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.

Plodding jazz-rock tunes that are 30 years old at this point.

The band sounds strong but derivative of its own best work.

The ballads sound more mawkish than ever and the rockers sound, well, a lot like bad Bruce Springsteen rip-offs.

If you're not already into it, you're not missing much.

After too many calls for the end of humanity and playing the Satan card a few times, all the yelling becomes little more than a humorless joke.

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.

Dated songs like "So Excited" and "Do It 2 Me" end up sounding like they're, well, 20 years old.

Shelve this one next to that Adam Sandler CD you haven't listened to in four years.

All bluster and noise and no substance.

Even Santana sounds bored, absentmindedly delivering Latin rock-influenced guitar licks behind a parade of stale melodies.

She fails to bake any new ideas, leaving us with the same old sad love songs and confused-girl anthems that the Texas torchbearer has always churned out.

A little less than half of this stuff is worth singing about.

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

His voice is rough, the melodies fall flat, and there's even a guitar solo by Eric Clapton.

Short on the kind of sweet 'n' simple coffeehouse ditties that made the Alaskan-born folksinger a fan favorite.

A frustratingly half-assed album, full of great ideas executed in the poorest way possible.

Even if they aren't Never Gone, their inspiration certainly is.