The Rolling Stones have a new album out. And I should care because...?

These huge-ass album/tour/megamarketing events for the Stones have become a sort of unwanted family gathering of pop music media and consumers. Every three years or so yet another new album arrives; Stones fans and a cadre of critics bend over backwards to kiss the World's Greatest Rock Asses, while more realistic listeners have to tolerate the fawning and grandstanding with clenched teeth. Meanwhile, the music gets more boring, Keith's blood is mixed with embalming fluid, and Mick stays Mick even though he's thirty years beyond behaving like a twenty-year-old. Such is life in the lofty stratosphere we call Rock Royalty.

To be fair, "Bridges to Babylon" could be a lot worse. It's hard to imagine HOW, but it's possible. One listen to the album's first single and second track, "Anybody Seen My Baby?" and you understand exactly what's wrong with the Rolling Stones. The melodramatic wailing of Jagger and Richards comes across as more of a death cry than a yearning call to a lost love. Those wacky Dust Brothers (who should have a sitcom in production with such a marketable name) are called in for a nineties polish, attempting to lend some kind of Steve Albini-esque credibility to the project just as they did for Hanson. You could take a nap until the chorus and not miss anything worth hearing. Putrid, decaying, flaccid "rock" that is just inches away from joining fellow aging Brit rocker Elton John on adult-contemporary stations across the country. Throw in an inexplicable Biz Markie sample and you've got a winner!

It's hard to listen to "Bridges to Babylon" without hearing the songs as disposable and even interchangeable. The album is a collection of decent hooks separated by some of the least interesting music since Hall & Oates. After a few spins, it gets hard to tell the songs apart as they blur together into one hazy wad. Even tunes that look promising in name fail to show any grit or edge whatsoever; "Might As Well Get Juiced," as great a title for a rock song as you'll ever hear, is a blurry mess of drum beats, smashing cymbals, and sound effects clearly borrowed from the Main Street Electrical Light Parade at Walt Disney World. Several songs ("Flip the Switch," "Too Tight") get the toes tapping, but only by using the standard Rolling Stones beat and tempo that Charlie Watts may as well just put on tape for future albums so that he can spend more time with his grandkids.

Only three songs distinguish themselves from the mushy mess that is "Bridges to Babylon," two of them sung by Keith Richards. Where Jagger preens and poses his way through "Bridges," Richards offers a sober sincerity behind his vocals. "You Don't Have to Mean It" is a light reggae number with some great horn riffs, featuring a purer form of pop hooks and arrangement than any of the other tunes on the album. It's not very substantial, but it's lots of fun and provides a nice respite from the CD's plodding tedium. Keith's other great tune is the album's closer, "How Can I Stop," a rich and soulful ballad dripping in the gospel influences that have made "You Can't Always Get What You Want" one of the greatest pop songs in the history of the form. When "How Can I Stop" gets into its groove, it's hard to summon any acrimony or disgust for the Stones. Placing this as the album's closer effectively rinses out the bad taste which the rest of "Bridges" puts in the listener's ears.

The best song on "Bridges" is the Dust Brother-produced "Saint of Me" (how two men could be responsible for producing only an album's best and worst tracks is beyond me). More gospel chords, this time set over a high-tempo drum loop, and some memorable riffs from Richards catapault this tune above the other rockers on the album. And unlike the other songs they helm, on "Saint of Me" the Dust Brothers allow their production to enhance the song, instead of smothering the track with misplaced samples and drum loops.

Songs like "Saint of Me" and "How Can I Stop" instantly evoke the best of the Stones' huge body of work, and make you wish that the World's Greatest Rock Band would never stop getting their ya-yas out. Unfortunately, the rest of "Bridges of Babylon" suggests that the Rolling Stones might be more at home in a retirement community than in a recording studio. Never before has a rock 'n' roll band coasted for so long on so little energy and creativity.