Corgan repeatedly buries his threadbare melodies beneath squeals of guitar that are too processed to either soar or sear. More than anything, it's this digitally dulled sound that saps Zeitgeist from any impact it may have.

Underclass Hero is ingratiating enough as background music—it's hooky enough to have momentum but not enough to linger in the memory—but they've never sounded quite so toothless and it's all down to this increased ambition.

Which may make it a change of pace for Korn, but it sure doesn't break them out of their midlife slump--if anything, it exacerbates it.

Welcome to the Doll House is a paler, plainer recycling of their debut.

Hard Candy is as a rare thing: a lifeless Madonna album.

The problem is not with Katy's gender-bending, it's that her heart isn't in it; she's just using it to get her places, so she sinks to crass, craven depths that turn One of the Boys into a grotesque emblem of all the wretched excesses of this decade.

It's not that the Offspring sound behind the times on their eighth album, Rise and Fall, Rage and Grace--it's that they sound disconnected from it.

It's not the worst thing imaginable to make a nice, pleasant record that wouldn't trouble anyone; it's just that Vandervelde (seemingly) promised more than just a peaceful easy feelin', and Waiting for the Sunrise is an almost complete disappointment in that regard.

Jessica's team haven't had a knack for picking the right song but she could possibly clear that hurdle if she showed some sign of life as a vocalist, but she's unfailingly listless no matter how many theatrical gestures she attempts to cram in her big boring ballads.

Out with a whimper, not a bang, Exit 13 is an off-ramp leading to a boulevard of several mismanaged White Castle knock-offs.

Digging out this handful of songs from the 16-track proper album-- inflated to as much as 24 tracks with the bonus disc added in--is flat-out exhausting, necessitating trawling through too many dull beats, breathy bleats, a phoned-in Snoop Dogg cameo and Missy Elliot name-dropping Katy Perry.

Certainly, it's not the embarrassment of the live album, but it has its own internal logic that keeps it humming along, and that's good enough for a listen and to get the band out on tour again, even it's not good enough for a second spin.

They chuck all that out the window by corseting her cornball humor into an immaculately tailored straitjacket, burying her voice in the mix, cutting away the country in favor of a manicured crossover pop unsuited for Pickler's gawky, gangly voice.

lack of inspired songs, the pedestrian guitar work, and the overall lack of dynamics in the overblown performances make Secret Machines another unfortunate stumble for a band that once held some real promise.

To be sure, there's some pleasure to be had here, but it's all about appreciating the album as pure texture: it's merely sunbleached mood music.

Despite the preponderance of sprightly tempos and sing-song hooks, nothing about 4:13 Dream feels especially light, perhaps because Robert Smith chooses to pair these purported pop songs with a heavy dose of affected angst.

Easily the least accomplished of his albums, Evolver is nonetheless a refreshing change of sorts, for all its faults, at least as far as missteps are concerned.

For anyone sifting through a broken relationship and self-letdown, this could all be therapeutic. Otherwise, no matter its commendable fearlessness, the album is a listless, bleary trudge along West's permafrost.

It would be nice if some of the titular burn could be felt on Dierks Bentley's fourth studio album, but Feel That Fire is an atypically cautious, calculated affair from one of Nashville's best singer/songwriters of the 2000s.

"Don't You Fake It" may have suffered from a lack of variety, but Lonely Road is plagued by different diseases: misguided ambition, outlandish excess, and a bad case of the ol' sophomore slump.

Even if Lee's songs of solidarity are basically sweet in nature, his puppy-dog earnestness winds up being off-putting in the long run on The Rebirth of Venus.

All the charm and fun to be found of "Looks" ends up being pulverized by this bland ambition, and Fist of God ends up being just a loud, inspiration-free, truly disappointing dance album that fails to capture ears or move feet.

It doesn't help that almost nothing about Unstoppable is modest, not the sounds, not the sentiments--only the songs, which can't withstand these muscle-bound arrangements.

Guilt may be a bad title for a pop-rap album so slick and shallow, the completely ludicrous I Am Hip Hop's Savior was the original plan, suggesting that this project was misguided since early development.

As a cold description, this modbilly beat sounds pretty interesting, especially because the group goes to great pains to rearrange many of its covers, but as an album Modbilly drags, offering endless permutations of the same plodding boogie.

All this means is that Chickenfoot's big picture is roughly in place but the pieces don't quite fit, but that doesn't stop the group from trying to force it, with Sammy sounding as awkward singing about south-of-the-border drug runners as Satriani does spinning off complicated riffs on party rockers.

Shaka Rock squanders the promise Jet showed on their previous work, and even if they soldier on and release another ten albums, this feels like the end of the road for them.

A knack for oversized choruses remains hardwired in Bon Jovi, but in this gloomy context, they act as reminders that they once sounded like they were a working band for working men instead of rich men fretting about a world they've long left behind.