Leona Lewis

Two albums in, the Leona Lewis paradox appears to be undeniable. In theory, the British chanteuse's music is positively oozing with drama, whether of the lyrical (the desperate "Can't Breathe"), aesthetic (the soaring, backup-choir-featuring "My Hands") or vocal variety (sacrilege warning: she often out-Whitneys Mariah; and maybe even Whitney herself). And yet it is a distant drama, carefully contained by icy dance beats and almost too-pretty vocals. It doesn't make it less listenable, of course; it just makes us wonder if a popsicle meltdown might be in this drama queen's future.

Call Leona Lewis a diva of the old-fashioned variety: a singer who uses her rafter-rattling
voice to dramatize female suffering. On her second album, the U.K. belter delivers synth
arrangements that arc skyward, toward Simon Cowell's mountaintop redoubt. Lewis is
technically flawless, but behind lyrics about "the scars on my heart," there's little
personality — you miss a little of Mariah and Whitney's supersize ego.