Admit it. Every seedy frat basement you've ventured into has bumped one of Sean Paul's infamous ass-shaking anthems at one time or another - and you've liked it. "Get Busy" was in your head for weeks after it came out. The dark, scratchy gyration of "Like Glue" might even be on your party mix. The Jamaican-born reggae-rap hotshot has made his mark. But even after burning one down Bob Marley style and slamming five Hennessy-and-Red Bulls, The Trinity still sounds like the residue at the bottom of Paul's last cup of gin and juice.

The Trinity is 18 tracks of unremarkable dancehall drone mixed with Paul's unintelligible Jamaican slang babble. There is less hook and beat on this record than the surprisingly successful Dutty Rockand more overt references to the same old after-party hookups and egregious drug use. "The girls we be poking / Have to be smoking," Paul slurs out in all seriousness on "We Be Burnin'," one of about half a dozen tracks devoted almost entirely to marijuana. Still, the sea of sweltering people at your next party might turn on you if you play Paul's latest album, whether you've got your "Head in the Zone" or not.

Paul's third album is definitely danceable, but certainly not memorable. The hour-long, tiresome record is over-produced if it is anything, and even the slickest of rhymes seem ridiculous when laced with the squeak of oddly placed synthesizers and fake sirens. On the final track Paul brags, "Real dancehall dem can't dilute dis."

He's right: There's no need to water down his already thin beats, lame titles like "Ever Blazin' " and boring raps. And just like that last warm drink you can't finish at the end of the night, The Trinity is about ready to be poured out.

Ratings: 2 out of 5 stars