Mellencamp's folk-leaning rock style remains as distinctive as it is uncomplicated.

Throughout the CD's 10 tracks, Wino lets his personality show.

The English duo's cheeky moniker implies some kind of inferiority complex, and while Owen is certainly not immune to wallowing, he spends the group's sophomore album examining loneliness and isolation through a number of different lenses.

The problem is that the ballads - a key to the crossover longevity Ciara desires - are almost uniformly limp.

It's a slick collection heavy on pop hooks and packed with glossy guitars and studio-perfect bass and drums. Too perfect, in fact: these 12 songs have had all the personality produced right out of them.

A noodling version of the Truckers' own 'Space City' wanders a little too aimlessly to close, but Potato Hole overall is a subtle album with enough fire to prove that Jones can still bring the heat.

Even when they're abrasive, though, the songs are fascinating for what they show about the band's creative process.

Planet Earth has its moments--he is Prince, after all--but instead of muscling their way forward, most of these songs seem content to stay where they are: firmly in the middle of the pack.

Much of this album is leaden and lumbering, with the vocals mixed low (thanks, Albini) and gummy bass tugging at curtains of distortion, but there are shining exceptions.

This time, Madonna is just another singer drawing on the chart appeal of Timbaland, Timberlake and Pharrell, which makes this particular piece of candy taste like a sour ball: It's appealing to fans, but it's not for everyone.

As it is, it merely stands him in good stead amongst the many contenders for his throne.

Had the album been inspired by any other play, that ambiguity would be a problem. Given the vagueness of the source material, however, Burnett's interpretation makes perfect sense.

While few have ever actually accused the singer of using good judgment, Chinese Democracy shows him to be a man who, however divorced from reality, hasn't lost the instincts that once made him great.

Left to his own devices, Gahan, a mediocre songwriter at best, is forced to rely mostly on personality. Hourglass, his second solo album, is more a collection of moods than tunes.

A vehicle for his much-improved vocals, strong enough now to carry some songs.

Skin of Evil may come off as an unwieldy curio at first pass, but lingering listens will reveal the gripping gothic undertow of Mercer's warts-and-all songwriting, even for newcomers.

That leaves the expected collection of highly buffed beats, a dozen producers deep, which occasionally generates material that ranks with Mariah's best.

It's too bad the best songs here don't really match up with her best performances, but that's nothing new for Spears.

If it's a well-worn groove, it's also an accomplished one.

The album is a refreshing reminder that, in the right hands, the blues is very much a living genre that need not be stuck in a formulaic 12-bar past.

The band reassembles its signature elements and evaporates concerns about age by showing some fresh spring-loaded party pop.

Hammond's lyrics and vocals aren't as distinctive as those favored by Strokes singer Julian Casablancas, but the guitarist's music breathes in ways Strokes songs don't.

City of Refuge is an eerie, archaic record, and even the CD version sounds as though there's years of thick dust packed into the grooves.

Thunderheist prove more winning than most, due to Isis' knack for calm, rhythmic flow, all one- or two-syllable rhymes and the schoolyard-inspired spelling out of words.

The highs aren't as high on "Sam's Town," but it's a better album overall.

There are a few clunkers, and the three songs sung by other band members don't add much, but the so-called "Red Album" is better for its unevenness.

There are glimmers of appeal elsewhere--the understated soul 'vamp on 'Day Too Soon,' or "Buttons,' the hidden rocker tacked onto the end--but the tunes feel too often like surface exercises that lack heart.

The Crawling Distance, Pollard's umpteenth disc since officially going solo in 2004, offers more of what listeners have come to expect.

On her second album under the name A Camp, Persson drapes herself in breezy '60s-pop arrangements, lamb's-wool duds that dress some deadly ideas.

Though these songs, like 'Feeling Better,' are the album's goofiest, they present the band at its most sincere, celebrating the vitality, if not the emotional immaturity, that precedes one's 20th birthday.

An uneven album with some tremendous bright spots.

His vocals here are mostly murmurs, and the musical accompaniment, though skillful throughout, lacks the punch of his previous albums.

At times... "Introducing" sounds like the long-sought missing link between neo-soul and future-soul.... When "Introducing" falters, however, it's done in by the twin killers of modern soul: too much sex, not enough melody.

The current Who takes what seemed, conceptually speaking, like a really bad idea - that is, recording without Entwistle - and turns it into a triumphant re-emergence after nearly a quarter-century of creative inactivity.

It's worth giving it a second (or third) listen.

As a placeholder for Hudgens' future career, Identified serves its purpose, even if it's seldom identifiable as her own work.

Although the alter-ego suggests that Banks would be happy to keep his own name out of it, the fact is that Julian Plenti is ... Skyscraper is the truest reflection of Banks' musical impulses, which don't always shine through in the democracy that is Interpol.

It's the mark of a great band when each new album is better than the one before it, and with Only by the Night, Kings of Leon shows once more just how great a band it has become.

Sure enough, we know these devils: they're the ones who make so many latter-day metal bands look like hopeless poseurs.

Among Manson's most compelling records.

Adam Duritz and company haven’t sounded so committed, so determined, so tuneful, in years.

Although Donkey has a sleeker sound than its predecessor, CSS keeps its focus squarely on booty-shaking beats and pulsing bass on songs alternately about rocking your face off (opener 'Jager Yoga') and overcoming emotional turmoil.

An atmospheric downer.

There's no denying the passion and skill behind the group's fourth album, its most accessible collection yet.

She has fresh relationship issues to work through on Flavors of Entanglement, her first set of new tunes since 2004, but she has difficulty striking a balance between soul-searching and dance grooves on a set that doesn't distinguish itself with either.

The drum machine hallmark of his 1980s heyday is a staple of MPLSound, a disc that hauls that sound into the present with mixed results.

Folds is clearly having fun, but is he laughing with us or at us? Sometimes it's hard to tell. But it's even harder not to smile.

The 33-year-old from Arizona keeps things interesting with low-key traces of gritty personality, a quality that rears its head on Feel That Fire and elevates the appeal of its carefully manicured rowdiness.

Gray's latest is an engaging, soulful effort from a singer who is proving herself to be more of a career artist than a hit-maker.

The ballads are nice enough, in a syrupy, overwrought way. But slamming dance songs have always been Beyoncé's strength, so it's no surprise that the "Sasha Fierce" half of the album is the better showing.

Those nostalgic for a '70s arena-rock past they were too young to experience can live it with this album.

If Hot Hot Heat try a little too hard here, they still pile on infectious charm and solid songwriting until resistance seems futile.

You could argue the all-star assemblage of "Press Play" - Diddy's first solo set in half a decade - would have been even stronger without the auteur's direct involvement, and certainly without his pedestrian rhymes about love and life.

Although Free Somehow doesn't reach the energy level of Widespread Panic's best live performances, with Herring in place, the band has certainly rediscovered its musical roots.

Robotique Majestique is compelling and eminently danceable, and it has as much visceral kick as cerebral appeal for the indie dance kids who demand both.

No one is likely to describe Lee as "happy" - her music relies on an element of gloom - but she sounds confident and in control, and that gets Lee most of the way there.

"The Mix-Up" is all about groove and texture, sometimes at the expense of hooks.

When juxtaposed with the album's bubble-gum bounce, the creepy parts just seem creepier.

The set's signature disc Lotusflow3r, is its most consistently enjoyable, a far-flung cornucopia of electric guitar licks from one of the instrument's sharpest practitioners.

Blackout is her fifth and most hilarious record, thanks largely to the contrast between the often-brilliant musical production and Spears' steadfast insistence on taking herself seriously and expecting you will, too on songs called 'Get Naked (I Got a Plan),' 'Freakshow' and 'Why Should I Be Sad?'

A sophomore effort that rarely rises above middling.

They succeeded admirably on a pair of sexually frank EPs in 2006 and earlier this year, and they're back for more on their full-length debut.

Their latest, A New Tide, is their most accessible set yet.

The Last Kiss ends up a reasonable, though backward-looking, outing.

After several listens, the album's warm, golden melodies surface, like cream rising to the top.

Professionalism is the order of the day, and most of Entertainment, recorded over two years and produced by Killers boardman Jeff Satzman, aims for the same middle ground.

The lack of experimentation isn't necessarily a bad thing, though, and the album's finer moments come when Hoppus and Barker stick with what they know.

The disenchanted Brits drag their romantic confusions onto the dance floor, where they hope sparkly synths and pulsing club beats will point them toward some much-needed answers. As might be expected, they make little headway, though their wheel-spinning isn't all for naught.

Chesney's sincerity is never in question, but his songs are uniformly garden-variety and obvious no matter how they are dressed.

The laughs are in short supply on "Release Therapy."

The 30-year-old San Diegan makes another foray into sonic cross-pollination with heavy doses of polish and free-flowing energy on his third full-length studio album.

It's a record full of deep, freaky grooves.

As a spirited reintroduction, the album is by no means too little, but given the time the band has been away, it may be too late.

A stunning return to form.

Starr's songs have an old-friend quality, and their familiarity overshadows their hokier moments.

Only one or two of these 15 songs (there are also five skits on the 20-track album) features the dazzling wordplay and unparalleled lyrical flow that made Marshall Mathers one of the biggest names in rap.

It's a collection packed with groaning clichés and calculated banality, and while that's not so different from plenty of music in any era, Leave This Town is so formulaic, it could have come from a laboratory at DuPont, where they make plastic.

As it turns out, the 45-year-old English singer's exploration of Soul comes up short in interpretation as it retreads ground long since broken by others.

The title of the Smashing Pumpkins' new album seems like wishful thinking. So does the music, for that matter

She has a magnificent voice that deserves a lot better than this formulaic pop and soul.

At its core, though, Anywhere I Lay My Head is a curious project that never seems to light on any raison d'etre beyond indulging Johansson's love of Tom Waits.

Despite any pretensions otherwise, their second album sounds a lot like the Day-Glo disco and retro house being pushed by every other hip indie-dance act right now.

These songs are fine, if unexciting, vehicles for her voice.

Its all-too-mechanical new album fails to meet the band's genre-melting potential.

The handful of [balalds] isn't enough, though, and vapid lyrics and cluttered beats on the rest of "The Sweet Escape" makes for musical heavy lifting.

Akon's undeniable gift for hooks makes this an easy listen, and the ex-con posturing isn't missed.

While that darkness gives the album its semblance of originality, it may prove incompatible with the group's mass-market ambitions.

It's what he does best; his musical past may be pilfered, but at least he treats it well.

Healy is back to penning unabashed, sparkling pop gems.

Like his hero, Bruce Springsteen, he's willing to lay his feelings bare and, in a heartfelt, plainspoken sort of way, invite lovers to ride beside him on life's bumpy path.

Sov never quite recaptures the brash personality and cutting-edge sound of her first album. The beats here are more pedestrian, the lyrics more tentative, and for all her talk in the press notes about resuming her career (after a six-month break) with a sense of control over her music, Jigsaw sounds more like an album without a firm direction than the wide-ranging statement of purpose she meant it to be.

"You Know My Name" gives listeners a point to skip to on an otherwise mediocre album.

It's Street Sweeper Social Club, pairing guitarist Tom Morello with rapper Boots Riley on a self-titled collection of striking, strident songs that take aim at the status quo with devastating riffs and searing lyrics.

Whatever else it is, Linkin Park's third studio record is a nu-metal record at heart.

The group doesn't stray far from the template, turning in another batch of hooky mid-tempo songs that are pretty without necessarily sounding distinctive.

3 Doors Down--the band and the album--won't be breaking any records with this release, but they have produced a solid, if not spectacular, collection of a dozen tunes for their fans, who have been waiting two years for something new.

The real shock of the disc is the hit-or-miss results.

Lyrically and musically, the album is not a big departure from the band's classic sound, with all 13 tracks telling a glam-rock story of tattoos, drugs and strippers.