Disappeared hints at the cathartic spillage of drum 'n' bass, while also dropping beats from Motown, rock, and beyond. But unfortunately the melodies that were once so incisive and pliant soon grow monotonous and alien.

Street Dreams reveals itself as a hollow gem when Fabolous tries to have it all, unveiling a gangsta sneer so unconvincing it makes Nelly seem dangerous.

"Implosion" is a bit of an overstatement. These guys go soft and introspective in the face of crisis and it never reaches the point of any actual combustion.

It's a shame that an album so impossible to dislike is equally impossible to remember later.

"She's On Fire," the opener from San Francisco-based Train's second release, promises a solid if not memorable rock 'n' roll effort. Unfortunately, penning this catchy and muscular rocker seems to have sapped the boys' creative well.

In making consistently mediocre music, the group appeals to the country fan with the lowest expectations out of life, one who never wants his moon-pie-and-RC-Cola values challenged, but likes his emotions jostled once in a while.

The disc lacks the coherent vision that would have made the best argument for Clef's claims.

Failed experiments ("Techno Pimp") and a glut of odd skits and snippets not only seem forced, but make a mainstream move such as the friendly disco of "Missing You" sound equally bizarre.

Unfortunately, Return Of Dragon, the follow-up to his debut Unleash The Dragon, comes in way under that bar, with a collection of half-realized lyrics and disappointing hooks.

In listening to Sugar Ray, it's easy to forget this band began as heavy guitar funketeers--its sound today is tame by comparison.

Slogging through this stuff is so soul consuming that by the time you get to "Too High," with its pompous rock opera orchestral arrangement and portentous drums, you'll just surrender and let Dave have his way with you.

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.

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.

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.

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

This is classic underachieving at its peak.

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

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.

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.

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.

Instead of luminous horizons of color and virtual travel, Communicate is stalled in a monochrome world of dead beats, chintzy melodies and anticlimactic climaxes.

Over-sentimental country-rock posing, limp rapping, and turgid AOR classic rock are only where this young man gets started.