As with costume jewelry, appreciation for Chicago varies widely with taste. If you have a penchant for garishly grandiloquent, outdated displays of pretense disguised as eloquence (does anybody—short of Flavor Flav—really know what time it is, though?), then you might be a Chicago fan. It's basically slick operatic white-boy soul—like if James Brown were subjected to A Clockwork Orange watching old Patty Duke episodes scored to florid Burt Bacharach arrangements, The result? A Downy Fresh funk timid enough to make geriatric guys with BMWs dance. So, hey, let's dance. —Chris Parker