stirs up the same hey-whatever mix of reggae, hip-hop and punk that made Sublime shirtless charmers 20 years ago.... But without anything like Nowell's sarcastic slacker edge, Ramirez comes off as not much more than a good-natured party dude.

Radio 4 show a real lack of gusto. [28 Oct 2004, p.98]

Monkey Business is just as bright if not quite as fun as Elephunk.

Enjoy the band's extraterrestrial makeover; it's far more amusing than the music.

Rossdale's heart is in the grim, grandiose stuff, bellowing his pain in Vedderian rumble, and forever striving to be deep and meaningful, a goal that exceeds his gifts as a songwriter.

For the Star Wars generation, it can be hard to get beyond timid fanboy reverence.

This is unabashedly slick adult contemporary fare -- file between Eric Clapton's work with Babyface and the last Tina Turner album -- but Richie can still write and sing the hell out of a get-you-right-there-where-it-hurts ballad...

Incubus retain some of their early, macabre nerdiness (the harmony-bedecked "Tomorrow's Food" reminds us of our dirt-bound mortality), but, for all the energy, the melodies fail to ignite.

It's when Staind crank down the sludge and slacken the tempos that things get heavy in a bad way. [11 Aug 2005, p.72]

What the album could use is a few more drink-clinking splashes of summertime fun, but despite the usual army of A-list writers and producers, there isn’t really anything here to rival the sticky, inescapable punch of “Sugar” or “Moves Like Jagger.” A little more escape might’ve been welcome. But whether it’s trying to be light, serious, or somewhere in the middle, Jordi can only get it done in half-measures.

Def Leppard show signs of life on the headbanging 'Bad Actress,' which takes on the Lindsay Lohans of the world, but it’s clear they’re missing their old producer.

Their [producers Mattman & Robin's] spacious productions are an odd fit for Dan Reynolds' tortured dude-isms.

On the occasions when his slinky guitar takes center stage — like on melancholy instrumental renditions of the Pet Sounds tracks “Don’t Talk (Put Your Head on My Shoulder)” and “Caroline, No,” or the first half of Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” — the results are predictably serviceable. But Depp’s pro forma, double-tracked vocals provide scant additional justification for the project’s existence; and in a few unfortunate cases (like when he attempts a soul croon on Smokey Robinson’s “Ooo Baby Baby”) you won’t be able to find the skip button fast enough.

Despite the tabloid-worthy subject matter, a couple of bangers are invigorating, with Foxy spitting fiercely over a dark, stomping beat on 'How We Get Down.' But she also gets stuck in rote braggadocio.

This much serotonin in four humans can only mean they'll get carried away all over the place, and Beginning bubbles with the kind of slobbering excess that drives Peas haters bonkers.

This Los Angeles party-hop duo can't decide if they want to rhyme like the Beastie Boys or booty-croon like Taio Cruz. So on their second album (which includes the hit "Party Rock Anthem"), they do both, making for a disc of brain-cell-depleting jams.

Ondrasik's self-pitying ballads overflow with dewy-eyed dreaminess, as his vocals swoon and swoop - think of a more annoying Chris Martin.

Whibley cleans out his soul closet over operatic hard rock, rain-swept balladry and bad Green Day opera punk--often crammed into the same song. If he's trying to show breakups are arduous, it worked.

The funniest thing since Ravyn-Symone's Here's to New Dreams.

Mostly, though, it's like a crowded party where you don't really get to talk to anyone as long as you'd like.

Yes, Perry has a heart, but it sounds like her bustier's too tight for her to use it.

She still can't project any personality of her own. [27 Jan 2005, p.58]

They still sound generic – a bar band in search of songs.

Everywhere, Tom Scholz fine-tunes the angelic-choir harmonies and aerosol-guitar crescendos until they're spotlessly, unmistakably Bostonlike. Some things never change--but remembering a sound isn't always enough.

This megadose of Wallen doesn’t only ensure that One Thing at a Time will be lodged at the top of the charts for a while — alongside Dangerous, which is currently at Number Five on the Billboard 200 — it also reveals his preferred musical and lyrical tropes, as well as his fondness for simple, slippery vocal melodies that easily stick in listeners’ brains.

On their fourth album, these Florida rockers muster up anthems that would embarrass a Hallmark Card hack.

The slower stuff vagues out, and the bonus disc of ambient instrumentals ought to come with a controlled substance, but elegant relationship songs such as the torchy "Forever" suggest this talented softy has found a sensible way to come down from a multiplatinum high.

The problem is that Papa Roach don't rise far enough above the radio-rocking competition--it's hard to remember the band's identity at this point.