Deadsy crosses cheesy new wave keyboards, metal guitars and overwrought gothic drama in a way that just never jells.

At worst, a couple of the songs sound like bad Oasis remixes--"All or Nothing" comes to mind--but the good stuff can get any club (or car) hopping.

By getting real, Garbage has produced quite a find.

When all is said and done, Everything to Everyone manages to be good for many.

Haunted Cities has more of a street-smarts vibe and is actually more listenable [than their debut].

Set to a backdrop that brings to mind Creed, Pearl Jam and Tool but still uniquely stands on its own, the album tackles subjects of suicide and basic alienation with relative control and directness.

If she had just shown up and sang her ass off, Stripped would've been a better show.

The music on the group's debut album... feels as if it was inspired by awkward adolescent feel-up LPs by the likes of Pat Benatar and Cheap Trick.

With nothing to react against and few new ideas to air, P.O.D. mostly operates in default mode, relying on hitmaker-for-hire Glen Ballard to inject the music with new life. Sadly, he doesn't.

Her voice is still in fine shape, but tracks like "Fallen" and "Drifting" are so mild-mannered you have to wonder if anyone will even notice she's back.

The group sounds genuinely reinvigorated.

His voice is rough, the melodies fall flat, and there's even a guitar solo by Eric Clapton.

The duo's seventh album sees an invasion of unnecessary guest stars, such as Lloyd Banks and Yayo, and a disappointing lyrical turn that celebrates monotonous Detroit staples like guns, cash and bumps.

Anyone order more of the same?

Pretty much the same Beatles-esque pub-rock with Middle Eastern punches you'd expect--though with more shared singing and songwriting duties than past outings have had.

With lyrics that sound like teen soap-opera scripts and music so mellow it makes Dido sound like an espresso junkie, songs like "White Houses" and "She Floats" are tailor-made to soothe the soul.

A self-titled debut album steeped in beautiful but bland lovelorn ballads that tip a wool cap to vintage Elton John.

A surprisingly agreeable, if lightweight, disc.

Most tracks have a commercial sheen that makes the songs sound like they were custom-made to be played in the background of pivotal scenes on The O.C.

A quietly retro mix of guitars and organ-fueled songs, the music simmers rather than boils over.

The experiments sometimes work, but the album is mainly weighted down by cryptic religious ramblings that sap the pop life right out of it.

Though perfect for hipster English-lit teachers, ravenous Reed fans will find themselves saying "nevermore."

Sure, the waifish white girl slips up plenty by trying too hard to be cool, but it feels like they're having a good time, as the duo scratch and shout their way through head-swaying slow songs, soul-funk Jamiroquai-ish joints, some pop quickies and an array of other styles.

The Philadelphia quartet continues to believe that barbershop harmonies, sugary ballads and New Jack Swing beats are where it's at. It ain't.

Strong and sensual.

Pulling off the tricky balancing act of aiming for mainstream success while keeping one's street cred intact, songs like "Ghost of You" and "Predictable" abandon the band's mall-rat roots in exchange for more mature influences like U2 and Muse.

[Starsailor] sounds more confident than ever.

Listening to all this Edge-y guitar doodling and whiny wailing, the question remains: Why mess with a fun, 20-million-album-selling formula for this ponderous prog project?

It doesn't help that the best song here, "Feel," sounds like a bad Richard Ashcroft B-side; the worst is a seven-minute mariachi stomp about traveling to Las Vegas with a monkey, called "Me and My Monkey."

Hoobastank balances heavy riffs with dark existentialism and hooks that closely imitate that of its breakthrough hit.

Palookaville will surprise you.

Finds the sexy singer too often wading in the oversimplified pop influence of heavyweight producer Glen Ballard, her country sass and personality replaced by hackneyed and bland musical doodles.

Most of Future/Present dabbles in drab mainstream pop, with songs ranging from fairy-tale cute to charmless good tunes that are weighed down by overwrought production.

A disc that sounds like it's... 1998.

The lyrics aren't "How Soon Is Now?"-type genius, but they go down easily enough.

She doesn't quite act her age on teen beat-driven single "Whatchulookinat," but she makes up for it with a series of R&B standards and diva-worthy ballads that hit most of the right notes.

You can hear them struggling on Make Believe to keep fans bouncing along to the power-pop anthems but also keep it interesting for themselves so frontman Rivers Cuomo won't put the whole thing on hiatus again.

She's little more than an ex-Fly Girl with a bunch of studio tricks to help kick off the party.

Seventy Two & Sunny breezes by with the worst kinds of countrified clichés... sung by a guy who was never meant to carry a harmony.

A couple of indiscretions taint the disc, but hey, nobody's perfect.

Predictably packed with hip-hoppy dance numbers and chiming ballads that don't dare push her vocal range, J.Lo vibelessly goes through a series of songs about love, fidelity and how real she is.

Shows the SoCal outfit mining the same bright pop-rock riffs that are being done better by the younger kids today.

Astronaut takes a few songs to warm up, but by the time the band hits naughty dance-floor fillers like "Bedroom Toys" and "Taste the Summer," it feels like 1983 all over again.

Whether he makes it all work via his musical skills or chameleonic acting ability, we don't know, but it does work.

Dated songs like "So Excited" and "Do It 2 Me" end up sounding like they're, well, 20 years old.

There's nothing as instantly likable as "Frontin'," and even with the presence of some bigwig collaborators the disc sounds strangely inspiration-free.

The first word that comes to mind while listening to Destiny Fulfilled is: boring!

Nothing here is gonna rock your world.

It says a lot about an album when the best song, "Get Right," is actually a leftover from Usher's Confessions.

It's awfully hard to tell if this is actually Ashanti's new album or if it's just one big infomercial for her label, Murder Inc.

The fortysomething performer doesn't have the stamina he used to, and the album quickly turns into a long run of listless ballads and silly cries for privacy.

His laid-back delivery and glitchy computer beats are only interesting for so long.

In the end, even LL himself seems a little lost in his efforts to find Todd Smith.

The transformation leaves her bland and boring, rather than bright like Britney or bold like [Michelle] Branch.

It's business as usual.

Banks seems determined to launch a one-man revival with perfectly polished tracks like "Addicted" and "Hands Up."

This album tends to lean more toward the psychedelic ballads, which slows down the action a little too much.

Ultimately, like her manufactured pop rivals Ashlee Simpson and Hilary Duff, Lindsay is a little too superficial to sell us angst.

Sure, sanitary party jams like "Switch" will get the PTA meeting rocking, but there's just no getting around Smith's insipid rhymes.

A subpar album.

Rages and riffs with epic drama.

Only the faux-reggae of "Jamaican Girl" lets some much needed light in between the blinds.

A disc packed with so many surefire club-ready hits it'll be impossible to avoid these jams over the next year.

Chapter V is merely a carbon copy of, uh, chapters I-IV, simply rehashing the same punishing riffs and self-pitying lyrics.

It all amounts to the kind of mediocre girl pop-rock about dreams and stuff that one writes when they want to be Vanessa Carlton or Michelle Branch but don't really know how.

Suffers from many of the same problems that tripped up its predecessor: too many skits, too few ideas and a voice that is neither hard nor particularly flowery.

Carrying none of the charm or innovation of the duo's earlier ABBA tribute, this set is salvaged only by a relatively straight reading of Peter Gabriel's "Solsbury Hill."

A few moody moments work, but this CD should come with a warning sticker that reads vacant.

The disc's cool atmosphere and expansive orchestral arrangements go a long way in making a mood.

Anchored in the surreal goofball art rock, club beats and bubblegum punk that made anomaly hits like 1996's "Pepper" so cool, frontman Gibby Haines and gang sugarcoat their standardized tales of decay and hallucinogens but keep some delicious bitterness intact.

From the amateurish cover art to a succession of clumsy diss tracks aimed at Fiddy, Blood in My Eye merely makes the Tupac disciple look desperate and directionless.

Even Santana sounds bored, absentmindedly delivering Latin rock-influenced guitar licks behind a parade of stale melodies.

Carey's once glorious voice is all over the place, her rainbow-and-stars lyrics come off like the notebook doodles of a 12-year-old girl, and her song selection is shocking.

The pop hooks are there, but we can't shake the feeling that the sentiments come off as phony.

He can still work a guitar and woo the pants right off of you, but after listening to another round of patchouli-soaked ballads like "Baptized" and "What Did I Do With My Life?" you really begin to consider running the other way.

His similar-sounding interpretations lose their oomph a few tracks in.

All the Right Reasons doesn't so much pick up where 2003's The Long Road left off, but damn near replicates that album in whole.

Like a crisp Xerox of the band's multiplatinum Break the Cycle, with everything sounding bigger, brighter and tighter.

Even if they aren't Never Gone, their inspiration certainly is.

Employing actress Brittany Murphy on the ridiculous "Faster Kill Pussycat" hardly helps, as does reducing Pharrell Williams' talent with a caricature of a tune like "Sex 'N' Money."

Even if the divorcée flirts with being Sheryl Crow-y bland now, she can still let whip-smart lyrics flow with her potty mouth.

It's hard to believe these men were once innovators.

Fails to whip up much excitement.

A largely boring affair.

Sorry, dude, the Results are in--and they're not good.