More diverse than you might think...

Velvet Revolver sounds like a hungover bar band playing catch-up, wading through tired blues licks and meaningless grunge imagery.

While St. Anger doesn't go back to the speedy, epic-crafting days of yesteryear, it's all balls: bad-ass rock and blistering, visceral lyrics.

Coldplay comparisons are instantly apparent, but you get the feeling that these guys aren't going to end up with movie-star girlfriends.

This time out, the beats are more energetic, the tunes feature more vocals, and there's a slightly poppier feel that makes it harder to get lost in than some of their previous, more spaced-out efforts.

But by not lyrically responding to the originals--like Liz Phair did for Exile in Guyville, for instance--Tori stops short of high concept and more than once slips from being revolutionary to simply pretentious.

The Day After sounds like something we've heard before.

The worst part of Tricky's comeback disc is, well, Tricky himself.

This new soul still sounds fresh.

Gone are the inspired melodies and sweet emotional turns of their past triumphant albums, replaced by boring philosophical musings and wafer-thin tunes.

She fails to bake any new ideas, leaving us with the same old sad love songs and confused-girl anthems that the Texas torchbearer has always churned out.

The band's recovery on Vision Valley is nothing short of remarkable.

This bummer sounds more in league with Yanni than Moby.

Fang packs all the punk-rock wallop, menacing guitars and dirty, funky blues Spencer fans crave.

Songs like "Invincible" and "Do What You Want" don't disappoint and should be on the playlist for any retro dance party.

The results, much like last year's debut, Soul Sessions, are spine-tinglingly great--even if there is the slightest bit of bland Celine Dion balladry seeping in at the edge.

Call us out of sync, but we never got the memo proclaiming that wafer-thin cheese metal sung by deranged lunatics is back in fashion.

His pontification gets in the way of his songwriting.

Moore's voice has grown stronger, she updates the covers with some youthful enthusiasm, and, well, these songs are hard to screw up.

Has a polish that verges on parody.

Ultimately he fails to make a lasting impression.

[It] offers only occasional flashbacks to the seedy glamour of the debut, instead settling on lightweight MOR clichés.

It lacks the raw energy and tunes that made people want to hum uncontrollably in the shower. Worse yet, the brazen confidence the Gallagher brothers displayed during the early years has faded.

[It] shows things are as loony as ever in Busta's camp.

His scattershot approach at taking on everyone and everything gets a wee tiresome after a while.

A little less than half of this stuff is worth singing about.

While some of it is bitterly brilliant, too many songs veer toward being overdone or naively optimistic.

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