This collection of quirky tunes is largely directionless, with Gough's indistinct voice sounding lost and uncertain in a swell of pianos, strings and horn arrangements.

His pontification gets in the way of his songwriting.

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

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

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

Too much of the disc is filtered through clinical and slightly jazzy rock that renders it a tiny noise about nothing.

Only the faux-reggae of "Jamaican Girl" lets some much needed light in between the blinds.

The album is so "been there, done that" that Twain often sounds like she's ripping herself off.

Despite a few promising creative bursts ("Love," "Black Sweat"), it's another case of dashed expectations, as the disc dissolves into a bloodless puddle of smooth-jazz grooves and lyrics that wither at the hands of the singer's recent religious ideals.

FutureSex/LoveSounds isn't nearly as good as its slinky predecessor.

Seventy Two & Sunny breezes by with the worst kinds of countrified clichés... sung by a guy who was never meant to carry a harmony.

Predictably packed with hip-hoppy dance numbers and chiming ballads that don't dare push her vocal range, J.Lo vibelessly goes through a series of songs about love, fidelity and how real she is.

A thoroughly dull collection of acoustic-based country-rock ballads you could hear at any local open-mike night.

This bummer sounds more in league with Yanni than Moby.

Employing actress Brittany Murphy on the ridiculous "Faster Kill Pussycat" hardly helps, as does reducing Pharrell Williams' talent with a caricature of a tune like "Sex 'N' Money."

Rife with hyper-marketable flamenco guitars and jazz pianos, it's world music for people whose idea of adventure is a trip to Banana Republic.

Although he has sensibly cut back on the droning that defined his last disc's stand-out single "Strange Condition," this release shows few other signs of growth.

It's business as usual.

The fortysomething performer doesn't have the stamina he used to, and the album quickly turns into a long run of listless ballads and silly cries for privacy.

Unfortunately, it lacks much of the spark and spunk that made the original disc so memorable.

She throws so much sparkle, shine and, yes, glitter at us that even tracks about her friend's suicide and her recent breakup are as glossy as her latest publicity shot.

There's nothing as instantly likable as "Frontin'," and even with the presence of some bigwig collaborators the disc sounds strangely inspiration-free.

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.

Fails to whip up much excitement.

The end result of all this sermonizing will likely inspire you not to renounce sin and its sordid ways, but feel the itch to grab some hooch and a few George Jones albums and have a rip-roaring time.

It sounds like he wrote his lyrics by taking random words out of a thesaurus.

If he approached these songs with the slightest hint of subtlety, he might get his point across, but he's happy just hammering everyone with his trailer-park politics.

Record buyers will find nothing as good on Atomic as the breakout bubblegum slacker-punk of "My Own Worst Enemy."