Their rhythms jump all over the place and their vocals are so determined to land that punchline that it all ends up sounding like one smarmy mess.

No, Fred, the results don't vary. The results are consistent throughout your new album--consistently crappy.

This is classic underachieving at its peak.

She can still sing--the stories about her losing her range, or her voice itself, are demonstrably false--but that's about the only positive to take away from the mess that is Just Whitney, even though the fault isn't just Whitney's.

Trinity drags from track to heavily blunted track like a doped-up Tribe Called Quest, vainly searching for the group's warm and soulful vibe of yesteryear.

An astoundingly bland helping of hollow dance pop grooves and nauseating pleas for sex.

Survivor is cute at best... The few good songs--the jittering, sing-along "Survivor," hypocritical "Nasty Girl," and a cappella "Gospel Medley"--leave 1997 Destiny's Child fans feeling cheated.

While he's an adept moodist (but not a great singer), most often, the tunes are more artifice than art and he fails to make his misery convincing.

Length considerations aside, only die-hard Beck devotees and studio nerds are likely to be dazzled by the dithering, technoed-out proceedings here.

By and large, the disc is made up of ambitious but misguided attempts to elevate mundane rock 'n' roll to some kind of higher art form.