparkling gems that carefully balance balladry with bombast.

At their best they sound like a female Black Sabbath tribute band, at their worst they sound like slutty old goth rockers. Frankly, neither is all that appealing.

Exquisite, angry, sad and personal, basement is a beautiful swan song of one of this generation's best.

Astronaut takes a few songs to warm up, but by the time the band hits naughty dance-floor fillers like "Bedroom Toys" and "Taste the Summer," it feels like 1983 all over again.

Provides a mind-blowing nostalgic trip for those who grew up with these songs.

Whether the songs get a grimy edge or sweet touch, the textured album leaves Shadows as a bright spot in the singer-songwriter genre.

A funky, soulful flashback to the works of outspoken jazz and R&B greats like Gil-Scott Heron and Miles Davis.

But whether they're being snotty or serious, there is a constant thread at work: those catchy melodies.

Palookaville will surprise you.

Unfortunately, things do go awry more than a few times.

Slapping his knees, spitting and grunting, Waits makes the already raw blues sound of songs like "Metropolitan Glide" and "Trampled Rose" sound even more grizzled.

Shatner oversees some surprisingly tuneful turns.

Pulling off the tricky balancing act of aiming for mainstream success while keeping one's street cred intact, songs like "Ghost of You" and "Predictable" abandon the band's mall-rat roots in exchange for more mature influences like U2 and Muse.

The results, much like last year's debut, Soul Sessions, are spine-tinglingly great--even if there is the slightest bit of bland Celine Dion balladry seeping in at the edge.

There's something totally irresistible about Antics: The air of mystery, the bleak but hopeful arrangements and the melodies so sharp and moving that they might inspire a night of heroic partying.

While undeniably ambitious and moving in parts--with sunny harmonies and layered production--it also happens to be a little kitschy.

Costello's most exciting album in ages.

There's still plenty of spunk in to be found in this Sgt. Pepper-lite.

Even though some of the novelty's worn off with Let's Bottle Bohemia, the hand claps, woo-hoo choruses and wide-eyed lyrics are still undeniably enjoyable.

While some of the posturing about his bling--as well as the repetitive dirty South beats--might get a little tired, this one is guaranteed to keep it hot in herre all night.

A disc that sounds like it's... 1998.

Nice and musically diverse.

An emotionally wracked masterpiece, drawing on immaculate influences like the Pixies and Talking Heads while sounding distinctly original.

Some called their first two albums derivative, but with this third disc the guys wrestle their greased-up garage boogie until they own it.

LL does DEFinition with a superstar panache that never gets into that dangerously cheesy Will Smith territory and keeps it streetwise without putting on a front.

The album quickly unravels into a mess of mumbled vocals, pointless guitar solos and songs that sound suspiciously unfinished.

Fans of the Icelandic wonder's more orchestral tunes might think there's something missing here. Well, unless they're too busy being totally blown away.

U Saved Me's songs of praise like "Leap of Faith" and "Prayer Change" can be taken in two ways: attempts at redemption for what you've just heard or hollow attempts at album sales.

Sure, a couple of the hokey lyrics... slightly taint the return. But pulling tricks like sampling the Welcome Back, Kotter theme for the [title track's] intro is pure genius.

There are no new ideas, no points of interest.

Fans of Travis and Coldplay will certainly find much to treasure in the soaring harmonies, soft strings and heartfelt sentiments.

Even though the production is slicker, The Dirty South is still packed with painful, well-illustrated southern gothic sagas.

Part new-wave keyboards, part folky acoustic guitars, the music on More Adventurous is unexpectedly beautiful.

All of this vitriol, however, tears away at the more palatable hooks found in past Saliva hits, which isn't necessarily a good thing.

It's a welcome throwback in today's complicated rap game.

Is she blazing new trails? Naw. But this sounds exactly right.

Its glossiest production yet.

Bluesy, fragile and gorgeous.

The Old 97's are a good band, but Drag It Up simply isn't them at their best.

What sounds great on paper feels like hollow tribute on closer inspection.

Take Elton John, multiply him by five, add a pinch of Frankie Goes to Hollywood, maybe a little Beck and some Carson Kressley, and you'll have something resembling the Scissor Sisters.

The biggest kicks come from the bedroom demos and odd covers of songs like "Blowin' in the Wind," but only the initiated will be able to stay awake long enough to hear them.