Further indulges his penchant for meticulously-crafted songs, exquisite production, and (sometimes painstaking) personal and spiritual introspection.

Unfortunately, Return Of Dragon, the follow-up to his debut Unleash The Dragon, comes in way under that bar, with a collection of half-realized lyrics and disappointing hooks.

Slogging through this stuff is so soul consuming that by the time you get to "Too High," with its pompous rock opera orchestral arrangement and portentous drums, you'll just surrender and let Dave have his way with you.

In reality Bounce is the next chapter in an incredibly successful non-descript novel about love won and lost in times of turmoil, with plenty of songs that even a championship soccer team could sing.

Even without Timbaland, who filled G's first two outings with some of his finest future funk, Ginuwine has a game plan as solid as his abs.

The Offspring are interested in distilled punk-by-numbers, and are hardly interested in--or perhaps incapable of--finding something new to say.

The band attempts to continue to deliver the hits on its seventh album, Splinter, while retaining its punk roots, and the Offspring succeeds on both counts.

Rinocerose's specialty is dropping an army of scratchy, shrieking guitars into the dumbed-down world of modern disco.

The remixes are extremely liberal, cutting and pasting with little regard for the originals in question.

"She's On Fire," the opener from San Francisco-based Train's second release, promises a solid if not memorable rock 'n' roll effort. Unfortunately, penning this catchy and muscular rocker seems to have sapped the boys' creative well.

LL Cool J's 10th album isn't a greatest hits collection--it just sounds like one.

[Tweet] offers more mature and demure R&B this time out.

A few dopey passes at world music are forgiven, as he still can't sing.

Trinity drags from track to heavily blunted track like a doped-up Tribe Called Quest, vainly searching for the group's warm and soulful vibe of yesteryear.

The only problem is that Ja's ear for a hit has begun to make his straight street-level efforts less enticing.

Xzibit's rhymes lack bite.

The older, wiser BLACKstreet rides a sweet suite of slow jams to a level no teen quartet has seen yet.

Hill may get slammed by critics from both sides for delving this far into pop but, not only is her performance more passionate than the majority of pop recordings, it's a direction that seems to fit both musically and emotionally.

Even at his least inspired he's got these funk-rap-metal boys beat.

When they go for the chill of classic Eminem cuts like "Kim," they come up short.

His big voice and big, good-vs-evil themes now need the gold lame beats of Grand Champ to deliver one last howling high.

While they still tackle the same young person themes you expect--girls, loneliness, girls--they do so with professional aplomb.

A smartly schizophrenic solo debut filled with the anything-goes dancefloor abandon of the ‘80s.

While the group's last two records have been majestic, pretentious, and overly polished, this one is more urgent and inviting, running the gamut from Beach Boys whimsy to Jesus And Mary Chain bluster.

On Slow Motion Daydream Everclear proves that it's still quite capable of delivering solid, rocking songs with memorable hooks, and frontman Art Alexakis still has plenty to say.

Like Dylan going electric, Frank Sinatra going disco, and Kojak going bald, this is a watershed work for Nick Currie...

A relatively brief and resolutely pop-oriented affair, with more gruff singing than rhymes and less violent, existential dilemmas.

Roughly half these 19 songs burn themselves out on first listen, but the rest are sublime.

Horn's work is so effective that it takes several listens before you notice how often Seal's songwriting depends on it.

Their rhythms jump all over the place and their vocals are so determined to land that punchline that it all ends up sounding like one smarmy mess.

Overall, the album is a little more rock, a little more sophisticated and includes actual artistic input from the artist herself. A wonder in these modern times.

Eventually the piano-based songs grow repetitive, while retaining their lush romanticism.

Oasis is back, and in top form.

Throughout, Young's guitarwork--in tone and style--is noticeably on the money, playing his fuzzy, single-note melodic lines with the deliberateness of a horn player.

Throughout there is a warm, unguarded, generous spirit.

This experiment in rock 'n' roll Poe is a great success even if you occasionally forget that this is rock 'n' roll after all.

It's a shame that an album so impossible to dislike is equally impossible to remember later.

Instead of luminous horizons of color and virtual travel, Communicate is stalled in a monochrome world of dead beats, chintzy melodies and anticlimactic climaxes.

Highly recommended.

She can still sing--the stories about her losing her range, or her voice itself, are demonstrably false--but that's about the only positive to take away from the mess that is Just Whitney, even though the fault isn't just Whitney's.

Her vocals are so mannered, self-conscious, and limited, there is no way to gloss over the facts, except when booming dance grooves rule the mix.

Lose the skits and a couple of ballads Ashanti may never be ready for, and her summery second outing delivers on the limited promise of her first.

Street Dreams reveals itself as a hollow gem when Fabolous tries to have it all, unveiling a gangsta sneer so unconvincing it makes Nelly seem dangerous.

Musically speaking, "Damn" is the only real memorable tune in the bunch. Which is exactly the expletive many of her old fans may express when hearing this often over-bombastic effort.

Where the Robinson boys once seemed perpetually stuck in the butt-skankin', Faces-meets-Sticky Fingers pit, Lions draws more on communal southern boogie rock--slightly less on doofus monster guitar riffs. Not that Lions signals any reinvention, the Black Crowes are just masters at resaddling their one-trick pony.

Save for a few heavy-handed tracks, such as the lame religion-as-porn clunker "Blue Movie" and the drag of "Loreta Young Silks," the disc offers a satisfyingly rich aural texture.

While the group attacks things with great velocity and singer Chud shreds his larynx at regular intervals, the always difficult follow-up album features actual melodies and mature textures that make the band's eventual transformation into a progressive rock band nearly inevitable.

In making consistently mediocre music, the group appeals to the country fan with the lowest expectations out of life, one who never wants his moon-pie-and-RC-Cola values challenged, but likes his emotions jostled once in a while.

The album makes clear that these men really like music. They like singing it; they like playing it. And there’s enough fun being had here to convince you that you might like hearing it as well.

Mission Accomplished finds Tricky still musically intriguing, still lyrically fascinating; but the fix is too short, the message mostly unaccomplished.

A step ahead of the J-Los of the world; a step behind what may prove to be a career pinnacle.

Testify is a perfect album for anyone who still treasures Face Value, Hello, I Must Be Going and No Jacket Required.