Never one for subtlety, Bryan Adams once had a flair for hooks so grand and universal that they filled arenas and blanketed the airwaves. In 2008, some 11 studio albums into his career (according to Adams' own calculation, apparently taking soundtracks into consideration, because by a simple count of studio albums 11 seems to be his tenth full-length proper album), 11 felt like something he'd done before, some ten or 15 years previously. To a certain extent, Adams' refusal to acknowledge shifting fashions was admirable -- especially for somebody who has made a name for himself in the new millennium with his fashionable photography. 11 is such a relic of '90s mainstream rock that it almost feels as if it were cryogenically frozen in 1993 and unfrozen later, as the album is filled with cavernous drums, shimmering guitar textures, and stately ballads. Bryan Adams is enough of a pro to create an album that sounds for all the world like the kind of glistening, gleaming record his fans have grown to love, but 11 would have been improved if Adams had focused more on the type of big hooks that could suck you in despite your better instincts.