Faith Hill

The C&W industry regularly throws a bunch of ingenues at the charts to see what sticks. In 1993, Faith Hill stuck. "Wild One" was #1 for four weeks -- an allbut-unheard-of feat for a country gal at the time -- and she consolidated her star power with a big-voiced rehash of "Piece of My Heart." However, she didn't have career security until after she conveniently traded in producer-boyfriend Scott Hendricks for hunky Tim McGraw. Nor did McGraw -- their connubial synergy has buoyed both their careers, and the pair have reigned as Homecoming King and Queen of Nashville High ever since. They could be a great testament to the joys of married sex if only their duets weren't so DOA. You'd think the two had never fucked with the lights on.

There's no such thing as "real country" -- the stuff's been incorporating pop styles since back when they called it hillbilly music -- but inauthenticity can be as much a drag as musty traditionalism. The singles Hill's crossed over on -- the giddy "This Kiss," the swooning "Breathe," the ditzy "Way You Love Me" -- have been such transcendent trifles you might be tempted to dig a little deeper. Bad idea. Given space to stretch out, Hill is oppressive, bombastic, and conniving, in many ways more Mariah than Shania. Cry marks Hill's final descent into schlock. On the cover, she looks like she's been greased down for a Maxim shoot, and the Instamatic grooves make her no more R&B than David Gray or Phil Collins. She's coated in Teflon. Any time someone whispers she's gotten a little slutty, she flashes her wedding band. Every time someone intimates that she's sold out, she just smiles a little wider and sweeter. Say what you will about Nashville's bland hat acts -- at least they're gone in a flash. Faith Hill ain't going nowhere. (KEITH HARRIS)

From 2004's The New Rolling Stone Album Guide