Trademark G-Unit, pakced with a few thunderous club jams and too little else. [Oct 2006, p.128]

The line between this credible Faces-cum-Skynyrd jam band's best and worst material remains slimmer than even their most ardent fanatic might hope. [Jun/Jul 2001, p.105]

There's something about the precision of the gear changes and the crisp efficiency of Rob Schnapf's production that hits the spot, however derivatively. [Apr 2004, p.134]

It's ultimately unconvincing. [Jun 2005, p.115]

Thomas's songs derive power from being derivative. [#13, p.98]

Faceless is exactly that. [May 2003, p.120]

They fluctuate between those two poles while their by-the-book hard rock continues to split the difference between Black Crowes and Guns N’ Roses--though no longer with the wit that fueled their coke-y 1999 breakout, 'Lit Up.'

Every chorus is a rousing tribute to overstatement. [#17, p.137]

It’s a steadfast assault, whether he’s brooding over dust in the wind ('If Today Was Your Last Day') or idealizing a girl (“She ain’t no Cinderella when she gettin’ undressed/’Cause she rocks it like the naughty Wicked Witch of the West").

A whip-smart, 13-song satire on FM-radio machismo and lyrical cliches. [Nov 2006, p.140]

Green's cutesy Bacharach-ish chamber pop loses all novelty after a few spins. [Apr 2005, p.118]

Korn are ultra-confident, forgoing the blandishments of heavy-rock virtuoso conceptualist Michael Beinhorn, who produced their last album. [Mar 2004, p.121]

The anti-sentimentality gets a bit relentless over 18 songs. [Aug 2006, p.118]

Roman's politically spiked lyrics sound shrugged-off and flimsy. [Sep 2004, p.141]

What initially feels jubilant soon turns grating. [Jul 2005, p.115]

The End is rather ordinary--severe, belligerent riffs and vocals that sound as though singer Chud gargles molten lava. [#12, p.148]

Rossdale still has that sexy catch in his throat, but his new songs are ass, evoking a mealy-mouthed, cliché-ridden, bombastic Chris Cornell solo joint more than Bush, and whoever Auto-Tuned the vocals has some explaining to do.

The real problem is sounding like Alice In Chains; afloat without a genre, the gang too often turn their emotional intelligence to making kinda dark, vaguely artistic middle metal. [Sep 2005, p.138]

They are still greasy rock & rollers who know how to keep a party going. [Oct 2004, p.120]

The Five... go for the high-flown pap of '70s singer-songwriters Dan Fogelberg and Dan Hill, playing off Ondrasik's fey falsetto and fondness for lush, string-sweetened arrangements. [Mar 2004, p.117]

There's little to indicate an intrinsic personality unusual enough to demand your attention. [#10, p.118]

Perry’s creative-writing-class punch lines don’t always justify her self-congratulatory drag-queen tone. But she hiccups quirkily enough, and myriad big-name producers (from Dr. Luke to Glen Ballard) keep the new-wave synth hooks hopping

Begging can be sexy, too, but for SWR it’s just another joyless act by a hateful species.

Where past albums documented a litany of bummers, cascading melodies now airbrush moments of depression or kinkiness--even the horny groupie of 'Natural Disaster' sounds like a girl you could take home to Mom. Higgenson’s new outlook is surprising.

Monotonous in its R&B pleasantry. [Mar 2005, p.137]

Showcases the melodramatic but never overstated croon of a showman who, in another era, might've been a Las Vegas legend. [#14, p.135]

Singing on nearly every song, the techno star gets more up-close-and-personal here--a ballsy move for someone the Lord didn't heap with vocal gifts, but one that pays off. [Apr 2005, p.124]

Their sixth album is shambling and empty, spiked infrequently with a good bassline or an almost-good chorus, and even the jokes founder on the band’s contempt.