His similar-sounding interpretations lose their oomph a few tracks in.

Ultimately, it's hard to shake the feeling that something is missing.

Gone are the inspired melodies and sweet emotional turns of their past triumphant albums, replaced by boring philosophical musings and wafer-thin tunes.

We'd rather watch the Dandys than listen to 'em.

While this sounds mostly like incomplete leftovers, there are a few tasty treats: The lonely guitar of "Knives Out," that dirty beat pulsating under "Pulk/Pull Revolving Doors" and the hypnotic body-ponging of "I Might Be Wrong."

His backing band's heavy-metal veering leans toward the generic. Only the Igster's sometimes fierce (but fading) yowl adds enough soul--and insanity--to make them at least momentarily credible.

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

This spinner of wispy, earnest vocals, sad-eyed melodies and country sensibilities lacks that special spark of passion to keep one's interest.

This is mainly just D12's other five anonymous members moaning on about the lack of credit they get by dropping the most underwhelming rhymes this side of the last Dogg Pound album.

A mixed bag at best.

Headed for a prom near you... it's the Goo Goo Dolls.

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

[It] offers only occasional flashbacks to the seedy glamour of the debut, instead settling on lightweight MOR clichés.

But once those fleeting, producer-driven thrills die down, the remainder of the album takes a middle-of-the-road, midtempo stance that goes from covering her age issues on "17" to getting downright silly and insipid about looove with "Saturate Me."

Exactly as gratingly infectious as you might expect.

It's a well-produced disc, but the cavalcade of stars and cartoonish beats make the songs sound more dated than the originals.

10 mediocre new songs.

Though perfect for hipster English-lit teachers, ravenous Reed fans will find themselves saying "nevermore."

Grand Champ would make a great single. As it stands, it's about a full hour more of DMX hollering gruffly than anybody really needs.

The experiments sometimes work, but the album is mainly weighted down by cryptic religious ramblings that sap the pop life right out of it.

Nearly missing are the charming sax and violin song augmentations. Gone are the tunes that are too long but always find their way back. And gone is some of Matthew's long-faced songwriting personality--now all gussied up in a swirl of quick hits, easy ballads and electric guitar.

If she had just shown up and sang her ass off, Stripped would've been a better show.

A rather complacent set of radio-ready lite alt-rock.

Nothing here is gonna rock your world.

The actual music merely offers more of the same oddly faceless brand of heavy rock the group has been cranking out since its 2002 debut.

The transformation leaves her bland and boring, rather than bright like Britney or bold like [Michelle] Branch.

The whole deal threatens to take off occasionally, but in the end, it doesn't rise beyond meandering.

Little gems are overwhelmed by sprawling jam tracks that, well, blur into each other.