This sub-par group's darker efforts to push society's hot buttons and dis others are ultimately more silly than sinister.

He can still work a guitar and woo the pants right off of you, but after listening to another round of patchouli-soaked ballads like "Baptized" and "What Did I Do With My Life?" you really begin to consider running the other way.

Finds the sexy singer too often wading in the oversimplified pop influence of heavyweight producer Glen Ballard, her country sass and personality replaced by hackneyed and bland musical doodles.

Like the soundtrack of a very bad Jazzercise class.

The Philadelphia quartet continues to believe that barbershop harmonies, sugary ballads and New Jack Swing beats are where it's at. It ain't.

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

It's hard to believe these men were once innovators.

The duo's seventh album sees an invasion of unnecessary guest stars, such as Lloyd Banks and Yayo, and a disappointing lyrical turn that celebrates monotonous Detroit staples like guns, cash and bumps.

All the Right Reasons doesn't so much pick up where 2003's The Long Road left off, but damn near replicates that album in whole.

Carey's once glorious voice is all over the place, her rainbow-and-stars lyrics come off like the notebook doodles of a 12-year-old girl, and her song selection is shocking.

A headache-inducing mess of rehashed classic rock riffs and stale grooves.

If he keeps going like this, it's a good bet that his best days are behind him.

Appallingly not so good.

There's little to dig here as the guys sound like a three-headed John Mayer or a trio of little Joe Jacksons.

With nothing to react against and few new ideas to air, P.O.D. mostly operates in default mode, relying on hitmaker-for-hire Glen Ballard to inject the music with new life. Sadly, he doesn't.

It sounds like the band is trying too hard to recapture the quirk factor, and the overdose borders on annoying.

Unlike previous albums, The Altogether doesn't really take the listener on some mind-altering trip. It simply throws together some half-baked novelties, some wasted and underwhelming guest appearances and a bunch of rhythmic ideas that would have sounded infinitely better a decade ago.

In the end, his big head seriously weighs down the quality of Quality.

Ed Kowalczyk and crew burden their sound with angry guitars, pseudoraps and needless swearing torn straight outta the Fred Durst book of lyric writing.

Basically disco with a new-wave spin, it's nothing you haven't heard before--in 1983.

An album that lacks severely in all areas, including production, direction and inspiration.

There are no new ideas, no points of interest.

A subpar album.

All the spiky edges have been worn away.

This disc is filled with the kind of generic club grooves, terrible singing and general sense of aimlessness they once would have laughed off.

There must be some kind of new world record in terribleness here.

Chester Bennington's anguished man-child howling is largely left on the shelf, as are the thrusting hooks that were Linkin Park's big draw.

Declawed and hesitant, it's hard to get excited about this piece of funkless confection.