If you're a fan of Courtney Love [ tickets ]--the foul-mouthed, unpredictable, egotistical, self-aggrandizing ass--then her first official solo album will only add to your obsession.

On "America's Sweetheart" Love spends every song talking about herself. Key phrases on the album begin with "me" or "I"--or "drugs," of course. Otherwise, clearly, Love brings nothing new to the table.

If you're a fan of the other Courtney Love--the singer who took you to "Malibu" in 1998, the guitarist with her foot on the monitor spitting mad vitriol, and the songwriter with the penchant for hard-as-Seattle-rain vulnerability--skip "America's Sweetheart."

Love is stuck in, like, 1994, and she still thinks she's one bad mother. These tracks are bland, hook-free, and annoying. It's a shame, really. A female rocker with this much sass comes along but once in a lifetime. And Love's star power, still incredible to behold on Access Hollywood or Entertainment Tonight, offers little to nothing coming out of your hi-fi.

Love goes for gimmick instead of quality. And these days, who cares?

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