With so much soundtrack and jingle work to be done, who can really blame these marketing all-stars for playing to their past successes?

Babylon's treasures don't run as deep as they could've, but swingers will still enjoy this luxurious spin.

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.

This could have been groundbreaking once upon a time, but there's nothing really new here and only a few songs ever rise above sheer novelty value.

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

Most the songs feel like they should have come out around the same time Clinton moved into the White House.

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

It's not exactly the most sophisticated rap album of the year... but with production by Swizz Beatz on "Cry Babies (Oh No)," the head-bobbing chorus for "Rollout (My Business)" and the smooth joint effort with Nate Dogg ("Area Codes"), the crass clown can be entertaining.

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

Overflowing with sparkling riffs and rhythms punched up with the kind of self-deprecating, angst-lite lyrics the boys craft so well.

[Lostprophets] mine the acts of groups like Faith No More and Incubus to put a more palatable edge on the sluggish nu-metal genre.

He fails to come up with an album that keeps up the standard set here by a couple of standout tracks such as "Strawberry Wine" and "Nightbirds."

The one thing Banks lacks is Fiddy's natural charisma--he's also about eight bulletholes short in the "life-experience department."

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.

He often riffs for too long, so by the time he's singing to his daughter on "Hailie's Song," you feel the album's nearly 80-minute length.

[It] feels more overly familiar and Velvet Underground-y than usual, which isn't a good thing for a band with such forward-thinking ideals.

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.

Someone get this woman some drama, pronto.

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

His pipes are in tip-top shape, sure, but hearing this stuff is sometimes more embarrassing than reading your little sister's diary.

John sounds as old and crusty as his recent tirades.

The music on Comfort of Strangers is at times so complex and distracting that it often overshadows Orton's winsome voice.

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

At least they sound like they're still having a good time.

This is carefully architected to pack arenas.

An arresting mix of the singer's political and personal strife set to a jazzy backbeat.

With the macho posturing out of the way, it makes it easier to appreciate his powerful voice and million-dollar arrangements.

A just-okay collection of mellow ruminations that, at its best, recalls Tom Waits' Bone Machine, and, at its worst, sounds like indie rock's answer to James Taylor.