Against productions this diluted, Jurassic's top-notch rhymers -- Chali 2na, Soup, Akil -- fail to make any headway, usually spitting rhymes already familiar to listeners of their earlier work.

It's not bad, it's just not as profound as Shineywater and Hughes would like everyone to believe it is.

There's still a kind of inconsistency in the development of Through the Windowpane, an inconsistency that can't quite work itself out in sweeping strings and vaguely dissonant chords, and unfortunately, this diminishes the power of what the album really could be.

The Silver Lining suggests that Soul Asylum might still have another great album in them (especially if Murphy does more of the songwriting), but this one certainly isn't it.

A large chunk of the material is second rate compared to his past highlights.

Two Thousand is nothing if not well crafted; that it doesn't have more memorable moments is as frustrating as it is mystifying.

Graceless he may be, but Timberlake is nevertheless kind of fascinating on FutureSex/LoveSounds since his fuses a clear musical vision -- misguided, yes, but clear all the same -- with a hammyness that only a child entertainer turned omnipresent 21st century celebrity can be.

VanGaalen's a skilled musician, and compositionally the pieces are well-constructed, but there's nothing on the record that truly blows you away.

Unlike his earlier recordings, there's little here that rewards close listening.

Lost in all this is the instantly grabbing songwriting of Kasabian's debut, and to some extent, the bandmembers themselves, who often seem to be riding this swirl instead of guiding it.

Unfortunately, there are enough songs on 4:21 that are so utterly boring that the claim of redemption can't be made quite yet.

His hooks are still heavy and melodic, which makes Welcome to the Drama Club easy to listen to, even if it is too tidy.

It's understandable that Ludacris wanted to show off different parts of himself, but in doing so he didn't have to forget about what fans already knew.

Given Brown's talents, it could have been much more.

Sonically, it captures the Evanescence mythos better and more consistently than the first album... but without the songs, it doesn't resonate.

Too often, his words and melodies end up drowning in their busy surroundings.

A minor but pleasantly unexpected surprise.

Those the Brokes is a looser, livelier album than its predecessor, significantly less cloying and precious than the debut.

Far from being a bold reinvention, a Beatles album for the 21st century, the Martins didn't go far enough in their mash-ups.

If the dance production on The Sweet Escape were better, these hipster affectations would be easier to forgive, but they're not: they're canned and bland, which only accentuates Stefani's stiffness.

Calamity is slightly inconsistent and could be described as a hit-or-miss affair, but the hits outnumber the misses.

As expected, there are plenty of tracks geared toward letting loose and dancing, and most of them do deliver, even if they don't seem quite as fresh as Ciara's past hits.

While the title of this disc seems synonymous with Have Some Leftovers, it's not at all stale, if not nearly as spectacular as its precursor.

Its ragged, unfinished nature illustrates that she's more interested in pursuing her art than recycling Come Away with Me, and if this third album isn't as satisfying as that debut, it nevertheless is a welcome transitional effort that proves her artistic heart is in the right place.

RoadKillOvercoat will certainly win him some fans who have previously avoided hip-hop, but for those same reasons, it might also cost him some, too.

Ce is an enjoyable, finely crafted, and elegantly executed album, but at the same time very far from Caetano's best.

Unfortunately, the times the band steps into more lighthearted -- at least musically -- territory are not nearly as successful.

Too often it seems as if Modest Mouse plays it safe on We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank.

A major disappointment that puts a real chink in this great band's legacy.

This introduction isn't all that different than her debut, since it still presents a promising vocalist instead of a vocalist who's fulfilled her promise.

Hebden and Reid's music is as full of depth and ideas as before.

The general move away from strong, hooky choruses to a focus on expansive, intricate and percussive arrangements may challenge casual and even some longtime fans of the band's catchy, Southern garage rock twang.

It's not that any of these tracks are bad: Ozomatli is comprised of talented enough musicians, and have been doing it for long enough now, that they're able to pretty much successfully pull off anything they try, but these songs move so far from the sociopolitical salsa on which they created themselves that it's almost hard to recognize them as from the same band.

While these songs are lushly produced, often with full orchestration, and while Wainwright has a knack for pretty, lilting melodies and concrete imagery there is nonetheless a distinct lack of pop hooks here.

Even if Lies for the Liars has the appearance of a crossover album, a la The Black Parade, it doesn't have the substance.

We Are the Night is no departure, although it does reveal Tom Rowlands and Ed Simons showing some build-to-suit character instead of angling for the straitjacket-tight and over-serious dance music of their past ten years.

A little exposure to his constantly morphing flat baritone goes a long way.

Lost Highway recalls nothing so much as a latter-day Bon Jovi record in how it balances fist-pumping arena anthems with heavy doses of sentiment.

There are no hooks, nothing to suck in the many adults that liked Clarkson's first two records.

It feels like half of an album by a band making sure their songs that fit the mold of what they've done before, and half of an album by a band using their major-label leverage to push their boundaries.

The material tends to be kind of insidious, rather than hitting you immediately or going through one ear and out the other, and it's significantly more R&B-oriented.

There's no evidence Three 6 had a fully formed "Most Known Unknown"-styled album in them either, so consider the uneven Last 2 Walk a fair and necessary placeholder effort with a bit of "back to basics" thrown in to satisfy the faithful.

The album is generally enjoyable, and it's doubtful T.I. has to worry about being dethroned within the near future.

Amid the many features and incredible dynamism that mark every UNKLE full-length, there are no songs to grab onto and little of real essence.

The mere fact they've been able to come together to make an album as solid and coherent as Rise to Your Knees is little short of miraculous, but it pales in comparison to the Meat Puppets best music and suggests that they still have a ways to go before they're fully back in fighting shape.

The result is a muddled album that gets even farther away from Hot Hot Heat's former glory even as it tries to recapture it.

Harris doesn't need to sing--his electronic noises from the keyboard are quite sufficient.

The Foos can sometimes feel like a bit of a chore if they lean too heavily in one direction--as they do here, where despite the conscious blend of acoustic and electric tunes, the rockers weigh down Echoes more than they should, enough to make this seem like just another Foo Fighters album instead of the consolidation of strengths that it was intended to be.

Just Who I Am just manages from sinking into adult contemporary murk, even if it's hard to shake the feeling that Chesney is spending too much time acting how his audience expects him to be instead of just being who he is.

the Donnas once rocked as if they were tanked to the gills but they now sound like they're playing with ferocious hangovers they just can't shake--and it's hard to have a good party if the threat of the morning after hangs over the whole affair.

The songs on Help Wanted Nights are all solid, simple, yet melodic, about running away from home and trying to find home and breaking up, but nothing really stands out.

The album is mostly about emotion and expressing emotion, and finding the right driving piano hooks and reverbing guitar chords to enhance such feelings. All of which means that Beyond the Neighbourhood is not particularly extraordinary.

Magic is bright and punchy, a digital-age production through and through, right down to how each track feels as if it were crafted according to its own needs instead of the record as a whole.

While some of Stars' best songs appear on this record, others are performed with such an overstated bravado that it renders them too sour to digest.

Panic Prevention isn't much better than its best three or four songs, and it's due to Jamie T.'s stubborn insistence on being understood only by himself, or perhaps a precious few in his coterie.

It's nothing more than modest music for mellow good times, but it's lively enough to be fleeting fun, with enough good tunes for a mild party, preferably one that's held at home.

Nice to listen to and vaguely uplifting, but ultimately empty on the inside.

Underworld never sound particularly tired on Oblivion with Bells. Granted, the music is less innovative than before, and also more quiet, which makes Hyde's vocals more critical than they've ever been.

While a few songs put the "meh" back in melodramatic ('Walking Away,' 'This Is the End'), This Is Forever is full of catchy songs that improve on the band's first album.

Examining classical elements is a novel concept, but spreading that concept throughout four EPs, two double-disc sets, and two record releases does little more than dilute an otherwise strong set of songs.

There are more than a few bright spots, but unfortunately, this is one of Enon's slightest and most uneven albums

Fans of the frenzied early R.E.M. rock & roll will find this too anthemic--but this big, big sound on R.E.M. Live speaks to the band's core strengths in a way no post-Bill Berry studio album does.

While their willingness to experiment is admirable, despite the fact that they've gone overboard with their overdubs, the overabundance of studio polish leaves one to wonder if it's not because the songs just aren't as strong this time around.

Backstreet Boys don't have any songs that will lift them out of the adult contemporary world--but the audience who has turned from teens to adults with them will likely enjoy its easy sound, as there is nothing bad here. There's just nothing great, either.

Hvarf/Heim isn't the album to mark a musical departure for Sigur Rós.

I-Empire is an easier record to like than "We Don't Need to Whisper," as it marks a very small, very tentative progression toward DeLonge realizing that he can expand his sonic and emotional horizons without abandoning the pop songcraft that remains his greatest strength

It's an album of its time: it offers extravagance in the guise of self-help, which can be alluring in doses--especially those bizarre blues-rockers--but it's just too much of a very expensive yet not particularly tasteful thing.

System goes down smooth, even if it's rather strange that it is so nostalgic for the pre-Clinton '90s, but this is so much a production piece that, apart from the acoustic 'Rolling,' the only song that stands outside of the sheer sonic gloss is 'Wedding Day,' a genuinely odd piece of kitsch duet with Heidi herself.

Sawdust does indeed contain some moments of grand pomp, but its scattershot nature works against the band as it winds up emphasizing the lingering question from "Sam's Town," that the group has a hell of a lot of ideas but they just don't know what the hell to do with them.

On Idol, all this unformed youthfulness was endearing, but on this debut she just seems green, not quite ready for the big leagues she's been pushed into.

The material tends to work best when they sound relatively relaxed, as opposed to when it is obvious that they are trying very hard to honor the originals while being over-demonstrative with their obviously gifted voices.

The Boatlift [is] a fun floor-filler, but just not up to Pitbull's usual standards.

"Misstep" is certainly a word too harsh for The Big Doe Rehab, which is more "uneventful" than "wrong."

In stretches, it's perfectly entertaining, yet most of it goes in one ear and out the other, not leaving much in the memory.

Even considering the over-abundance of elaboration on all fronts, it's a credit to Lupe that he has made an album that cannot be processed after one or two listens, and if you have the time, its inscrutability turns into mere complexity.

Natasha Bedingfield is a genuine pop talent who often flashes hints of a greater than average ambition that could turn her into something more substantial than the likes of Rhianna, but the awkwardly assembled Pocketful of Sunshine feels inorganic in a way that Unwritten did not, less personal and more vetted by various A&R executives.

Liverpool 8 is a relaxed, amiable collection of friendly pop tunes: it's nothing too flashy and it has no one tune that calls attention to itself, but it's a well-constructed, casually charming pop record.

They have enough clatter and commotion to keep Mission Control moving at a brisk pace, but they could use some extra oomph.

The joy and silliness are enough to keep the record out of sleazy Har Mar Superstar territory, but it also means that there is a serious lack of substance on the record.

No matter what instrument he's playing or what he's singing about, his music still feels the same, which is enough to satisfy his fans but not to win him many new ones.

So while Free Somehow can't quite rival the energy of a Widespread show, it still offers something that those concerts cannot, making the album a worthwhile purchase for most dedicated fans.

Where the group used to sound like a bulldozer demolishing rubble, now they're more like a snow plow gently shoving away a winter wonderland. It's still good, but isn't stoner rock supposed to sound destructive?

Whatever the case may be, what's left is a record with some promise but too many flaws to be truly enjoyable.

Despite the missteps, well over half of Robotique Majestique is terrifically entertaining; it just seems like the hit-to-miss ratio could have been so much higher without much more effort.

At times, it's hard to hear much unique about them. Then again, the boldness of Red Yellow & Blue--both the colors and the album--can't be denied, and Born Ruffians' energy does spark something special occasionally.

Here was a chance to show that the music was worthy, too. With a singing style in the cockney accent of Lily Allen or Kate Nash, he differentiated himself from these singers by actually playing the guitar himself, with mixture of skiffle and ska

The huge guest list is also a plus since Ross would have a hard time carrying this album on his own, but when surrounded by talent he pushes a little harder and comes up with a handful of rhymes that aren't tired or clichéd.

Not enough to raise him above "the guy who remixed Elvis" and no great disappointment either.

Even though the formula is a winning one (and sounds pretty thrilling in small doses), by the end of the album you feel like you were listening to one really long song.

There are some solid album tracks that recall the more daring aspects of the debut, particularly the abstract, dark-hued cool of the opener, "Ghouls," and the catchy and energetic "Tonight." But the rest of Brain Thrust Mastery consists of pleasantly tuneful pop songs that barely register with the listener even after several repetitions.

Nothing here is as gripping or as perfect as "Rock Lobster," "Private Idaho," or "Love Shack," and the songs that are borderline filler get pushed into one big forgettable lump towards the end of the album.

Sixes & Sevens is a disjointed conglomeration of different ramblings that can't quite coalesce around any sort of idea.

This, though, is the kind of nice, safe album a listener wants to like badly, but whose flaws ultimately leave one fumbling for the skip button on repeat listens.

There are no surprises, but when you do something this well, there doesn't need to be.

Walk It Off is hardly a disaster, but it is a strange, lopsided album--despite its focus, it just doesn't play to Tapes 'n Tapes strengths as much as it should have.

Sings Live! is not a landmark album, nor even a superb "live" album, but the sound quality is decent enough (though the "acoustic guitar through the board" is a bit disappointing), and Meloy is a jovial host with his adoring fans, who ultimately this collection of songs was released for.

Like so much of "Emancipation" and E=MC2, which is a virtual replica of its predecessor in almost every way, 'Touch My Body' is all about sound, rhythm, and texture and not so much about song, something that helps sustain Mariah Carey's run at the top the charts, but something that also pushes melodic hooks, and in the process singing, into the background.

Ladyhawk just aren't memorable enough to stick in the mind as they could.