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.