This came out in 2003 – or at least that’s when I got it. Here’s what I said about it back then (with some minor editing):
Exactly what the heck is a dancehall doctor anyway? A cowpoke with a PhD in honky-tonk? An M.D. who specializes in line-dance injuries?
Not that it matters — no doctor could save this terminally dull album from vapid balladeer McGraw, a man who confuses the size of his hat with the extent of his talent. Despite the word Dancehall in the title, this sucker is the polar opposite of a raucous barnburner; if anything, this assembly-line batch of wimpy adult-contemporary ballads and overproduced country-pop glop seems more like the work of his wife Faith Hill than the man who sang Indian Outlaw. And that’s not even the worst of it. After an hour of blandly generic songs about Bibles and flags and picnics and sweet loving, he commits the ultimate sin — he covers Elton John’s Tiny Dancer as reverently as a transvestite torch singer. Forget the doctor and call the morgue; this sucker is D.O.A.
