Worst of Song

UPDATED 12/25/1995 at 01:00 AM EST Originally published 12/25/1995 at 01:00 AM EST

Cheapness & Beauty Boy George
George should have saved his energy for his new autobiography. On his fourth solo CD he huffs, puffs and tries to rock the house, but his wispy tenor can't stand up to his ham-fisted band. (Virgin)

It's Five O'Clock Somewhere Slash's Snakepit
Slash's first album without Guns N' Roses is filled with testosterone-dripping, lyrically-challenged songs, proving he's one guitarist who should stick to his day job. (Geffen)

My Cherie Sheena Easton
Easton's technical precision suits pop formulas but not pop emotions. My Cherie needed an injection of romantic warmth and instead got a megadose of digitized Freon. (MCA)

One Hot Minute The Red Hot Chili Peppers
On their first studio album in four years, this frequently undressed foursome show themselves to be stripped of new ideas. Skimpin, on the melodies, they keep striking the same old surfer pose. (Warner Bros.)

This Is How We Do It
Montell Jordan Newcomer Jordan acts like his bland style of pseudo-soul is something new, but it's not—just ask R. Kelly. (PMP/RAL)

Southpaw Grammar Morrissey
All the fey gloom and doom are beginning to show signs of wear. Perhaps the former Smiths frontman suspected this—that explains those whiplash guitar riffs that bulldoze his shrill vocals. (Reprise)

Thank You Duran Duran
The long-obsolescent MTV poster boys pay torturous tribute to some of their favorite artists including Sly Stone and Public Enemy. These effete Brit posers have about as much facility for rap and funk as they would for opera and madrigals. (Capitol)

Starting Over Reba McEntire
Country music queen Reba McEntire sings Motown: That unappetizing prospect alone should have sent Starting Over, a collection of her favorite songs, back to the drawing board. (MCA)

Another Night Real McCoy
The Germany-based trio crams the worst of Eurodisco—from automated melodies to synthetic emotion and cheesy raps—into a U.S. debut album that has the numbing effect of a Kolsch hangover. (Arista)

Home Blessid Union of Souls
If the pretentious name isn't enough to turn you off, the songs should be. The few admirable patches of tight harmonizing can't survive the treacly lyrics and overwrought production or the labored singing style of frontman Eliot Sloan. (EMI)

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