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

Therapy's diagnosis ultimately is not positive, because the disc's split-personality disorder results in too much incoherence.

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

Exactly as gratingly infectious as you might expect.

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

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.

Appallingly not so good.

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

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

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

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

Weighed down with bland lyrics and blander arrangements, it meanders off into chick-rock clichés and lazy easy-listening melodies.

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."

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

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.

[A] thoroughly underwhelming debut, an album that merely paints within the lines already drawn by Pavement and the Pixies.

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

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.

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

In the end, Island makes Dave sound like he's just not enthusiastic about making music anymore.

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.

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

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

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

Feels like it was designed by committee.

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.

Has a polish that verges on parody.

Anyone order more of the same?