SPIN
Faith and Courage

Talking about Sinéad O'Connor doesn't lend itself to peremptory conclusions, 
other than she's brash, confounding and chock full of headline-grabbing 
surprises. Outspoken almost to a fault, O'Connor is often dismissed as weird by 
people perhaps uninterested in plumbing the potential depths of her music. Faith 
and Courage, O'Connor's first full-length album of new material since 1994's 
Universal Mother, however, should be well-received by those who previously 
thought her odd. There's so little evidence of her rebellious former self and so 
much peace, healing and prayer going on, it's hard to believe it's the same 
Sinéad O'Connor whose songs about domestic strife, famine, child abuse and 
betrayal once sputtered with bitterness and anger. This impulsive, proud woman 
who ripped the Pope's picture in half on Saturday Night Live in 1992 was 
ordained as a priest by an excommunicated Catholic bishop in Ireland last 
spring. Yet for such a propulsive controversy-magnet, her new album is awfully 
toothless and indistinct. 

On this new disc, O'Connor recapitulates her customary mish-mosh of traditional 
Irish instruments and modern electronic flourishes. Lush synthesizers and drum 
programming propel some tunes, while ragga beats and tin whistles spice others. 
But thanks to the overweening participation of nearly a dozen producers and/or 
co-writers (from Wyclef Jean to Brian Eno), the effort winds up uneven, 
overproduced, and cluttered. The Wyclef aided "Dancing Lessons," with its 
simpleton lyrics, Bruce Hornsby-like piano rolls and silly fill-in beats, is 
destined for the doctor's office or the elevator. "The State I'm In," co-written 
with Scott Culter and Anne Preven (who penned Natalie Imbruglia's cheesecake 
radio hit "Torn"), wails vaguely, replete with a slapdash 1985 guitar riff and 
lyrical banalities: "It's like a breeze blowing beneath my skin/Won't you help 
me out of the state I'm in?" 

"No Man's Woman" the first single and only old-skool-Sinéad sounding song here, 
is a manifesto that's immediately misleading. A mid-tempo, slightly bouncy, 
inoffensive declaration -- at this point, does O'Connor really need to convince 
us she's "no man's woman," especially considering her recent outing? -- it's 
also, surprise surprise, ironic. She begins by telling us she's got other work 
she wants to get done; she's tired, scared and won't ever trust a man again. But 
in the second verse when she confesses, "I've got a lovin' man, but he's a 
spirit," who'd "never take away all the love he has/And I'm forgiven," she's 
talking about God. In other words, she may be no man's woman, but she's happy 
being that Man's Woman. And apparently she's conventional enough to believe God 
is a He but rebel feminist enough to think she's a priest. 

Elsewhere, only the reggae-tinged "The Lamb's Book of Life" offers some promise. 
though the lyrics are as much self-important as admirable: "I bring these 
blessings with me/A strong heart full of hope and a feeling/That everything in 
this world would be okay/If people just believed enough in God to pray." Seeking 
our forgiveness, on Faith an Courage Sinéad O'Connor acknowledges her past anger 
and assures us that if we knew her, we'd understand. 

But would we? While her priestly appointment seems to have granted Sinéad a 
certain degree of personal clarity, her dependably cryptic lyrics and flirty 
sexual frankness have nearly disappeared, taking much of her musical zest with 
them. No one can predict how religious ministry will affect Sinéad in the long 
run, but in the meantime, she's ossifying. Like a pop music saint-in-the-making, 
she seems too willing to surrender creative control to a higher force, whether 
it's God or a barrage of co-writers and producers. Faith and Courage would have 
been better served by the singer's faith in her own talent for moving us to 
tears and shocking us with her opinions, and her once-resilient courage to keep 
pushing limits until either they or she breaks.