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.

But once those fleeting, producer-driven thrills die down, the remainder of the album takes a middle-of-the-road, midtempo stance that goes from covering her age issues on "17" to getting downright silly and insipid about looove with "Saturate Me."

His crisp voice has dulled, and his inspiration has gone with it.

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.