Bush's two-year-old debut CD, Sixteen Stone, both sold jillions and pissed off critics for essentially the same reason: The album wasglossy, derivative, mush-mouthed and meaningless—in much the same way Silverchair's debut was all of those things. And, like Silverchair, Bush deserves a bit more credit than it gets for doing what it does so consistently, while pleasing so many crowds. That's not as easy as it's made out to be. Despite predictably roughed-up production from a paycheck-wielding Steve Albini, Bush's sophomore album is more of the same: Guitars still bluster and seethe. Pretty-boy frontman Gavin Rossdale continues his distinctive Kurt Cobain impression, moaning incomprehensible, faux-meaningful phrases like "drinking kitchen paint to dye the winter I hope we'll never see again." And, thanks to smash singles like "Swallowed," Razorblade Suitcase is just as commercially gargantuan as its predecessor. For all its dramatic pauses, hour-plus length, occasional string arrangements and indie-rock scrape, it's predictable to the core. What else do you expect—or want—from a Bush album?