While a bit of this debut sounds like Cornell doing his best over Rage-ified staccato riffs, these guys are at the top of their game when they reverse the formula and make way for Cornell's masterful wail and poetic imagery.

Nice and musically diverse.

Each cameo adds style, pizzazz (and most importantly, cool vocals) to the four-man crew's turntable acrobatics.

There's enough melody and structure to keep one engaged.

What it lacks in aggression, though, the disc more than makes up for in inspiration, as these covers are so radically reworked that they sound as much like originals as the disc's lone new tune, "Passive."

Best Little Secrets Are Kept pays homage to the fairer gender with punchy glam-rock guitars, winking double entendres and Hill's swaggering Rocky Horror Picture Show-style vocals.

Nickelback's so safe, so sanitized and so damn catchy that it's downright scary.

Even though the cast spends an inordinate amount of time treading over the subjects Fiddy already hit with his own Get Rich or Die Tryin'--dope, guns and themselves--tracks like "Poppin' Them Thangs" and "Groupie Love" have just the right mix of humor and heat to make them stand on their own.

The band sounds strong but derivative of its own best work.

There is an army of producers, songwriters and guests that make Thankful's mom-approved hip-hop beats and love songs feel as contrived as Clarkson's perfectly placed highlights.

Evanescence fans can rest easy knowing The Open Door handily re-creates the sonic storm of the debut.

Record buyers will find nothing as good on Atomic as the breakout bubblegum slacker-punk of "My Own Worst Enemy."

There must be some kind of new world record in terribleness here.

The 22-20s are simply more of the same--the same clichés, the same melody-free blasts of noise, the same old garage rock that sounds positively primitive.

Her stream-of-conscious lyrics about self-esteem and troubled relationships are just more of the same medicine that went down better with 1995's Jagged Little Pill.

Human Conditions is as bloated and directionless as its awkward title suggests, weighted with meandering songs without melodies, lyrics straight out of freshman-year philosophy class and a sickly slick sheen.

BT's attempts at rock 'n' roll lead to schizophrenic sloppiness.

Another cool chill-out album.

Sure, the band is still peddling the same vaguely Americana M.O.R. sound that the Wallflowers and Counting Crows perfected in the mid-'90s, but for once it actually sounds interesting.

A balanced effort that mainly recalls his smooth soul-man Dru Hill days but doesn't forget the power of rump-shaking party jams.

Pat Monahan and his boys have reverted back to their quasi-bohemian roots, meaning they sound like a better Counting Crows (with a dreamier frontman) and less-challenging Wallflowers.

By far the best showcase for Dave Matthews' seductive, haunting and deep warble.

A little more electric guitar would've helped, but these tales of capitalism gone amok are worth checking out.

[Shows] a renewed sense of purpose.

Singer Jon Bunch's vocals remain powerful and dynamic, while the songs ditch most of the weighty orchestration that slowed down previous efforts.

It's nice to hear a garage band that actually sounds like it was recorded in a garage.

The ballads sound more mawkish than ever and the rockers sound, well, a lot like bad Bruce Springsteen rip-offs.

At 16 tracks, the melancholy mood lingers a bit long, but hey, if you can handle some meandering in your Britpop, then Here's something for you.

What once sounded like the future's music a decade ago just sounds creepy and dated now.

A mixed bag at best.

If you aren't down with Manson, this won't change you one bit. But for Manson fans, Grotesque is beautiful.

A euphoric mix of wild Latin rhythms, electronic surges, soothing acoustic sounds and just about every instrument imaginable.

Taken seriously or not, Splinter holds together just fine.

The album bubbles with climatic ambiance and sophisticated grooves.

Leto sounds more like Tool/A Perfect Circle frontman Maynard James Keenan than a member of the Screen Actors Guild--even if his lyrics are kind of space-case lame.

If he keeps going like this, it's a good bet that his best days are behind him.

There's something high-concept going on here, if you listen closely enough. Sad thing is, you probably won't want to. There's something high-concept going on here, if you listen closely enough. Sad thing is, you probably won't want to.

Chester Bennington's anguished man-child howling is largely left on the shelf, as are the thrusting hooks that were Linkin Park's big draw.

Therapy's diagnosis ultimately is not positive, because the disc's split-personality disorder results in too much incoherence.

The whole affair is overly polished, strangely detached and contains a thoroughly unnecessary cover of Don Henley's "Dirty Laundry."

These five regular San Francisco joes know a thing or two about the kind of midtempo, acoustic-based rock that makes for a smooth, radio-ready ride.

Ed Kowalczyk and crew burden their sound with angry guitars, pseudoraps and needless swearing torn straight outta the Fred Durst book of lyric writing.

It's a well-produced disc, but the cavalcade of stars and cartoonish beats make the songs sound more dated than the originals.

The actual music merely offers more of the same oddly faceless brand of heavy rock the group has been cranking out since its 2002 debut.

Oddly enough, he not only makes it work, he makes it a whopping success.

Aside from the thumping groove of "Nobody Knows Me" and a few other bouncy beats, much of the electro style Madonna experimented with on 2000's Music has been replaced with warmer sounds and earthy touches, like acoustic guitars and a choir that comes from nowhere on "Nothing Fails."

A semi-charming collection of catchy hooks, decent pop rock and just enough shades of darkness to keep you interested.

Short on the kind of sweet 'n' simple coffeehouse ditties that made the Alaskan-born folksinger a fan favorite.

His rhymes don't say much new, and the repetitive bounce of Powerballin' rattles your head after a while.

Unfortunately, she has also followed Ms. Knowles' lead in recording overly earnest, confessional ballads.

A funky, soulful flashback to the works of outspoken jazz and R&B greats like Gil-Scott Heron and Miles Davis.

The hip-hopper's gravelly vocal style benefits greatly from the many collaborations here.

She throws so much sparkle, shine and, yes, glitter at us that even tracks about her friend's suicide and her recent breakup are as glossy as her latest publicity shot.

The result is a bumpy, self-indulgent ride, sure, but Love's fuming testimony is packed with a scraggily voice screaming to be heard and a bombastic blast of rage, raw power and sarcasm.

The band goes a different way now, and it's not necessarily a better one.

While the band's wounded vulnerability and breathy melodrama will probably imitate enough to sell well, this is predictable second-rate stuff.

The Nashville hottie shakes off some of her past cobwebs for slicker, bawdier rock and a collection of power ballads--most destined for a high school prom slow dance near you.

For the most part, the vitality is gone.

But even as Santana's magic fingers sometimes struggle for a common thread here, they still do plenty of good work.

His backing band's heavy-metal veering leans toward the generic. Only the Igster's sometimes fierce (but fading) yowl adds enough soul--and insanity--to make them at least momentarily credible.

A mind-twisting collision of rock, techno and hip-hop.

A headache-inducing mess of rehashed classic rock riffs and stale grooves.

This sub-par group's darker efforts to push society's hot buttons and dis others are ultimately more silly than sinister.

Most of the good parts of the Britney that originally hit us, baby, one more time (then oops!...did it again) drown in breathy vocals and multiproduced, tweaked-to-perfection studio gimmickry.

Although he has sensibly cut back on the droning that defined his last disc's stand-out single "Strange Condition," this release shows few other signs of growth.

This hand-clapping, disco-ball-driven journey sounds like all the other stuff in [Jay Kay's] catalog.

Grand Champ would make a great single. As it stands, it's about a full hour more of DMX hollering gruffly than anybody really needs.

There's a little reggae touch here, some mild folk there, but mostly Johnson just excels at creating gentle background music that sways like the waves and feels twice as cool.

Even if it doesn't wow you, Autobiography may surprise you.

Diverse and constantly engaging.

There's little here that Our Lady Peace, Foo Fighters, Everclear and a half-dozen other post-grunge bands don't already do better.

It's sweet and kind of sexy and all that, but clearly designed for those who find John Mayer too challenging.

This is mainly just D12's other five anonymous members moaning on about the lack of credit they get by dropping the most underwhelming rhymes this side of the last Dogg Pound album.

Mostly made up of charming-but-harmless ballads and little bursts of fiddly Celtic pop.

The white-boy funk routine wears thin fast, but the overbearing Broadway-style ballads are even worse.

Exactly as gratingly infectious as you might expect.

Surprisingly bright and confident.

Even more of a musical jumble than her first album.

Despite the fact that nobody bought their lackluster last two albums, Art Alexakis and his two lackeys are back with the even more banal and unnecessarily loud Slow Motion Daydream.

Chesney sticks with what he knows best: drinking ("Beer in Mexico"), driving ("Somebody Take Me Home") and raising his glass to everyday heroes ("Who You'd Be Today").

Unfortunately, Jewel... chooses to revert to the soppy musical formula of her 1995 debut, Pieces of You.

At their best they sound like a female Black Sabbath tribute band, at their worst they sound like slutty old goth rockers. Frankly, neither is all that appealing.

So, it's not exactly a musical revolution in the making, but it'll sure be easier to tell her apart from Vanessa Carlton from now on.

We'd rather watch the Dandys than listen to 'em.

Sure, a couple of the hokey lyrics... slightly taint the return. But pulling tricks like sampling the Welcome Back, Kotter theme for the [title track's] intro is pure genius.

Tracks like "Lonely No More" might strike a chord because people will think it's a funky new Maroon 5 song. However, Backstreet Boys-esque ballads like "Ever the Same" and "When the Heartache Ends" are just way too much to handle.

Listening to her debut album, you get the feeling that she breezed in and out of the studio.

Nothing here is as generous as the hooks found on the band's sole hit (you may remember "Natural One" from the Kids soundtrack), but there's plenty of mournful rock for the mopers in the world.

The tough stuff works. But Temptation is really tempting when Rule drops all pretense of authenticity and lets the good vibes flow on the bouncy "Mesmerize," silky sex-jam "Murder Me" and the horn-infused title track.

Sometimes it sounds like he's trying too hard.

The disc's simple melodies and slightly dated alt-rock sound are unlikely to change his fortunes anytime soon.

The Detroit rapper brags about life after success--money, women, drinkin'--and uses his mediocre rhyming skills on anthemic, fist-pumping Rock staples like "Forever" and "Cocky."

The singer doesn't disappoint here, wringing out every strand of emotion in songs such as "Mississippi Girl," a strong return to her country roots.

Yes, she still has an interesting voice that's beautiful and quirky at the same time, but there's so much here to sift through and nothing much that immediately grabs you.

All of this vitriol, however, tears away at the more palatable hooks found in past Saliva hits, which isn't necessarily a good thing.

A frustratingly half-assed album, full of great ideas executed in the poorest way possible.

Unfortunately, things do go awry more than a few times.

It's a welcome throwback in today's complicated rap game.