At times, it's clever and/or charming ("Penelope," "Mimi Merlot"), but almost always tedious.

He manages a harder edge without completely sacrificing credibility.

While there is much to recommend this disc, Moth would be wise to develop a more distinctive voice.

While the kiddie trance and dirrty hip-hop are as blatant a bid for credibility as young Brit's moans upon discovering the joys of all-night raving and her own hand, the pop princess of old keeps peeking through the steamed-up windows, and ultimately saves the disc from disaster.

At times the reliance on heavy-breathing, laid-back grooves is a little annoying--Aaliyah doesn't quite have the pipes to carry off melodramatic fare like "Never No More," and a few more club bangers on the order of the springy, sassy "U Got Nerve" certainly wouldn't have hurt.

The mournful, blues-and-gospel-based "Fallin'"--a great song that was certainly no obvious choice as the first single--is the most notable declaration of independence, but Songs In A Minor is full of them.

Thankful is everything an American Idol viewer would expect from a debut album: the musical drama of Meat Loaf, Celine Dion, and the crew from Titanic, the R&B pyrotechnics of Whitney Houston, the (sub)urban melodrama of Mariah Carey and lots and lots of vocal gymnastics. That it all sounds like it came from a can is beside the point.

Like P. Diddy in his prime or even Jay-Z, Nelly simply knows what the people want, and delivers--which is never as easy as the haters suggest.

Eventually the piano-based songs grow repetitive, while retaining their lush romanticism.

Hard rock that is neither hard nor rock.

Even in a blindfold test, you'd probably guess it was his creation. That's both how distinctive and predictable he's become.

This reviewer wishes he could tell you that Skull Ring is as good as his best past highlights--but it just ain't.

There just is a real feel of lightweights here--be it in the band's often balls-less bottom end (a real problem with so many rock bands these days) or just in the overall music itself.

A relatively brief and resolutely pop-oriented affair, with more gruff singing than rhymes and less violent, existential dilemmas.

Xzibit's rhymes lack bite.

A step ahead of the J-Los of the world; a step behind what may prove to be a career pinnacle.

Happy People [is] a featherweight collection of midtempo, Marvin Gaye-influenced tunes... The sacred material on U Saved Me, by contrast, is more exciting--and troubling.

Slicker Than Your Average too often slides that slippery slope to mainstream blandness.

While Elvis is quite the crooner, an entire album of achy-breaky heartache is too much for the casual Costello listener to bear.

Her acoustic soul is even smoother than before, making its use as a vehicle for Oprahspeak the more deadly.

Unfortunately, the spell breaks down and the songs grow tedious as the album nears its end, practically running out of a steam like an emotional rollercoaster stranded at the bottom of the tracks.

An album that’s simultaneously stimulating and crappy.

Straight Outta Cashville is simply the same, moderately catchy collection as Beg For Mercy or The Hunger For More, made inferior by the addition of a few tuneless crunk trunk-rattlers.

The elements of free-jazz, mopey techno, and hypnotic riff rock find familiar combinations as Pierce's peace, love, and drugs philosophy takes on a perfunctory turn.

Though its methods reek of gimmickry, and are not as interesting as similar but more musical travelers like Plaid, Autechre, or Mouse On Mars, Matmos does construct a daring two-cans-and-a-string party album.

Releasing two strong outings in the past year drained him of the juice necessary to make a compelling two-fer.

The Offspring are interested in distilled punk-by-numbers, and are hardly interested in--or perhaps incapable of--finding something new to say.

Time to pull out Dig Your Own Hole while the Bros. claw through this current slump, er, evolutional period.

Track after track of colorless bounce sabotages the memorable verses.

Her vocals are so mannered, self-conscious, and limited, there is no way to gloss over the facts, except when booming dance grooves rule the mix.

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.