Carping on Tori Amos doesn't come easy.

After all, the crimson-haired, honey-voiced pianist is so very talented and gosh-darn influential and once had a pig suck her breast in an album booklet photo (which earns her an A+ for role model excellence). But, dude, the damnation has got to be articulated, and since it seems like every Toriphile out there quakes at the mere thought of reprimanding their goddess, I'm taking it upon myself to say this: The new Tori disc is awfully boring. But, well, not completely, so that's a minor relief.

The Beekeeper (Tori's eighth studio album) is not a bad CD, per se, and it's better than, like, 97 percent of what's out there right now (have you heard that Lindsay Lohan stuff?). But man, this album is almost as humdrum as whatever Norah Jones is up to. Each and every track would make a fine single for VH1, and in my book, that's far from a compliment.

The Beekeeper smooshes up the radio-ready, easy digestibility of Scarlet's Walk with some of the electro, full-band moments of From the Choirgirl Hotel. In theory, that sounds splendid. In reality, it's a little too sunny and uniformly pretty, and way, way, way too long.

How long? Um, 19 tracks. About 80 minutes. That's harder to get through than the America's Next Top Model marathon. Granted, The Beekeeper is arranged into metaphorical "gardens" of three or four songs; there's "The Desert Garden," "The Rock Garden," "The Greenhouse," and a couple others. I guess each garden is supposed to share some theme, but, well, I don't know. Like 2002's Scarlet's Walk, The Beekeeper is a concept album, but instead of providing a cohesive story or sentiment as Scarlet did, Beekeeper leaves me feeling like I should be riding the short bus. Translation: I don't get it. And I'm one of those chicks who owns every Tori album, so I've had a bunch of years to acclimate myself to her capricious incoherence. The problem is that besides the shaky garden concept, The Beekeeper isn't so capricious or incoherent. It's really straightforward. For the first time, Tori's lyrics make near-perfect sense even while totally sober -- on "Ireland" she sings about driving her Saab to Ireland. Craziness. Of course, the song is about so much more, and is actually quite catchy in that sluggish, slow-to-grow-on-you way, but, eh, the production's a little too glossy and sterile, and that goes for the rest of the album as well.

"The Power of Orange Knickers" should be a brilliant song. It's got guest vocals from the lovely Damien Rice and lyrics about "those girls who smile kindly then rip your life to pieces." But the harmonies are kind of discordant and the overpoweringly loud percussion drowns out the keys, so what could be stellar passes as only pleasantly decent.

It could be that I'm expecting too much out of Tori. Usually, each album is some dazzling and radical departure from her previous work. I expect greatness out of her because she's so capable of it, and because she's inspired such greatness in her whimsical singer-songwriter heirs. Where would Nellie McKay and Regina Spektor be without Tori to set the stage? Beats me. Perhaps they'd be playing frisbee golf.

So instead of the anticipated greatness, The Beekeeper offers us goodness: "Original Sinsuality" is blunt and subversive in that Little Earthquakes style we all know and love; "Hootchie Woman" is as funky as a 40ish white lady can get; and "Sweet the Sting" edges on R&B with the inclusion of the London Community Gospel Choir.

Then there's "Cars and Guitars" the album's one loop-worthy track. It could be the subtle ch-chicka-ch-ch in the background or the desperate, fluttering vocals or the prominent piano tinkering. Whatever it is, "Cars and Guitars" somehow renders comparisons to every Tori song of worth from the past 13 years.

And that's exactly what you have to remember. Tori's given us, like, 13 years of exceptional music, so don't let one so-so album totally screw up your Tori zeal. The Beekeeper might not be for keeps, but Tori'll be back in a few years with something sure to beat out 97 percent of what's out there. Until then, she'll be tending some gardens ... somewhere. Yeah ... I still don't get it.